the question

the song of
the nuthatch is
one of those compositions
that holds up to
repeated listenings

timeless, really –
a piece not often
nuanced by the performer, true,

but on occasion the artist allows
himself a bit
of freedom as far as style is concerned

during this mornings finale
there was a certain
inflection on the last note
a drop in tone
a slow tapering off at the end
until it was lost
in the rustling of the leaves
he sang from

almost as if he was
asking me about
something I could never answer

and all I could do
was look up as he watched
me from behind his
mask, and think

what an
absolutely amazing
question it was

they know not what they’ve sown

buried
in the warm meat of his brain
rested the seed
of a heretic, waiting
to
sprout fully
to
overshadow
the god
of his parents

he had avoided madness
only by chance, with
trancelike hours spent
disassembling their
oratories about
miracles of judgement,
spent lives,
souls lost in barter –

they insisted on
reanimating conversations
that had dropped dead
long ago,
believing
that some
lurching new form
of their creation
could carry logic,
as well as their child,
beyond the
horizon of promise

imagination

trespassing
the border
of rational thought
reaching for the absurd
like a drunk,
hands extended,
trying
to keep balance while
obliterating the same

apologies to a violet

the cat just blinks
at my question
“now when did this die?”

she lowers her head to her paws
as I bring the remains
in close for visual autopsy

it feels lighter now
as if something has
departed other
than just the water
that held its soil
in order

I remember watering it
just the other day
however, my
just the other days
are just as easily
just last week
last month…
the distant past

how many more victims
of my sporadic care
will go the way of
this once vibrant violet?

that’s the thing with attentiveness
you have to pay attention
another measure of focus
that never fails to elude me

still, as if it was some
vegetable based Lazarus
I water it –
too much so

leaving the cat
to lap at the pool that
spreads out
around the ceramic pot

like a mourner
helping herself to a cup of tea
at a funeral breakfast

release

very narrow
are these passages
we walk

like alleyways
in the first cities

paved with the
stones of your days

each one along
the way
appearing just before
a foot comes down
there is always wonder,
whether there will be

another to support
the weight
of both you and
the pack you carry
a pack
empty at the start,
growing ever heavier

as you head toward
the place where you
can finally release it from
your shoulders
and wade again
in the ocean
of eternity

the tin

I have pried open
and battered
back the lid
enough –
time, I guess,
to let it alone

this well of creation, begged from
one too many times
and now, nothing
inside to draw from

fear

who, I ask myself
as I close the door
to the world,
is responsible
for easing away
the scariest
of all
unknown things?

is there, maybe,
someone
behind a jumbled desk,
with a title,
a pad of blood red ink
at his elbow
and a rubber stamp
with the words
“ALL GONE”
at the ready?

someone in a paisley vest
with his sleeves rolled up
slowly working
his way through
stacks of submitted fears
that await review

I imagine there would be
an outer chamber
with chairs
for those
who are not pacing

I can picture them,
all staring at the clock
waiting for the bored
receptionist
to call their name and
point to his door with
her silver letter opener

working the outcomes
over in their heads
trying to decipher emotion
on the faces
of those who come back out

the most timid
taking blank forms
to be filled out later
behind closed doors
of their own

The new book

if you are looking to use one of those gift cards for your fancy new Kindle or Nook, might I suggest my latest book Water from a Toad. It is available for both. Thanks, and happy holidays.

breaks

breaks

I have tried to break:
away at times,
habits time and time again,
walls as they are being built
I have broken down and
out of myself,
into hearts,
unrepairable things
I have been broke
more often than not
more seldom than most
and have learned to
live with what I have
I have needed a break
for some time
from things that
weigh more than
they should
so, I will take as many
breaks as I can
in a grove of my own choosing
my eyes closed
my back against
a tree

what can be said

to those
that bear the weight of damage
about these blades
we have forged
in the flames of
self preservation,
blades that
have found the
innocents
again
the promise of spring
cut from the hearts
of those
left to tend the bells
of memory
anniversaries,
too many,
marked in days lunar
for sunrises
no longer matter