Rumination - April 23 2025

 

Rumination

April 23 2025

Yes, it’s a quiet life.

Padding about on slippered feet.

Fussing over nothing much.

Some haphazard gardening,

rambles through the park,

tinkering

with this and that.

When I was young

I naturally imagined

a life of consequence.

Thought of posterity, legacy

remembrance.

Pictured high adventure,

love affairs

begun and ended.

And in the fullness of time

a loving family

gathered by my deathbed.

But certainly not

resignation or complacency,

narrow mindedness

or rigidity.

Not opportunities

I let slip away,

and never laziness

or aimless drift.

Yet they say less is more.

A small footprint.

The humility

that becomes a virtuous man.

Quiet acceptance

of your lot in life

modest as it is.

After all, instead of changing the world

who wouldn't prefer to retreat from it,

finding a place of refuge

to restore

replenish

reflect?

Who wouldn’t prefer to tinker,

working their hands

through sun-warmed soil,

sitting in a well-worn chair 

stained with coffee

in a cozy corner of a quiet room?

Who wouldn’t prefer a peaceful life

of open-ended time?

To be fully present,

living in the moment, and with intent

instead of wallowing

in pointless regret?

Is the hypothetical “I” of this poem celebrating his quiet insular life? After all, to busy, stressed, sleep-deprived people -- which is apparently most of us -- it sounds pretty good!

Or is he being ironic, and wryly lamenting a thin inconsequential life that he regrets? As if the first line is to be read with a defensive tone: yes, it is a quiet life, but so what!?? Either defending his life choices to someone else, or trying to justify them to himself.

The Bathypelagic Zone - April 20 2025

 

The Bathypelagic Zone

April 20 2025

Underwater

submerged

unmoored.

When the world gets murkier

like looking through tears,

sound travels further

but can still go unheard,

and I'm chilled to the bone

no matter how warm it is.

Descend far enough

and the darkness is absolute.

Where even up is meaningless,

phosphorescent fish

flash by

like bright little baubles,

and bubbles

as compressed as they are

invariably rise.

I try to follow them up,

but the terrible weight is crushing me

and air has run out.

Or so it sometimes feels.

When I’m half in and half out

and broken in the middle.

When I shout

but there isn’t any sound.

When my boundaries have softened,

because it's hard to know

where water-in-water

ends and starts.

And when I can’t tell up from down

because it’s so dark

it can’t get any more;

kicking hard

but getting further from the light.

Very dark. But please be reassured: not autobiographical.

( … Well, not entirely 😟!)

Caterwaul - April 19 2025

 

Caterwaul

April 19 2025



I’m getting tired of words.

If only I could act,

be a man of consequence

out in the world.

Not that authors don’t have influence

or skywriters turn heads.

Not that demagogues and preachers

and inspirational speakers

don’t get mobs chanting and cheering

and congregations on their feet,

making frenzied hallelujahs

self-help resolutions

and secret salutes.

But then the crowd disperses,

and in place of affirmations

and speaking in tongues

the Sunday service turns to cookies and tea

and friendly hugs,

chatting amiably

and balancing cups

in the church basement or Fellowship Hall.

And what about the poems never read

letters you thought better of

diaries left untouched,

their adolescent secrets

kept too well?

The words

uttered in your sleep

even you didn’t hear?

The polite conversations

about really nothing much,

and the times you bit your tongue,

cutting off the salty words

they’d actually not forget.

Of course, some words do have weight.

But Scripture

has already been written,

and I’ll never compose

a second Magna Carta

or fresh Rosetta Stone.

Not even a memorable poem

let alone

a New York Times bestseller.

But then I remember

that in a matter of months

all those books the critics loved

will end up remaindered

and gathering dust.

Just like all the other great sensations

and world changers

that came and went

after their moment of fame had passed;

a single voice

in dated prose

lost in the cacophony,

overwhelmed

by the constant caterwaul

of all those words

falling on deaf ears.

I think all these pointless and mostly unread poems as well as the pile of unpublished letters to the editor were the inspiration for this. Because even for powerful people in positions of influence, it’s hard to make a meaningful difference in the world. This is especially demoralizing with things as they are now, when what we need are more activists and agitators, not hand wringers navel gazers.

