reflections

when through eulogy i am
remembered
by friends and
family who
have gathered from
their different walks
of busy life
to stand together in
a moment
of recognition
that i was
flesh
and blood
and breathed
the very same air
that they this moment breath
wondering if it is i
whom they remember
or rather just
reflections
of themselves

breaking even

in the end i hope
to break even.
no more no less.
a wash.
after all,
what else can really be
hoped for?

to break even.
to come out of this thing
not unscathed, but
unbroken.
worn in,
like some old pair
of shoes.

without debt
without surplus
without attachment to any
thing.

i mean really,
what is there to be gained
or lost
but more
of oneself?

taking notice

as the water rages
against
the defiant faces
of the roaring
irreverent rocks
e x  p   l    o      d      i  n          g
into
so many
shining splinters
of  light
the coughing
cars pass
without taking
notice.

this the epitaph

at best
we have a loose
grip
on things.

at worst
we are hurtling
through
space
and time

tum
bling
out
of
con
trol

full of ideas
about how
things
are
or aren’t
or oughta be.

but the beatific
chaos
bows down
to no man.

it speaks only
the two-tongued
language
of adaptation
and assimilation.

adapt or die.
this the lesson.
this the cornerstone.
this the epitaph.

is it worth it?

this is
the question.

this is the first
question.

it came
before
all the others.

it is the question
upon which
all others rest.

it is the beginning,
it is the middle,
and it is the end.

it is worked on
endlessly
inside
the hearts
and minds
of all men
everywhere.

everything seen
and felt
is the result
of the
working
of
this
out.

is it worth it?

the witness

in the yard today
tending
to the
bogenvia

i came across a small
grayish-brown
bird-
wing broken
hiding in the undergrowth.

i startled him
and he i.
he flopped around a bit
frightened,
having lost his
solitude.

in the sighing summer heat
i watched him, exposed
flopping,
helplessly awaiting
the one thing
that awaits us all.

there was nothing i could do
for him, but
be his witness.

it made me
sad.
not because of the dying,
but because of my own

exposed

helplessness.

the gutters of time

so soon have you forgotten again my son
running in shadow
asleep to this moment-
that all is my breath
every eye lit with the light of my love
every heart beating the rhythm of my eternal drum
the bird over head
the air through which she glides
the blades of grass on which you stand pondering
her effortless flight
the soil in which each blade takes root and grows
following the great golden sun across the sky
the canopy of countless silver stars above
the dark expanding blue canvas unfolding behind those living suns
the wind, and the leaves that dance to its whispered song
each perfectly shaped raindrop-
falling, collecting, washing down the gutters of time
the pen, the paper, the hand that moves the pen
Awake!
all is my love.
all is my breath.
you too.

if i were a poem

if i were a poem
i’d be scribbled on a small piece of scrap paper
tucked inside your pocket
patiently waiting to be discovered.
a concise collection of simple words
conveying an honest emotion
delivered in short rhythmical sentences,
spacious and easy to listen to
like an old blues song.

the endless canvas

life has a way of fracturing the heart
and trying the soul.
the stamina of youth refers not only to a certain physicality,
but also to the health and strength of ones spirit.
for most
the blissful naivete and idealism of youth
gradually gives way to a certain cynicism,
a numbing acceptance,
just as summer gives way to fall
each day becoming slightly cooler,
each leaf slowly changing color
drying out, shriveling up,
one by one dropping to the ground
scattered like fallen soldiers.

but for the few resilient souls
who refuse to be railed by the blunt and bludgeoning
hammer of society’s cloned and listless dream;
for those beautiful, unreasonable children of light,
the world is a playground,
stretching out before them
like an endless canvas.