Repeat after Lope

Caesar it was, who all the world exceeded

Though he stepped over Pompey to achieve it;

And both of them, as if more proof were needed

Of pointlessness (and I can well believe it)

Triumphed in turn on Marius and Sylla.

And in an age before, great Alexander

Conquered the same: Charybdis to their Scylla,

And evidence that time may well meander

But leaves no oxbow lakes. Time's river flows

Consistently, and leaves no one behind,

But in the process, we can see it goes

Back over paths that repeat and rewind.

So after Caesar, came Augustus, who

Conquered it all: but it was nothing new.

Alvin

Warm water oozes higher from the vents

That obfuscate the shape of what we see:

An underland, ectopic and immense,

Reaching up to dark infinity.

The beams our little lights produce illume

Only enough to show the shadows creasing

Across the oddly colored building bloom

Which toils unseen, unknown, but never ceasing.

The thick red lips of creatures in the seams

Make everything around them terrifying

It is an image never made for dreams

But for a nightmare where the world is dying.

We must ascend, and hope it will not follow

And wish the world, perhaps, a bit more hollow.

Bulbous

A little light

Is just enough

To pause the night

And see our stuff.

But if it fails

And darkness rises

Each poor heart quails

Before surprises:

A single chair

Slipped out of place

Will cause a scare

That loses face

And we all head

In fear to bed.

Suez

We cut a narrow path across Suez

To save ourselves from going 'round the cape;

We lined up ships like candy in a Pez

So tight that they (and we) could not escape

When finally a ship had grown too large

To navigate and spun out of control:

A ship? Without its steering, it's a barge,

And foundered on a non-existent shoal.

It blocked for days the passage at one end

Sending us back two centuries and more.

When these things happen we then all descend

Into the patterns we held hard before:

And so it is a miracle, I think,

We didn't all wear ruffs, or start to stink.

Geography

I miss Seattle in my bones

I mean I really really do

I have a sudden constant jones

For the PNW.

That does not mean I do not love

The Midwest, East Coast, or the rest

But rather that I'm fondest of

My roots back in the new Northwest.

I miss the pine trees all around

The rain that isn't really rain

The mountains framing Puget Sound

The coastal starlight on the train.

I love the life that now is mine

But now and then I have to pine.

WWX

There once was or I once believed there was

A hope that I might be an honest man.

But honest is alas as honest does,

And honest people will do what they can.

Those who desire to achieve much more

Cannot for all that they might wish it be

As honest as they used to be before

Nor can indulge their former honesty

So far as to admit in honest truth

That they are not the same as when they were

Once honest. So they idolize their youth

And claim to be not honest: honester.

And so it was with me. And being honest

I know I did not do what I had promised.

Cult

Belief is precious and cannot be grown

Within the soil of a self-made mind.

A mind reliant on itself alone

Will never seek to look beyond or find

The nutrients belief requires. No,

Such self-belief strangles all other thought

And will not let competing concepts grow

Within the self-conceits that it has wrought.

Believe then in yourself but not too much;

Do not believe beyond what you require

To think you matter, else you will not touch

The other souls around you nor acquire

The common core beliefs society

Requires of you for propriety.

Metaphor

I fly in turbulence with seatbelts tight

Expecting any moment oxygen

Masks will drop. My stomach roils. The sight

Our of the windows veers, and veers again.

The engines hum, and whine, and then give out;

The plane is gliding, then it starts to dive.

It noses down, and then it slips about

Inconstant in its angle. Every gyve

Threatens to cut the lift under the wings

(The only hope for cushioning a crash)

The metal in harmonic tension sings

And all aboard are tensing for a smash.

But then I hear your voice, and hold your hand,

And straighten out, pull up, and smoothly land.

Fishes

What wishes are

Is substance-less,

As if a star

Were an abyss;

As if a rock

Became the sky

Or if a clock

Let all time die.

A wished for thing

Exists because

Of what we bring

To it; it does

Only what we

Can make it be.

Madness

I saw the branches of the broken trees

Rise up over the suburbs, circle twice,

And form themselves with the flowing breeze

Into an intricate, unknown device

Which seized the wind and wound it in its limbs

Until it stole the breath out of the birds,

The sky grew dark, as if the sun had dimmed,

And clouds clumped up in dark, oppressive herds.

