Planetoid - May 10 2025

 

Planetoid

May 10 2025

If only I could return

to my home planet.

How long has it been?

Why is memory so hard?

Are there others like me

who feel just as out of place?

As if dropped

in an empty lot

in a one-stoplight town,

choking on exhaust

in a cloud of dust

as the bus lumbers off.

Others like me

who don't fit in

and long for acceptance?

Who feel like the new sweater

you got for Christmas

where the shoulders bind and fabric itches,

with the pesky tag

at the back of the neck

you can’t get rid of?

So time and again

you scratch and squirm,

tugging the sleeves and stretching the hem

determined

that in the fullness of time

you'll make it fit.

Or better said

you it.

Others like me

who long for belonging,

but were never shown

the secret handshake

insider’s code?

How do the rest of them know?

Did I somehow miss the memo?

Others like me

who feel like a small planetoid

in the system's frozen fringe?

Circling eccentrically

in the outer extremities

where the sun is just a star,

and doesn’t so much grip

as lightly tug.

So just a nudge

and you could fly off,

slingshot out into the cosmos

and not be missed,

no one even notice

you’ve gone.

Or should I be asking

if the home planet even exists?

Could it be

that we're all mostly oddballs and misfits

who only think we’re different?

All our lives

performing normalcy

and searching for home,

not knowing

we’ve been there all along.

A Murmuration of Birds - May 9 2025

 

A Murmuration of Birds

May 9 2025

I left the leaves for spring.

Now, after a hard winter

the lawn is carpeted

with brittle leaves

in shades of earthy brown.

Shrunken leaves

with their edges curling up,

dry enough

to crumble in your hand.

Stirred by the wind

they make a dry rustling sound;

flutter up,

bank and dip,

swirl, sweep, and circle.

Gather against the fence

in an airy windrow

until the next big gust.

This reminds me of the fluid synchrony

of schooling fish

flashing their scales,

a murmuration of birds

swooping and swerving

like smoke against the sky;

as if precisely choreographed

by some hive-like brain.

I wait for a calm

to rake them up

and let the nascent grass breathe.

They are almost weightless,

and stray leaves

light-as-air

keep wafting away

from my insubordinate piles.

Why am I always so surprised

by how fast the lawn greens

in the warm spring sun?

The thirst for life,

drinking in the light

like ravenous prisoners

released from their dungeon

cold and hungry

to an endless buffet.

Geronimo - May 7 2025

 

Geronimo

May 7 2025

I’m supposed to say yes.

To run toward the danger

sit down with the fear.

But didn’t I steel myself

to take the mouse from the trap?

Climb the tower,

then close my eyes and pinch my nose

and Geronimo down?

Come on to the pretty girl

everyone knew

was out of my league,

just because

you can't be sure?

I’m better with no.

Or a half-hearted maybe

I don’t believe myself.

In the fullness of time

I’ve often thought,

as if at the end

when there’s no time left

I’ll somehow squeeze it in.

But what’s wrong with comfort zones?

Isn’t that what I’ve spent a lifetime at;

getting comfortable with myself

finding my place in the world?

Why break things

then walk on broken glass,

or expose myself, just because I was asked;

buck naked

when the world's fully clothed?

I think of all those yes-men

who out of either cowardice

inertia

or ambition

enabled the worst.

And then the honourable ones

who refused to be complicit,

standing their ground

with an unambiguous no.

I was reckless in my youth,

an adolescent yes-man.

But back then, I was full of testosterone,

felt I’d live forever,

have at least a second chance.

Now, as I’ve aged

my youthful indiscretions

seem more foolishly naive

and less a life fully lived.

And now, knowing better

as well as more aware

of all the danger that threatens this world

I see no need

to seek it out.

Frost Still in the Ground - May 5 2025

 

Frost Still in the Ground

May 5 2025

A stunning purple flower

hugging the ground

beside a stubborn patch of snow

is like emerald Oz

in the Kansas of my lawn.

When everything is beiges and browns

this improbable flower pops,

an exclamation mark

of luscious colour

that stops me cold,

rushing past

in my usual state of distraction.

Even though it’s small.

Even though

despite its royal purple vestment

it’s neither gaudy nor pretentious.

And even though it’s content

to hug the ground

in a modest spot

tucked against the garden wall.

Even more improbable

in this frigid spring

when frost still grips the soil

are those delicate petals;

as if, pinched lightly

between finger and thumb

they’d disappear

in a silky smear of purple dust.

Or is it the combination

of toughness and fragility

that catches my eye,

the juxtaposition

of opposites?

We debate beauty.

Is it symmetry, rarity, proportion?

Ineffable, subjective, universal?

Inborn or learned?

But there is no debating this.

An improbable flower

pushing up through barren ground

and brightening the world.

Torrent - May 4 2025

 

Torrent

May 4 2025

The rain kept pounding down.

Lakes formed

on saturated soil,

rivers overflowed.

I imagine water

drop-by-drop

percolating through the ground

and finding fissures in the rock

fault lines in the strata.

