Shall I at least set my lands in order?
T.S. Eliot - ”The Wasteland”
Complicit
What if we ignore the nudges
to do what we feel,
our voices pinched and hands pocketed
by what might be?
It can take everything
to conclude.
And hesitations continue
to swallow possibilities.
Punch
It’s easy to be insulated
dreaming in a forest
or a carpeted room
while others build the world around you.
Membranes form around a still life
but any sharpened will
can cut holes and emerge
fit to craft or orchestrate.
Reform
Gotta get right with my states
elevate
situate
reassociate with worlds
where I step
and where I’m hurled
smooth where I’m curled
find an iron, a ride, a ladder, a slide
infiltrate the spaces where my dark sides hide.
I’ve tried
to throw dirt on the doors
seal up my pores
avoid confrontation through hobbies and chores.
What’s more
it’s blackened my moments
served as a portent
of enduring disgusting dog-kicking discontent.
And I’m spent.
So
to the depths I must go
with a torch and a hoe
dig and shine light for a truce
or a fight.
Fallen Leaf (the access road)
I’m going back to move some dirt
scrape fence posts and comb the shore
for my dog’s old prints
and the kids’ thrown stones
or any fossiled joy I had there.
The styrofoam crumbles might show me
a map to the scenes to come
beneath the sky
thrusting its mood upon the water.
I'll pocket what I can
and shake the grit with the polish.
The Things I See
I can’t help but mention
the dead dog rotting by my fishing hole,
the Laotian woman in her Sunday dress
walking through a puddle
or the man with Down Syndrome
dancing in the street.
Because when I feel music
when I put a boot in sludge
or bring a spotted trout to hand
it all runs through me
and I shake, climb, cut, or construct
the connecting thread as I choose.
Giving Way
Steam columns funnel in the dark
the coal plant stacks spew them up
while I ride on the waterfront.
We correspond in a subtle way
all calm under the sky.
They climb and dissipate
into vaporous forms.
I just pedal along
reveling in the contrast
of lake and coal and stars,
trying to weave them into coherence
and finding a peace amid their scars.
Clean Pipes
The water is what keeps you.
If it's pure enough you'll stay
and accept the tainted streams that come
with storm flows.
You sneak out at times
for a fire that blows
in whatever wind that feeds it
and sort impurities from ease.
Then after calculations
you plod inside
to clean the filter
while imagining new sources.
Reactor
A steady eye
notes the ridges of a mountain
and can call them by their names.
And hands that grapple with a face
can slap or grip
or slip from any hold.
Feet choose their place upon the scree
and might turn stones
or ankles when reaching.
A Roadside Deer
She crouches against the wind chill
seven below
coiled for some desperate act
sniffing for feed
for a herd
on fields sealed with ice.
Her crazed eyes search me as I pass
and poke the beds of my lonely searches
as I drive home to warmth and food.
The Pirate and The Polka Dot Queen
The toothy pirate and the polka dot queen
scoffed at the rain this morning.
With loose boots and cold hands
they marched down the muddy trails.
Ahoy they called
or howdy do
to every goose and duck that flew
bending low to watch the streams
that trickle towards the sea.
Overflow
How can I convey
the black holes and asteroids
the spiraling fires that light
when gases ignite?
I see stars exploding
and their scattered parts collect
in rings they can’t defy
or recognize.
Magnum
I’m feeling like it’s time to release my guts
spill some backed up trapped sentiments and such.
See I’ve been waverin’ in the middle
afraid to touch the griddle
to expose my hands to the spit or the spittle
Sss-ha
I want to take what I have whittled
and hold it to the masses in a way that won't belittle.
I’m looking for a way
in a world of pages
to assert my ideas
and write them through the stages
of doubt and scrutiny
uncertainty
of how they’ll touch the world and my identity.
The channels I see
try to give it all a name
with insufficient claims
evangelize their point of view and lock it down in chains.
But I’m leery of such action
and all the factions
that hold half truths as the basis of their traction.
So what’s my source?
I take my sermons from the rivers
and they deliver
some clarity to help me see that wonder is the giver
of insight, mental might, a way to keep my spirit right
and STRONG
flexed before all positions
and all the mysteries, histories, and traditions.
The people that inhabit and embody all of these
contribute to my notions with their varieties.
So what’s my course?
I’ve been waiting for my notions to grow and fully form
to dig them from the vent-fed hole where they’ve been warmed.
But if I hold my tongue it may not extend
or be informed by the sources that contend
for position in my mind in my soul in the folds
of every chasm, dogma, schism, doctrine young and old.
I will not be confined by false comforts designed
to deflect inquiry and breed one-eyed minds
because it’s more than god’s will
it’s not just how it goes
there’s a catalyst to all we see and know.
And what we can’t explain
we can’t pretend to define
rather seek, feel, reflect, connect, and climb
to a deeper understanding
without reprimanding
anybody with a different view on anything that can’t be proved.
So this is how I see
how I hope to be
I don’t expect you to follow or agree.
I continue
flawed and motivated
to hone and improve upon what I have stated.
Spread
Intellect is a powder
the pen is a gun
experience the spark that strikes the flint
and I’ve begun
to spread some shots in the wild
and follow what I hit
learning how to feed and trying not to get bit
by jaws that try to clamp
or any loaded trap
hidden under red carpet for a foot to make it snap.