I only seemed to see it; those below

Went on about their everyday routine

As if they did not care, or did not know,

That hell had made the ultimate machine

Prepared to end the world. So they, unknowing,

Were whipped along wherever it was going.

Tribute

I could tell a tale, if I desired,

That would uproot the comfort in your heart

Tearing the simple joy in it apart

Along with any hope you had acquired;

If I were moved, or evilly inspired,

The words I'd write would make your innards start,

Disrupt the very soul of you, and part

Your ribs, to rend your lungs as you expired.

But tales like this are better left as hints,

Not told full out, where anyone could hear

Or written down for readers to devour.

Handled this way, their danger merely tints

The world, and does not dye it; leaves it clear

Enough for other tales to hold their power.

Suburban Gothic

The bite of air crunches on my jacket

As I first step outside. The rain is holding

Just barely off; the slightest breeze will crack it

Out of the clouds. The moonlight is unfolding

Into the yard, made eerie in its beams

As if the squirrels were fey, the trees were deeper

And wrapped you in the substance of their dreams

Unless you were a very wary sleeper.

I pause and do not fully raise my foot,

Turning inside again. I will not go

While dark clouds hover high like soot

Waiting to be swept. I think I know

Better than that. I will just wait

Until the weird recedes, though it is late.

Love

I feel your presence when you are not near

But somewhere in the house. It's warm and sweet

Like cocoa on a desperate winter day

Watched from inside, with proper winter cheer

That brightens up what once was dimly gray.

I feel you from the tiptoes of my feet

Into the edges of my bangs; I sense

That you exist nearby. It comforts me.

Thank you for being you, and for existing;

Not thanks as in a hope for recompense

Or as a covert way to keep insisting

That this is somewhere that you have to be,

But thanks because your presence brings me balm

When nothing else is comfortable or calm.

Isolate

I call to God but I forget to dial

Leaving me just talking to my self;

But, hey, that's useful, 'cause it's been a while

Since I took my own issues off the shelf

And looked them over. Maybe now is good

To check in with the sense I have of me;

I do this less than I might wish I would

And so I'm shocked by what it is I see.

I am exhausted, deep down to the bone;

Ready to collapse without support.

It's not quite that I feel that I'm alone

But that I've hid behind a mighty fort

Of thinking I should help, but not request

Assistance for myself. It's not the best.

50

But if I never lied, how would I live?

And if I never told the truth, what then?

Society is ready to forgive

The latter--ready still to trust again--

But doubts the former option to extremes.

For sure, we all imagine we tell truth

(And maybe we all do, in games and dreams)

But for so many reasons--safety, ruth,

Politeness--we tell lies and call them white 

(Because society is racist too

In deep hard ways we cannot shine a light

Upon so easily). And these are things we do

Instinctively. So just to live each day

We have to settle into shades of gray.

Else

I am the way I am for many reasons

Some under my control, and some less so.

I vary with the sunlight and the seasons;

Sometimes regress, and sometimes (I hope) grow.

But what is most important is to know

The person that I am: how I react,

What makes me pause and then what makes me go,

The people on whom I have an impact.

That kind of contemplation teaches tact,

So I can learn to be a better me

Accomplished with what I perhaps once lacked;

Better prepared to face reality.

So I am who I am, but I'm not done

Becoming. I have not been everyone.

Fish

I am in love steeped in so far my soul

Is like a fish in water swimming so

Wherever and however it may go

It cannot see the water for the whole

Of its existence stretched from pole to pole

Is nothing else but water. It can know

Love only by the shadow it may show

Upon the curvature of my fishbowl.

And as I breathe the love I feel, my being

His given sustenance by what it breathes;

To be surrounded so is simply freeing

As I'm embraced by love and what it wreaths.

I have to wish to see it for in seeing

I could no longer breathe the love that sheaths.

One Way

Age is just a number, so they say

Of course the number changes as you age,

Always increasing since time goes one way

Forever turning to the next blank page.

So age may be a label, but it's still 

An honest presentation of the years

We wish it would hold steady—well, until

We realize the yet uncounted tears

That would let fall if we should age no more

Because the only way to stop is die

And such cessation we perforce deplore.

Therefore we welcome age as it goes by

And cannot help but to delight in it;

At least we do if we have any wit.

Sleep

She is not silent as she ought to be;

At three a.m. I would prefer her so.