Invisible rivers

cascading underground

in torrents and waterfalls,

great caverns

brimming with cool water

turbid

with salty earth

and pulverized rock.

My well is drilled into this.

The water from my tap

that fell as rain

and may have been sitting underground

since I bought this place,

graduated high school,

Europeans first came

to this faraway land.

Or did it fall today?

Through sandy soil

and porous rock

and some ancient cleft

only to end up here again

in a hot drink

when I’m cold and wet

from all this rain.

Dead Branches - May 4 2025

 

Dead Branches

May 4 2025



Dead branches litter the ground.

The towering maples,

pruned

by winter wind

the weight of snow.

By branches

sprouting higher up

that block out the sun.

The new displaces the old,

and even a venerable tree

keeps reinventing itself.

I stoop to pick them up,

bare sticks of brittle wood

scattered on the lawn.

The grass is still brown,

patches of snow

persist in the shadows.

Soon, the grass will green,

the strengthening sun

working its way in

to every dark cranny

and shaded recess.

Endings, as well as beginnings

in the closed loop

of season after season.

A small fire

to dispose of the brush.

The flame is dull

in the bright April sun,

licking fitfully

at the damp bark and sodden tips.

A pall of smoke

chokes the crisp spring air

before the fire heats up

and burns clean and clear.

The needs

of fire and trees

are perfect complements,

one

breathing oxygen in and carbon out,

the other

the opposite.

So the world goes on

as we’ve grown accustomed

and our kind has always known,

simply take as a given

in our brief existence

here on earth.

A closed loop

of give and take

and hidden complexity;

of cycles within cycles

where nothing

is in and of itself.

I think of this fine balance.

Of the beauty of life on earth

as one organic whole.

And of finding our place in it.

A feeling of calm

washes over me

as I watch the fire burn,

spread the ashes

in the garden patch

where my tomatoes will grow.

Precipice - May 2 2025

 

Precipice

May 2 2025

I’m not so certain anymore.

No longer misled

by the arrogance of youth

and the belief that I’m invincible.

When I knew it all.

When I was destined for greatness.

When I acted rashly

but always with passion

convinced I was right.

And as I’ve learned

and may have known back then

you regret what you didn’t do

more than what you did.

Yet while there’s much to be said for humility, self-doubt

and open-mindedness

wouldn’t it be nice to have some of that certainty back?

Because if it's true

that youth is wasted on the young

then it’s even truer now,

when I find myself troubled

by the end of life,

the need for meaning,

a fear of what’s to come.

Or if not fear

then a mix of anxiety

and excitement;

standing at the precipice

of life's last great adventure,

the mystery

of whatever lies

beyond that dark veil.

Or is it all wishful thinking?

That there’s no other side,

no justice, reward, rebirth.

That there’s no second chance

and no one’s keeping track.

That nothing really matters in the end.

But youth,

whether squandered, triumphant, or misspent

is gone for good.

As will I, in the fullness of time.

Stripped of all certainty

and leaving world

just as I entered it;

knowing nothing

and depending on others

to usher me through.

So Sure of Ourselves - April 30 2025

 

So Sure of Ourselves

April 30 2025

It can happen with a dimming of the light.

The edges contracting.

A black spot

expanding off to one side.

Or all at once;

a blow to the head

sudden stroke

punctured globe.

But if you’re born blind

and have never known light

you will ask what it’s like.

If colours are like sound

is high or low

soft or loud.

If they feel like touch

can be smooth or rough

cool or warm.

Or if not opposites, then shades,

like barnyard

bittersweet

or savoury.

I wear thick glasses

that leave a dent in my nose.

The cataract

is a picture window

I can’t wipe clean,

while the torn retina

spot-welded

left a scar.

So, like hard of hearing

am I hard of sight?

Or are we all blind?

A 6th sense

we can only guess at?

A frequency

we can’t detect?

Some kind of dark energy

in the warp and weft of the world

we’re left to infer?

Matter we swim in

like water to fish.

All of us, born that way,

stumbling through the world

arms outstretched;

in the dark,

yet so sure of ourselves

it's sunny and clear.

All That Can Be Hoped For - April 29 2025

 

All That Can Be Hoped For

April 29 2025

I count the seconds

before the next thunderclap

shatters the calm.

As if time could predict

distance and risk

and the physics of storms.

Especially here,

in an open field

soaked with rain

as lightning nears.

The interval shortens,

intensity grows.

They say seek shelter.

That trees aren’t safe.

To stay low

arms and legs close

in the lowest place you can find.

I think of the man

struck by lightning

from a clear blue sky.

So like rogue waves and perfect storms

no place is truly safe.

And sometimes

a muddy hole in the ground

filling with water as rain pelts down

is the best that can be hoped for.

And while the science of physics is hard,

nature toys with us,

either taking pleasure

or simply bored.

Or is she just oblivious;

the earth, going about its business

in geological time,

and the atmospheric ocean

no reason or rhyme.

As capricious

as riptides and tidal waves,

lightning strikes

and close escapes.

