False idylls

Ah, we say, what a life!
and yet …

We are the heirs of discontent
we carry all colors among us
to their inevitable conclusion

Our eyes are rising swiftly
under an aging sun

What nourished our forebears
we find merely annoying
All those Bible Prophets mute
as sacks of sand

To build dikes against
a flood which never comes
and yet …

here we stand
precisely in their footpads


Here I sit
Just a big lump of protoplasm
Encased in plant fiber and animal hide
No more purpose or meaning
Than a slime mold

No, a slime mold
Is at least interesting
Assembling and disassembling
To suit the moment

Bright yellow
Daring any living thing
To do something about it

Daring me
To be more than that
Or at least


I read great poets, great beacons,
Their eyes so keen,
Their voices clear as sunlight
With a winter slant, harsh,
But welcome all the same.

I’ve grown used to irrelevance,
Come to prefer it.
My history of judgment
Is spotty, at best
My place in the grand confusion
Of existence
Is in the chorus,
One small voice
Bleating among many,
One fading light
In the great kaleidoscope,
Whispering, more than declaiming,
Twinkling, more than illuminating.

But it’s me, inaudible at times,
Barely discernable,


…the universe is a big place, where improbable things happen all the time. Look at you.
– John Matson

At its deepest core
Reality is mere chance
A riot of bubbles boiling
And bursting, all unguessed

Unless the ever disappearing
Always borning bodies flung
Into pointless being, seething
In the cosmic whistling teakettle

Unless by the grace of improbability
By statistical nethering whimsy
By the merest intractable stroke
Of lunacy
We come back for the next moment


Stranded by morning

Serenity falls
Into the open morning
Stifling a yawn
Life ain’t what I thought it was
All those years ago

In the end, all the pain and joy

Fell in a grand heap
And life, stripped bare
More like a humping walrus
Than a lame gazelle

A poet once told me
He’d rather write about