It isn't that I fear her infancy

But sleeping well would help her happily grow.

Alas, the hour waxes and she weeps

First loudly, then (unheard) in louder tone;

I cannot say then (as I'd wish) she sleeps

When all can hear her constant, lowing moan.

I try to give her time to soothe and rest

But she impatient will not sleep once more

Until my faith is put unto the test

By by feeding her. I cannot yet ignore

Her cries, because she is but infant age

And therefore will not calm, but only rage.

Mothertucker

It's easy to be popular when lying

Because you don't owe service to the truth.

If what is true is difficult or trying

You can ignore it; if it is uncouth

You can pretend the proper ways are true;

In short, if you or others might prefer

A different world, then you are welcome to

Claim everything is as you wish it were.

And who among us does not have some things

They wish were changed, within this world of ours?

A lie, well-told, thus such elation brings

That by comparison what's honest sours.

Of course, if anyone were checking in

They'd find the lie--but being found's the sin.

Skill

The words do not come easily to me

Despite appearances. Sometimes I wrestle

With one phrase for a quarter of an hour.

Sometimes they fly with neat fluidity

Sometimes they're ground out with mortar and pestle

Sometimes that too seems far beyond my power.

Of course I have some phrases that are stock

And others that are central to my goal

In writing what I write or seek to write.

But then, it seems, sometimes the muse will mock

Whatever she has placed within my soul

And leave me on my own, as is her right.

And in those times when I must miss my art

That is the time I try to write my heart.

Growth

Trust is not custom-made to fit, but grown

Not like a weed, but like a bonsai grows

Carefully tended. Left too much alone

It will not grow aright. The seed one sows

Does not always take root; sometimes what springs

Forth out of the ground does not resemble

What was intended, save in minor things--

This is the trust we all at times dissemble.

Sometimes it does not grow at all, and dies

Somewhere within the ground, or at the seed;

This is a life obsessed with constant lies

Regardless of their purpose or their need

And sometimes, rarely, it can grow as planned

In honest trust, a true, perfect right hand.

@ Me

We need to talk about your username.

It might have seemed a good idea back then

When everybody else had done the same

And made a joke. But now, please think again.

When you apply for jobs, or even meet

New friends who didn't know you in the past

Are you so sure that you want to repeat

That username each time? Not all things last,

And that should be an easy thing to change.

Come now, be sensible, it's just a tweak:

Your whole life doesn't have to rearrange

For people not to view you as a freak.

You say it's funny. Well I'll humor you,

But no one else will find it funny too.

Legal

The law is only valid as an aid

To make humanity act like it should.

The moment that the law itself is made

A barrier, it ceases to be good.

We need the law, but we need mercy too

And both must live together to be just;

The law restricts, or tells us what to do,

And in the doing, it must earn our trust.

Where law becomes inert, or worse, a sword,

It is no longer what the law should be;

An evil law we cannot well afford

Because it breaks that trust unfixably.

Law works because it matters, and we care,

Until it doesn't--then it is just there.

Re

My everyday consistent relaxation

Is reading what I have already read;

There is no neurological taxation

When hearing words I've already heard said.

I thus review without much aggravation

The books I love and mostly memorized;

When I return home in my enervation

I do not have the wit to be surprised.

This makes my life a pleasure by returning

Down paths that I have often tread before;

The embers that within me are still burning

Get oxygen from books that they adore.

It's not that I can't take in something new

It's that, on balance, I just don't want to.

Ah, Misery

My shoulders ache

From holding my

Emotion, shake

As if I'd cry,

But I cannot.

Their pain will fade

Until the thought

Of what has weighed

On me recurs

And makes me shift.

An hour blurs;

My shoulders lift

Only because

Of what she does.

Yoda

I cannot decide what I should do

And since I can't decide I won't do jack.

That is the typical angry pushback

From those who can help, but who don't want to.

They think that saying that they'll think it through

Should be enough to make up for the lack

Of any action, but they will not track

Their history, and act like this is new.

But it is never new. It's always thus:

Those who are paralyzed into inaction

Tend to be rooted so repeatedly

And always act as if raising a fuss

About it justified a harsh reaction

Blaming on us their immobility.

Con

There is a kind of truth that lies

Because it obfuscates the rest;

The kind that very often tries

To make you think it is the best

And urges you to just ignore

The edges it cannot quite cover.

