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Amoeba SoulOn the crystal plane,Indifferent eyes and ears In one dimension. I'm the recollected Dead But for your re-collection. Rapt in and in Throughout my Cool translucent skin My shell, light and dark Open For this or that one gaze, Waiting For the flicker to return. But will it come? Down the lens-- I'm molecules with spaces, Blue and green dots No longer animate, Nor flesh, nor flowing ? Sparks without the phosphor trails. May, 1998 | |
Anything But LoveThe sunset passing, golden,Shot with lavender and doves, Cascades across the wrinkled Velvet veil of night; It draws so close, But I'm not looking at it now, No, I'm not thinking how much better It would be if ? no, I just Don't care to think about it now. The rolling hillsides, ever Green for summer days, Recline beneath the stanza I just wrote above; It looks so cool, But I'm not laying down beneath That knotted oak, no flowers waiting For that one, her ? no, I just Refuse to think about it now. The water sprinkles down that Crenelled granite hill, with thyme And chapparal atop each Moss-hued boulder-shaft; It sounds so soft, But I'm not there, not sitting there, No summer dreams, no sharing soul to Sing with me, you're ? no, I swear I will not think about you now? 1998 | |
| Jorge Luis Borges, a wonderful Argentinian writer; much of his work is suffused with "magic realism," a liminal space where reality, memory, perception and imagination converge. Absolutely beautiful, even in translation. This poem was inspired by his work. |
Borges' MinotaurPolarized, the red trails fading,Step by step upon the firm Unyielding stone--nor in, nor out Beyond the keen of those Passed Out, out-- Like that which I Neither forgot nor saw But always feared: Those unknown skies Beyond my velvet skin and Jacinth eyes. In--my brother, In the pool's refracted glass So terrible, but pure. January 1999 |
Broken DawnThere was a time when words were more than air,When hands obeyed the promptings of the soul, When eyes breathed in the scent of silent joys, When woven destinies would never fade. Then came the day 'forever' was unmade, The angels died, the stars were spinning toys, Though dawn broke, it was but a glowing coal When morning mutely wept, for you weren't there 3-15-00 | |
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"Dark City" starred Rufus Sewell (who played Fortinbras in Branagh's film of "Hamlet") and Jennifer Connoly (the heroine from "Labyrinth").
Sinister, pale beings in black hold humanity in an artificial, ever-shifting simulation of reality, tampering with their minds, until a messianic figure comes along and uses their own reality-altering powers against them, freeing his people from slavery... Sounds a lot like "The Matrix," doesn't it? |
Dark CityThe death-pale shadows, wraith-black widows, glide,They stand apart as rooftops shift and slide; The puppet-fingered ghouls with leech-white eyes Whose breath bleeds mockeries and silent lies Communion blood collects in skin-wrapped bowls; Their poison sown, their scalpels stroke our souls, They're cooking up our minds to fill their vials, As memories collect in tidy piles; They study us, unraveling our seams, And rasp the marrow from our mortal dreams. 12/21/99 |
Earth LoverReclined upon a mossy rock, nowhere,A breath bestows a face to misted air-- Her dress, the sun, the wind, Sunset glimpsed through cords of snowy linen, Clouds drift across her skin, The green hills roll beneath dusky heavens-- Falling towards the sky, My hands upon the earth, A warm embrace, pulses stir, and then rise, The tides within bless shores of salt and sighs-- Lightning passes casually but nothing dies April 12, 2000 | |
Fog CityOn a hill above Fort MasonI sat down to watch the sunset Reading lovelorn lines of verse I'd bought for $14.95 May 29, 2000 | |
| "Macbeth doth murder Sleep" |
MacbethNot indeterminate, nor penitent,Aspected murder, elemental assassination, The death of may and yesterday, The sleep that never dies has so in him -- Oblivion of night and nigh, His sleepless eyes, Wraith-wrapped arms and brow, Tomorrow's bloodless corpse, A dying death, no tragic fall -- A mirrored memory, quicksilver in the rain, A bank and shoal of tangled nots? The skies grind kings to salt. April 25, 1999 |
Momentary LoveNot good enough to ask how fair it is,No remedy to "whether/whether not." The heartache and the thousand shocks Unfold their petals, water-dewed, But you don't touch them, won't decide On moments or eternity, Your psyche spent, Tied up in spiritual legislation, Too tired to sleep, To dream, to be, to act reflexively-- Each path is counter-checked by warm redundancy; Secure, more fair than foul, it's penitent intent. Incarnate, yes, Alone, no way, No yesterday-- How can one ever know? The past like water Slips unseen between Your sleeping eyelids. Encapsulated memories in crystal globes: We take them out to gaze upon--life saunters past, Perhaps like all those opportunities you missed To kiss your one and only momentary love. April 13, 2000 | |
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I may be self-obsessed, but at least I admit it.
Or is this a poem about memory? Whose memory? Oh, mine. It all comes back to me. |
NarcissismAround they stand:Beckoning pools of alternating echoes, Back and forth--I touch them. No release, no conflict, only glass And myself opposed to myself. In memory, the quakes of lonely circumstances, Nipping at my reveries--peace comes. I take them out and stare, To find a moment elementary and sweet. January 1999 |
| When the world tugs at you, but the sun shines and the scent of flowers drifts through your office window... |
No MarionetteThe universe is tearingPulls at me with stainless steel And silver silhouettes Of gears and elbow joints, From all directions, Flexing arms which fade from sight But still I dance March 8, 1999 |
| The line between writing, and audience, between speaking and communicating. |
PollenThrowing
The wind accepts it
C h a f f
It flies past
Into eyes, nostrils
And chapped lips not unlike my own.
Drawing it inward--
My cast-off imagery
January 1999 |
| A fictitious fairy tale. |
Serena PramSerena Pram within her barrow waitsA giant loom between her slender knees She weaves as quiet as an autumn breeze, Imagining herself one of the Fates. She does not spin the golden thread of doom, But silver sheets for dreaming little girls, So velvet soft, embroidered full with pearls, Such are the wondrous things borne from her loom. This maiden weaves no ordinary yarn, But from the silver moon plucks silver light And as she spins, it dwindles every night, Until that shining ball of twine is gone. And as our daughters dream the counting sheep, Serena Pram their fleecy wool does shear, To feed into her magic loom so dear, To spin the moon back whole while we all sleep! 3/16/00 |
Sir ValenceWhilst Arthur was away at joustsHe'd trust one knight to keep an eye Upon his hearth, his home and spouse T'alleviate his jealousy. Sir Valence was that watchful knight, Whose keen, discerning eye was known Throughout the realm the sharpest sight, As sentinel he stood as stone. When Launcelot & Gwenhovyr Did sport whilst Arthur was away, Their one true King would never hear How those two lovers long would play. One night at supper, Launcelot The watchful Valence took aside, And asked "How come you never tell?" "I like to watch," the knight replied. June 17, 2000 |