Even getting a letter published — like this weekend — will not make a whit of difference. The futility and powerlessness are demoralizing. It’s action that counts, not words.

Mere words. Puffs of air and pixels on a screen. Nothing that lasts. After all, what remains from centuries of English prose: aren’t Chaucer and Shakespeare just about it?

My Mind Wanders - April 16 2025

 

My Mind Wanders

April 16 2025

My mind wanders.

Like a flaneur

who saunters through the world,

ambling down side-streets,

strolling absent-mindedly,

popping in and out.

A peripatetic mind

that circles back

and tries again,

striking out

in some random direction

because it simply won’t rest.

The tangents are best.

The dead end

that turns out wasn’t.

The curious thought

that leads to another,

as well as the forbidden ones

I keep my distance from

but can’t truly disavow.

This constant talking to myself

and sometimes out loud.

The monologue

that goes on in my head,

the dialogue

between me and myself.

The scattershot ideas

that ricochet like billiards

after the break,

pinballing ‘round my skull

and rattling down my pathways.

And the precious silences

when I quiet my mind

and try to sit still.

When the constant talking stops,

my inner voice

stifles itself

long enough to listen.

I’m not good at this

but practice diligently;

focusing,

attending,

letting someone else’s words

sink in.

But most of the time

I ruminate,

over-think,

and lose myself in mirrored halls

that distort who I am.

My chatterbox mind

is like a puppy on a leash,

pulling incessantly

and circling as it goes

until I’m hog-tied

lassoed

immobilized.

But the puppy doesn’t stop

and the noose keeps tightening.

I’m not ADHD, but suspect the poem might give that impression. Rather, it’s about the inner voice we all have, the rich interior life the world rarely glimpses.

I enjoy the life of the mind, and have learned to be very disciplined in my internal wanderings. So I don’t experience the unpleasant pressure of thought the poem suggests. Unlike the mind as flaneur, there is often an actual destination!

It’s very true, though, that I need to be a better listener: instead of hearing out, actively listening; instead of thinking of what to say next, attending fully to what they have to say.

But I do over-think, ruminate, worry, and berate myself. And sometimes wish I could escape from my own head: just sit mindfully, and empty out.

Vigil - April 13 2025

 

Vigil

April 13 2025

It’s all waiting.

Counting the seconds,

cooling your heels,

watching the clock.

Idling

in gridlocked traffic,

the hourglass of life

emptying as fast

as impatience overflows.

Keeping your place

as step-by-step

the line starts and stops,

shuffles ahead,

shifts restively;

torn

between soldiering on

and capitulation.

I think back

to when the waiting was the point.

When it’s the best part,

because then

anything is possible

and all of it good.

When we were happy

with just being there,

bantering, and laughing, and losing track of time.

When we felt belonging

acceptance

invincibly paired.

I think back to when she left.

To how long I’d known

the spell had been broken

but stayed hopeful nevertheless;

stretching out

whatever time we had,

treasuring

every moment, good or bad

which it mostly was.

I think back to being alone.

To how empty I felt

finding the handwritten note

that smelled vaguely of her.

And how empty I feel;

still on my own

in the uncertain drift

of everafter existence.

I think back to his deathbed.

Slumped in hospital chairs

after all had been said,

watching and waiting as time ticked away.

Refusing to admit

my unworthy wish

even to myself;

that death would steal in,

his suffering lift,

this futile sitting end.

A consolation, of sorts, for the line

that goes on forever,

the letter

that must be lost in the mail.

Because eventually

in the fullness of time

the waiting ends for all of us

as it’s always done.

Too many poems that allude to death, which I’m sure says a lot about me.

Still, I hope this one isn’t too depressing.

The Beaten Path - April 10 2025

 

The Beaten Path

April 10 2025

The trail forks

a random path intersects.

So we wend our way

looking ahead

for where it's wider and well-tread,

following in the footsteps

of those who came before.

Nothing new,

it’s what we’ve been doing all our lives.