It claims, this truth, to have been more

Than it is now, but you'll discover

It is, if anything, much less

Precisely since it tries to hide

The other truths that would confess

The little ways in which it's lied.

The truth, alas, need not be kind

Too good to be is so, you'll find.

Multiple Definitions of Worry

But what my dear am I to do

If I cannot be by your side?

You know I've always wanted to

Be with you; now I am denied

How can I hope to find a place

That is not where I've longed to be?

Am I supposed to just erase

My years of waiting hopefully

And simply to accept my fate

Divided from you as I am

Nor let this fortune enervate

My spirits? I don't give a damn

What reasons there may be to force

Our separation. No divorce!

Options

Just think of all the ways you could be better

And recollect that you have not been so.

How comforting it then will be to know

That though you are an unremitting debtor

As unelect as any Irish setter,

The way you live was seen through long ago

By One who understood your every woe

And by good mercy made sin a dead letter.

This kind theology of total grace

Appeals to many, and is justified

In the eternal act of divine mercy;

But if in us that thinking holds no place;

If we believe the Gospels to have lied

It is as true as Homer's tale of Circe.

Imago

I once imagined I could be a saint

If my religion had those, anyway;

One of those calm, clear souls that artists paint

With golden halos piercing through the gray

Dull sky above them, sinners in their way

Transformed by virtue into holy men,

The ones who awful villains always slay

But still their message lives to spread again.

I thought I might be one of these and then

I looked with honest eyes upon my living:

The manner that I chose, the why and when

Of my ecstatic prayer and deep forgiving

And noticed it was always so self-serving

I was no saint; not even half-deserving.

...Is Bliss

The unkind wind outside moves me to tears

Not from some sympathy with those who bear it

Nor from the pressure of my own small fears:

My self-concern and thoughts of those who share it,

But from the simple physical release

Of having cold air blowing in my face;

I squint, and duck, and try to find a crease

In which I won't be gusted out of place

And fail. And so I weep not from my sorrow

Nor any reason but the simplest one:

There is no trouble here that I would borrow

But only weakness. When the wind is done

I will, I know, be smiling once more

No matter what may happen out of door.

Defiance

This just in: I don't care what you think

For some generic you. I care a lot

What everyone I know thinks, and has thought;

In fact, I sometimes fear that I will sink

Under the weight of contemplation, pink

With my own embarrassment. It's not

That I prefer to be self-conscious, ought

To be, or should. It's just that I can't wink

At what I see reflected in their minds.

If someone that I know thinks I am bad

Or can't imagine why I'm like I am

I have to wonder what their searching finds

That I've been missing. So it's sort of sad:

I wish I didn't, but I give a damn.

To an Astronaut

And will you now begone? Oh, fie

I see that gravity is weak;

It cannot keep those who would fly

To fancied comfort. Do you seek

Another world? Or would you wreak

Some fond revenge upon us all?

Your answers always are oblique

And so my trust in you stays small.

You won't return if I should call;

Why then should I not keep you here?

A kitten playing with a ball

Knows not to let it disappear

And so do I. So if you leave

Know I allowed it, though I grieve.

Pride

I am so proud that I could spit

Except that wouldn't be OK;

But anyway you look at it

I'm proud of who you are today.

You've managed to remain yourself

Despite the troubles of the world:

Not put your freak flag on the shelf

But wave it proudly, all unfurled.

I could not for the life of me

Express in words (not even these)

How much your own ability

Has left me weakened at the knees.

So know that I am, of you, proud

More than I even say out loud.

Frustration

The sound of children waking up

Before the sun has risen yet;

The piddle of a little pup

Where there should be nothing that's wet;

The drip of raindrops on the floor

In spite of what should be a roof;

The politicians who deplore

Good policy based on bad proof;

The hours traffic wastes each year

From lack of public transportation;

The time I spent in useless fear

Or seeking missing motivation;

These haunt me, but can be ignored

If you are here to be adored.

Falling

It is a slow, sweet congregation

Of instants, not a single moment;

A constant, low-toned incantation

From secret books whose words can foment

Susurrations in the holy

Fabric of both space and time

Whose mere reverberations wholly

Elevate us, so we climb

To newer heights we never thought

Were possible before we heard

Their inspiration in us, sought

The promised beauty in each word.

This slow increase reflects the way

We brighten up each passing day.