Caught in the rain last night, lightning flashing and the thunder getting closer.

I have great respect — verging on a sober fear — of lightning ever since seeing a video about that unfortunate man. Because even distance is apparently no guarantee.

You feel small in a thunderstorm, especially out in the open in the dark soaked with rain. You appreciate more than ever your insignificance and nature’s indifference.

Afterward, I checked on what to do if caught in an electrical storm. Other than sheltering inside, none of them were very reassuring. But as so frequently happens in life, it’s all that can be hoped for. Because in life, where the best can be the enemy of the good, you often have to settle, and that’s good enough.

Halfway Up - April 28 2025

 

Halfway Up

April 28 2025

I wasn’t a floater.

I known we’re mostly water,

but don't we have air keeping us up

enough adiposity?

After all, even the least of us

have our life-giving lungs.

Yet I somehow defied natural law

and went straight down.

Was Archimedes wrong?

Am I composed of different stuff?

The fat girl

bobbing like a whale,

frolicked

with effortless buoyancy.

Even the skinny kids held their own;

mostly submerged,

but you could see their noses poking up

toes

breaking the surface

and wiggling happily away.

I felt like a bottom feeder

in the beginner class

learning to swim.

Which thankfully, I eventually did;

if badly

then at least enthusiastically

up and down the lane.

But sinking out of sight

and not being like the others

must have been a portent

for the rest of my life;

hard

to keep my head above water,

a struggle

just keeping up,

feeling different

and fitting out more than in.

Is neutral buoyancy

too much to ask?

A pelagic mammal, finally at rest;

finding my level

halfway down

holding my breath.

If I let out all my air, I do sink. I flatter myself it’s more muscle than fat. But still, shouldn’t I be lighter than water no matter what body type?

I actually can’t remember learning to swim. Although I do remember some instances of panic. It had to be an advantage to have more fat, more natural buoyancy, the first time you’re thrown into the deep end. So, do fat kids eventually become better swimmers?

The truest part of this story is the penultimate stanza. (Swimming badly but enthusiastically is also true!) I guess most adolescents feel “different”. But for some of us, that doesn’t go away. And invisibility can be either a welcome disguise, a fact of life you accept, or something to break out of — like all those shallow young people today who aspire to celebrity, not for anything they’ve accomplished, but as a thing in itself.

The title came to me as the obvious complement to the ending, and the diametric symmetry illuminates the choice the writer makes. Like the half full or half empty glass, it depends; and here, he clearly makes the more negative choice.

Nothingness - April 26 2025

 

Nothingness

… for in this sleep of death, what dreams may come.*

April 26 2025

It’s as if my first 3 years

never happened at all.

I have a bad memory,

but a total blank?

Like full amnesia

from a blow to the head,

or blacking out for 3 whole years

from a monumental bender.

A terrible loss

when it seems life only begins

with remembering.

The most wonder-filled years

lost

as the brain

must have been preoccupied

rewiring itself,

synapses sparking like fireflies

and axons feeling their way.

The mind

too distracted

to bother keeping track,

too overwhelmed by novelty

to pause and savour it.

Which is too bad,

because 70 years later

and a jaded old man

with a shrunken brain and brittle veins.

I could use a jolt of wonder

curiosity

astonishment,

can only envy

a fluid mind

and open eyes

absorbent as a sponge.

What was I like, back then;

was I a blank slate

ready to be written,

or was the man I’d become

already apparent?

And with all that sleeping

did I also dream?

And if so, of what?

That first flood of colour,

the barrage of sound?

Floating weightless

in the womb’s warm embrace?

Past lives

unspooling like old movies

salvaged from the fire?

But all I have is oblivion.

And the closest I can come to understanding it

is the deep sleep

on those dreamless nights

when I cease to exist.

And if it’s true

that all we’re really constructed of

is memory,

is this what death is like?

Our lives, a fleeting sliver

briefly glimpsed

between the eons of darkness before

and the nothingness ever after.

*Shakespeare’s Hamlet on the small death of sleep

This nothingness, this utter absence, is one of those impossible concepts, as unimaginable as infinity or the speed of light. Yet if this is why you fear death, you’ve already been there: the billions of years before you were born, when everything happened without you. If you want to know how nothingness feels, that’s it; and it will be the same after your brief flash of consciousness. (Or at least how it will be for us atheists!) As for me, I don’t fear death as much as dying: so not so much the fact of death as what happens leading up to it.

This 3 or so years of so-called “infantile amnesia” makes sense. The brain is growing, reforming, and pruning itself at a furious rate. In an unpredictable world that’s constantly changing, opening up, and revealing itself, the brain can’t afford to let things get fixed. It must remain malleable. I visualize a butterfly in its metamorphic phase: what was a caterpillar has turned to protoplasmic goo in order to totally reorganize and remake itself. (Yet — in continuing this theme of memory — it should be noted that memories formed as a caterpillar are somehow retained in the butterfly. So my analogy isn’t entirely accurate!)