As Isaac Newton so modestly observed

he stood on the shoulders of giants.

Except, of course, the hikers we follow aren’t;

they’re mostly average

just like us.

But sometimes, we’ve encountered a well-worn path

that tempts us on

only to stop

a short way in,

as abruptly as the highway

when the money ran out,

a blind canyon

that ends in a wall;

fooling us

as it has fooled multitudes

and will keep fooling more.

Even more well-worn

because the returning traffic

doubles the wear.

A good metaphor as any

for blind conformity

and being badly led.

But also a fine example

of the value we gain

from trust,

without which society would falter

and life for each of us

would be as nasty, brutish, and short

as Thomas Hobbes

who was either jaundiced, or clear-eyed, or both

so misanthropically observed.

We trust,

put our faith in others,

close the deal

with a handshake and our word.

Which isn’t always kept.

But we implicitly accept

that disappointment is simply part if it,

that the social contract persists.

So we sigh, and retrace our steps,

too amused or upset

to mark the dead-end

for the next curious traveller

who follows the beaten path

as naturally as we did.

Or is it fine for them

to be led astray as well?

To let them learn for themselves

that those we follow

  —  the giants,

their worthy aspirants,

and the many loud imposters  —

can also get it wrong?

We all tend to follow the beaten path. We follow it, trusting that our predecessors knew best. But conformity has its pitfalls. As in the poem, where the literal beaten path unexpectedly leads to a dead end.

Trust is the essential glue in any relationship or social group. There could be no social contract without it. We’ve had 2 recent geopolitical examples of its importance.

The first is the relatively poor response to Covid (2020) in a low trust country like the U.S., where suspicion, misinformation, and conspiracy thinking found fertile ground.

And then there’s the beginning of Trump 2.0 (2025) where, in unilaterally declaring capricious and unreasonable tariffs while effectively renouncing free trade agreements and established relationships, he rendered the U.S. an unreliable partner: the pillar of stability in both international trade and the Western alliance becoming a nation that others felt they could no longer trust.

Trouble is, it’s very hard to regain trust once it’s been lost or betrayed.

People who only count value only in terms of monetary worth are blind to the high price they pay when they squander it. Not everything of value is a commodity you can put a price on.

Renunciation - April 8 2025

 

Renunciation

April 8 2025

A few days into the fast

the hunger left me.

I don’t know if the body adjusts

or the mind lets go.

But either way

there’s something to be said for freedom from want,

a clarity and patience

I never felt before.

But body and mind are separate,

and mine was an old man

with stiff joints and porous bones

who couldn’t get warm

and had awful breath;

even I could tell how bad.

I still thought about food, often fantasized,

but with more detachment than urgency.

Odd, what you can do without.

So just how stripped down

can life become?

What belongings shed

wants dispensed with

essentials reassessed?

And all those beliefs

I so fiercely hold,

clinging to them like life rafts

that declare who I am

I can’t let go of.

What would become of me

unencumbered by such shibboleths?

Would I feel liberated

or would I panic,

stripped down, and shivering

naked and exposed?

Inevitably, though, the fast would have consumed me,

my fat burned through

organs eaten

bones leached;

with the brain, protected or not, next.

Its insatiable appetite

is like a starving scavenger,

gnawing at the bone

until nothing is left.

When only hunger will rescue me.

Only surrendering

to the want, desire, and greed

I thought I could live without,

the envy, longing, and lust

I thought I could be free of.

Plans That Sounded Good - April 7 2025

 

Plans That Sounded Good

April 7 2025



So many half finished things around me

I try hard not to see,

the false starts

welcome interruptions

plans that sounded good.

Will I, too, end unfinished?

Will my time run out before I’m done;

regrets unaddressed

ambitions unachieved,

my life project

incomplete?

I suppose that’s true for all of us.

We’re all poems

you can revise time after time

and still not feel satisfied

because poems are never quite right.

There’s always something to fix, tweak, or delete.

Something better said.

Or something you wish you’d never confessed,

or regret

you’d kept to yourself,

too cowardly

to come clean.

But I think my problem wasn’t leaving things unfinished

it was waiting to begin.

