Poem: January 25, 2019

Epic Selfie

If life is different now, it's because so much more of it is saved:
a thousand photographs and videos, countless posts and status updates,
the permanent but pale trails of social media that we pull behind us-
weightless until they aren't. Every moment filtered, framed and broadcast.
If our descendants were to ever wonder about us, they wouldn't lack
for a paper trail. We leave behind so much more than our grandparents.
Our grandchildren will be able to easily construct our stories-
our friends, our loves, the pretty foods we have eaten- because the world
has given us everything we need to design and tend to and tell our own stories:
leisure time, Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, the cloud,
and most importantly the desire to be relevant, the fear of being forgotten.
All of us are busily curating exhibits in vast museums devoted to our selves.
We are chronicling the epic tales of our amusements and frustrations,
our work days and vacations, and every observation we feel might be relatable.
And who is to say that we are any less deserving to be remembered
than Odysseus or Beowulf? Behold the mighty monsters we've slain!
Observe our courage and cleverness, how deftly we sidestep danger!
Remember our many struggles, the depths of our despairs!

Poem: January 24, 2019

Mindfulness

In this moment I am pausing
to note the perfect pleasure
of sunlight illuminating my notepad,
and the warm feel of it on my fingers.

Poem: January 23, 2019

Winter

January, and I find myself aching
for the soft, earthy world of Spring.
I imagine the ground giving way,
it's pores open and graspable.
And the rich smell of grass
and dirt breathing.

Today, the ground is concrete
and jarring as I walk to my car.
The air so cold and nothing
to smell at all- sterile and icy.
The empty palette of January
suggests limitations or
a failure of imagination.

It's a long walk through
the industrial complex of Winter.
Cinder block and gray
fluorescent light. Grimy windows
and neutral carpeting running
for what seems like city blocks.

No wonder we are surprised
when we finally come to
the unlocked door that opens
on a shining garden.

Poem: January 22, 2019

Here's What I Like About Whiskey

Pop the cork out of a good bottle of whiskey
and smell the contradiction of the bright and dark
caramel at the neck. Go ahead and catch a drop
from the side of the bottle. The taste is a soft spark
that anticipates the ritual of drinking.
I prefer a rocks glass, with a single oversized cube,
something to clink but not rattle.
Then, two fingers high of bourbon or rye,
a slow, golden amber pour before you hear
the first crack of the cube, a physical
reaction that echoes for a second inside the glass.
For me, a Manhattan, a splash of sweet vermouth,
two droppers full of dark cherry or orange bitters,
and three Luxardo cherries that rest at the bottom,
drinking in the whiskey until the four of us meet,
and finally the sweet bite of each drunken fruit.

Poem: January 21, 2019

Life to a Solipsist

With all the sky to fly in
and all the sea to swim,
all the world to travel,
room for every whim.

With every place to visit
and every thing to be,
stories to write and re-write,
visions to see and unsee.

The limits you face, you have placed there.
Your masters are all in your mind.
You own every choice that you make here.
The path that you look for, you find.

Poem: January 20, 2019

What Are You Afraid Of?

I like to imagine that Donald J. Trump
is the last gasp of a dying body,
the rattling, incoherent convulsion
that happens just before the release.
Kind of like a creature backed into a corner,
a species on the margins that failed to adapt.
Dangerous, yes, and disruptive,
as destructive to itself as it is to us.
It's easy enough to dismiss a gasp,
a tremor and spasm, then gone.
Best not to imagine him as anything else,
but still we might have to consider-
what if Donald Trump is a seed?

Poem: January 19, 2019

Looking Up

There is water damage on our bedroom ceiling
which has been getting worse with each hard rain.
I'm to the point that I dread the weather forecast,
the threat of rain, as they say.

This isn't the first time we've been through this.
A few years back we returned home from Florida
to discover the drywall fallen like broken sponges
across our bed, the dressers, the carpet.

We put in a new metal roof, new carpet, fresh drywall-
a complete redo that felt like a form of freedom-
and it was a surprise pleasure to walk through
the mudroom and into, what, Spring?

We have lots of theories for what's causing this:
the pitch of the roof, poor water-proofing
around the chimney, the wrath of God.
All I know is that with each new stain,

with every chipping away of the plaster
at the seams, I am reminded that we
can patch and sand and paint and refresh,
but everything, everything decays, and we fight

until we are worn away, until the day
we come to love, not this place, no,
but the stories of the passing storms
and of the water that will have its way.