Blood line

As luck would have it
I was born who I am,
propelled into wonder
and deep disturbance,

pushed from behind
by fear and tedium,
compelled by curiosity
to delve and burrow.

Shall I say my fate
has formed me,
or have I moved through Earth
not spellbound, but spellbinding?

No use complaining, no
point in shallow grievance.
Fate works not by force
but seduction.

The poet as scold

I do read your work, telling me
to be a decent sort, which politician
to love, which to despise,
how one kind of suffering
is better than another, or one
rude remark worse than another.
The ponderance presses relentlessly,
huge pendulous images of right thinking,
until I no longer feel I own my own
uncertainty, that my heart can so much as
break without first checking your litany.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.
Now I must be on my way or miss
the chance to do it again.

There is no now

Change is our native land,
Our birthright, and yet,
We cling to a past like
An old winter coat,
Threadbare, stained, useless,
Well into summer, to keep,
I suppose, from disappearing
Altogether.

Our so-called future, bright,
Burning, always impending,
Half beautiful, half terrifying,
Like sunlight slowly creeping
Toward our vampire lives.

Who said it was going to be easy?