Some coffee, some cake,
and settle in while
the kettle cools, and
don’t forget to make it
gluten free,
while you scroll through
images of devastation,
death and destruction,
your in-text finger
itching for action.
Another sip
— is it too early for wine?
Such corporate misbehavior
must be punished, and here,
a public figure, untrue, imperfect.
Some semblance of decorum
must be maintained, if for
no other reason than
to provide a benchmark for outrage.
Outside, daylight
is dying.
From the poet’s dictionary
noun \ˈpis-tən\
a sound like a fist, like rain,
like fat drops on hardpan,
like a screen door flapping,
like gasoiline on skin,
like burning sand,
like the smell of coal ash
at ten below zero,
like a stain in the heart
that cannot be removed,
like every slamming, crushing,
fierce and mortal thing
that cannot be undone,
except by love.
See also grief.
Alone in virtual demise,
words swerving through scorched air,
demands of justice colliding
with pure fear, coerced
or otherwise.
Inclination be damned,
maybe the time for fierceness
has come and gone,
-too many dead,
too many still living –
shall we stand up to each other
as easily as we stand together
when it costs nothing?
If one thing is as good as the next,
if, returning to the nest, the hawk finds
nothing changed though some infinitesimal
bit of mouse has become fledgling,
if time is measured mostly in breaths
until even they fade to nothing,
replaced by sunrise and sunset,
if all this is true, there’s room for
some small satisfaction at the movement
of air from the passing blade of the reaper,
having missed once more.
Maybe there’s nothing more than this
to immortality — the thin, movable wedge
between life and death.
A few weeks ago, I learned of the death of an old friend and colleague. He was a tumultuous man, difficult and contradictory, both principled and unscrupulous, brilliant and thick-headed, generous and vindictive in equal measures. In the end, he drove us all away, friend and foe alike, though some feelings for him remained. I wrote an obituary, then threw it away. They say dreams are for words unsaid and deeds undone. In such a dream last night, this elegy came to me.
Rest in peace? They must be joking.
When did you ever crave the thick, sweet
whine of peace?
I still see you, in the field,
booming, incredulous, lashing the storm
for its impudence.
Sail well, my friend.
Stay in the rain.
Stay in the wind.
Steer your fragile barque
into the beckoning wild.
exiles child 