I woke up early today, sitting in bed
not sure if I should get up
or roll under my bed and hide
from the black – dark that tastes bitter
like dry arugula stuck in my teeth.
The silence is numbing and scrapes
inside my head, nails scratching
a blackboard with rambling scribblings
pushing me in spirals. Sometimes
the world hops out of view.
What is life, if there is no afterlife?
A prefix for nothing, a start missing
an ending, a fire extinguished
eventually. What is life without a spark
divine or otherwise brightening dark?
We live, we love, we work, we die,
circles overlapping as we mark time
like fireflies enjoying the dusk aware
that night must inexorably snuff
the light we flash for as long as we can.
I swing my feet to the floor, facing the day
or whatever may barrel headfirst
before night, realizing life isn’t meaningless
for those we share meaning with, more lamps
to illuminate even the largest room.
Ambushed by the moon
reflecting a solar absence
while waxing poetic
behind fast swimming clouds,
we sit on the front porch
A cool fall breeze
exclaims its presence, hinting
at a storm or other ominous things
just beyond the horizon. What surprises
lay before us, hoping to astound,
to break us
from an evening reverie
as we wait?
to the remaining leaves
blowing above revealing that moon,
a marvelous wonder hinting
at a universe we know
We know nothing of what’s beyond
these leaves, this moon, mysteries
that baffle us, sitting, waiting on
our small planet,
an island amidst the nothing
of space matter.
Then the pizza shows up and nothing
The harvest moon breathes
deep tonight, sharing spices
from the cornucopia of pumpkin oranges
and warm apple reds
cooling in the autumn breeze
tossing leaves through the air
like cinnamon confetti celebrating
another summer’s retreat.
As squirrels snack on acorn squash
preparing for the unflinching onslaught
of gray, dull winter, I sip
on apple cider awed
by the colors of nature confident
in this moment
the moon will never exhale
and fall will never dwindle.
My mother told me it would all be okay,
but I’m inclined to believe that
things were simpler in her
womb, in the dark about the blights
perhaps best left out of the spotlight.
A warm shield from injustice
with the first breath of my origin story,
Mom carefully pulled back the veil
through childhood, slowly acclimating my eyes
to a world waiting to blind me
with harsh truths and cold, naked reality.
Perhaps I’m okay. I don’t know another way
and I’m inclined to believe that
things – though complex – deserve
the light, and I can see clearly
because her hand pointed the way.
I stared in wonder
as the sky swallowed trees whole
starting at the roots
before working its way up.
The birds didn’t mind either.
Sunlight cascades through clouds,
pushing to earth, demanding to find land
no matter the season. Two trees
separated by brown grass and silence
ache for warmth or a melting touch
of companionship or at least life
to interrupt the isolation.
But still the light comes, through clouds
or night or some other wretched evil
may obscure its beauty, a veil
they’ll shirk today
or tomorrow or some other blissful day.
We need only remind ourselves
tree branches do not stay empty,
nor birds quiet, nor the world dull
and hateful. Monstrous monotony may
move us to seclusion
alone through the trees. Its end nears
The hands on the clock
slowly orbit the pale, dull face,
that the snow brought
a chill (or
at least a hint.)
The sun almost
shone as babies blinked,
staring at nothing
a general malaise that
lay beneath bubbles and
banana pudding breath.
snow covers the grass
a cold chill echoes through
of a winter storm that turned whatever
we had planned black and cold,
Depression cries out
through the seemingly endless black
(where noise blinds us,
not so long ago
this all made sense).
Amid the senselessness
of another terrifying flash
of lightning –
of the fury
that flares for an instant
to background noise – we
find solitude, short
If you can believe such things, they say now
that tea does not cause kidney stones – it was just
an old wives’ tale. Who are these duplicitous wives
telling such tales? What tricksters live in perfidy,
spreading lies, treason on my tongue so long deprived
of such sweet, iced beverage betraying
its watery beginning with sugary self-improvement.
My wife told me today that wine – that delicious
confection, so warm in my throat, a comforting
inverted blanket covering me inside out,
with a loving embrace – may be causing my pants
to also embrace me too close. Et tu, brute?
Imagine the power – rapids
rushing to the edge,
bubbling to the surface and bursting
as they smash
on rocks before
cascading in roars through a jungle
of watery falls
and tumbling with the audacious
desire to smack
the water below
in a cacophony of damp shallows
– that befalls
the man in the barrel,
What is it about stars that so captivates us?
The sparkle we mirror in our eyes?
The glimmer we hope will carry us
through whatever blackness surfaces?
Warmth dulled through lightyears still
envelops me in a hug at midnight
drawing me in to their group,
part of a constellation. Of something.
The universe is but black, vast and empty,
a vacuum devoid of meaning,
swallowing what it may, but bespeckled
randomly with dust of light
scattered haphazardly out there. Up there.
I follow the light, something to reach for,
hands stretched to the stars
that so captivate me like millions before –
will we ever get closer to them?
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