Putting in so much time

waiting for life to start;

for the the gun to fire,

the sign appear,

the curtain rise.

Treading water

and keeping my head up just enough

to breathe,

while the entire time

I was foolishly blind

to the tide taking me out.

Yet even the best life, a life well-lived

ends before it’s finished.

Because who’s truly ready for their curtain call?

But then, perhaps the showman had it right

when he said leave them wanting more.

Or at least don’t leave them relieved

to see you gone.

The few polite souls

who were raised right

and are still in their seats

applauding half-heartedly

before hurrying up the aisle.

Of course, some actually are ready for that curtain call. Perhaps just tired of life. Or, if they’re lucky, satisfied with it: no regrets; surrounded by loving family; well-cared for to the end. Dying in your sleep, having found meaning, peace, and a sense of completion. How enviable! And, I think, rare.

Or perhaps the mind, in its wisdom, anaesthetizes us to the consequence of that process and that moment: the way we don’t feel pain when we’re badly hurt or fighting for survival because our brain is flooded with adrenaline, endorphins, and forgetfulness. (But how evolution would select for this I have no idea!)

Anyway, I guess the solution to unfinished business is to live life as well as you can and let the end — ready or not — take care of itself.

Mythological Beasts - April 6 2025

 

Mythological Beasts

April 6 2025



She used to hand feed a flying squirrel;

a wild creature

attracted to a gentle soul.

But one I always thought

was a mythological beast

like gryphons and unicorns,

chimeric beings

cobbled together from borrowed parts;

as impure

as the squirrel with the wings of a bird

living in her backyard.

Except I learned that they don’t fly, they glide,

aerial creatures

precise as gymnasts

in their long swooping leaps

from branch to branch

and tree to hand.

So I know they’re real.

And can easily picture her,

standing motionless

at the accustomed hour

with one arm outstretched,

an offering of fruit and nuts

cupped in her hand.

A form of attachment

between animal and man

that defies labels;

not a dependency,

not master and pet,

and not exactly friend.

Nor could I say there was love, as we understand it;

yet a bond was formed,

a belonging of sorts

strong enough

to last for years.

She has fond memories

of her suburban childhood,

and it makes me think

that such a bond between man and beast

is for children only;

a privilege

reserved for the innocents

who are open to the world.

So no flying squirrels for us,

the grown-ups

of whom wild things

are rightly suspicious.

Because for all I’ve seen

gryphons and minotaurs

selkies and unicorns

could just as well be real.

All chimeras;

liminal creatures

who live between two worlds.

And a word

beginning with a softly fluid shhh

that suits them perfectly.

I picture the shimmer of light

on gently lapping waves,

a moonlit shadow

that waxes and wanes

as clouds drift overhead.

How to Survive a Bear Attack - April 5 2025

 

How to Survive a Bear Attack

April 5 2025

You can smell a bear

before you see it.

The 6th sense isn’t nearly as pungent as that.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's even real;

that we simply remember

when intuition gets it right

while discounting the misses.

But mostly, it’s paying attention.

Because the signs were there

I just never noticed.

So when I felt blindsided

gut-punched

utterly stunned,

it was simple obliviousness;

my insistence on seeing the world

as I wished it to be,

on imagining her

as a projection of me.

Perhaps magical thinking

is its own 6th sense;

not the clairvoyance or precognition

but the misses.

Like the magician’s beautiful assistant

in a levitation trick,

hovering long enough

before letting her down

to seem she belonged up there.

But while her descent was soft

I landed hard.

Like when the bear appeared

and I wasn’t sure

whether I was supposed to stay still

and make myself large,

or hunker down

in a protective ball

to save my head and heart.

I really like this poem.

Yet I wrote it in about 15 minutes, almost word for word as it is now, like taking dictation. Simply started with a book title that caught my eye, and riffed. Not very committed, either: a bunch of stuff I needed to do, and before it started to write itself, figured I’d soon write it off as a false start and get to work.

The good poems are like that: usually the short ones, and so effortless they seem too easy. Like cheating.

I guess my muse was in a good mood today, and chose to play along.