Tag Archives: poet

This discount computer

almost stolen for the price,

was purchased on Black Friday.

It only came in Walmart blue,

and the keyboard didn’t work at first.

It trudges along with too-little RAM

and only runs my word processor and internet,

but that’s really all I’ve used it for.

On it’s (replaced) keyboard I have typed

a million discount characters

in poetry and school reports

and earned an associate’s in writing

that’s worth less than my slow computer

to everyone but me. 

Self Portrait as a Mountain Creek

Lazily sometimes,

Murmuring, trickling as I go,

and fierce at others –

a deluge of unprecedented force

that envelops trees and

tears them down in a surging

torrent of muddy water filled 

with broken rocks and blood

and the caracases of animals that ran,

fueled by fear till their lives were spent

and they collapsed, breathless before me,

kneeling, panting, watching, waiting for death, 

pleading, dying, breaking apart, becoming the surge, 

the wave, the flood –

that will go on bubbling slowly 

down toward that peaceful ocean

where all streams rage on the shores of the living.

Self Portrait as a Caterpillar 

They tell me I will fly one day, 

that I have to be patient 

and that my time will come. 

I try to tell myself  they’re right and

eat my weight in whatever

they give me each day

systematically and in spirals,

one bite at a time, endlessly. 

It doesn’t always sit right, 

and I get tired of the taste of milkweed, but

they tell me I will fly one day

if  only I keep eating. 

Revelations

The tattered man fidgeted, uncomfortable,
with the noose around his neck and his hands roughly tied.
His gaze moved nervously around the square,
searching for eyes he could look into
to plead for mercy, or at least compassion.
He found there neither.

A pale preacher stood and read aloud the sentence
in a flawless, practiced, scriptural voice:
“You are hereby charged with heresy
for claiming that God does not exist.
For this crime you are to be hanged to death.
Do you have any final words?”

He nodded eagerly.
“Very well, but choose them wisely,” the priest replied.
“For they will be your last.”

He looked out hopelessly into the silent crowd,
and said in a croaking, timid voice,
“I didn’t say that God does not exist;
I know as well as you do that he does!
The question is:
Did God make us, or did we make hi-”

Either way, the man was the first to know.

Conciousness

Sometimes I am spirit,
and sometimes I am mind.
Sometimes I have ever been
and cannot see it
sometimes I can clearly see
that I have not.
But annihilation is a hard abstraction,
and I know not whether to pity
or admire those who have embraced it
as their beginning and their end.

Perhaps I will live forever
in these words;
perhaps they will die with
my consciousness when I go.

I wonder:
if my parents had not met,
would I live life as someone else
or simply never have existed at all?
I fear I wouldn’t exist
with this only as my consolation:
I would not know I didn’t
and will not when I don’t.

Willow

Across the pond the willow tree
in gentle swaying majesty
tosses her lengthy locks of hair
in the breeze that sings through the morning air.
She fixes a bird on her head like a pin,
and, when the water is still as a glass, gazes in.
Then, lest she should err, I wander around
to the shore where she stands on the uneven ground
and tell her such measures are not to be borne,
for the willow tree’s beauty looks best unadorned.

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