I need to keep my legs free
scramble to a precipice
look upon the wide world
not live inside a folded crease.
And with an unencumbered view
I can see true
and sprinkle what I find to the valleys if I choose.
I can’t evangelize
I have no doctrine to report
but what I share might pair
with the pieces that you sort.
Throw my pettiness aside
scatter grudges to the sky
intersect with people
be prepared to modify
what I am and what I do
if it’s something untrue
to the purity I seek for me
and what I hope for you.
Bleed light
aid flight
tend to any need in sight.
Lines and Wires
The kids become deaf to a tone repeated.
Calls to brush and flush
for clean and quiet
delivered with scorn will be reborn
as shrill charges between polls.
Both sides will recall the heat that transferred
and the seared edges
where the wires melted.
Dream Routine
He pounds the tray
in the morning kitchen.
I fetch coffee grounds and formula.
Drinks mixed
we swap exclamations between sips
and daydream
about the toys and rivers out of reach.
Longings explored
we clean our faces
content for now
to laugh at the dog
running in his sleep.
December Edges
Frost has started
the hues are faded now
I breathe and savor cold
on uncontested paths.
Winter suits my wandering
in between the torrents
a softer tread
a crisper vision
my howls travel farther.
What should I gather?
I chase more than I need.
Give me dry sticks and matches
I'll suffer nights
beside a crackle of embers
to wake with passions intact
with boots that need thawing.
What if we ignore the nudges
to do what we feel,
our voices pinched and hands pocketed
by what might be?
It can take everything
to conclude.
And hesitations continue
to swallow possibilities.
Punch
It’s easy to be insulated
dreaming in a forest
or a carpeted room
while others build the world around you.
Membranes form around a still life
but any sharpened will
can cut holes and emerge
fit to craft or orchestrate.
Reform
Gotta get right with my states
elevate
situate
reassociate with worlds
where I step
and where I’m hurled
smooth where I’m curled
find an iron, a ride, a ladder, a slide
infiltrate the spaces where my dark sides hide.
I’ve tried
to throw dirt on the doors
seal up my pores
avoid confrontation through hobbies and chores.
What’s more
it’s blackened my moments
served as a portent
of enduring disgusting dog-kicking discontent.
And I’m spent.
So
to the depths I must go
with a torch and a hoe
dig and shine light for a truce
or a fight.
Fallen Leaf (the access road)
I’m going back to move some dirt
scrape fence posts and comb the shore
for my dog’s old prints
and the kids’ thrown stones
or any fossiled joy I had there.
The styrofoam crumbles might show me
a map to the scenes to come
beneath the sky
thrusting its mood upon the water.
I'll pocket what I can
and shake the grit with the polish.
The Things I See
I can’t help but mention
the dead dog rotting by my fishing hole,
the Laotian woman in her Sunday dress
walking through a puddle
or the man with Down Syndrome
dancing in the street.
Because when I feel music
when I put a boot in sludge
or bring a spotted trout to hand
it all runs through me
and I shake, climb, cut, or construct
the connecting thread as I choose.
Giving Way
Steam columns funnel in the dark
the coal plant stacks spew them up
while I ride on the waterfront.
We correspond in a subtle way
all calm under the sky.
They climb and dissipate
into vaporous forms.
I just pedal along
reveling in the contrast
of lake and coal and stars,
trying to weave them into coherence
and finding a peace amid their scars.
Clean Pipes
The water is what keeps you.
If it's pure enough you'll stay
and accept the tainted streams that come
with storm flows.
You sneak out at times
for a fire that blows
in whatever wind that feeds it
and sort impurities from ease.
Then after calculations
you plod inside
to clean the filter
while imagining new sources.
Reactor
A steady eye
notes the ridges of a mountain
and can call them by their names.
And hands that grapple with a face
can slap or grip
or slip from any hold.
Feet choose their place upon the scree
and might turn stones
or ankles when reaching.
A Roadside Deer
She crouches against the wind chill
seven below
coiled for some desperate act
sniffing for feed
for a herd
on fields sealed with ice.
Her crazed eyes search me as I pass
and poke the beds of my lonely searches
as I drive home to warmth and food.
The Pirate and The Polka Dot Queen
The toothy pirate and the polka dot queen
scoffed at the rain this morning.
With loose boots and cold hands
they marched down the muddy trails.
Ahoy they called
or howdy do
to every goose and duck that flew
bending low to watch the streams
that trickle towards the sea.
Overflow
How can I convey
the black holes and asteroids
the spiraling fires that light
when gases ignite?
I see stars exploding
and their scattered parts collect
in rings they can’t defy
or recognize.
Magnum
I’m feeling like it’s time to release my guts
spill some backed up trapped sentiments and such.
See I’ve been waverin’ in the middle
afraid to touch the griddle
to expose my hands to the spit or the spittle
Sss-ha
I want to take what I have whittled
and hold it to the masses in a way that won't belittle.
I’m looking for a way
in a world of pages
to assert my ideas
and write them through the stages
of doubt and scrutiny
uncertainty
of how they’ll touch the world and my identity.
The channels I see
try to give it all a name
with insufficient claims
evangelize their point of view and lock it down in chains.
But I’m leery of such action
and all the factions
that hold half truths as the basis of their traction.
So what’s my source?
I take my sermons from the rivers
and they deliver
some clarity to help me see that wonder is the giver
of insight, mental might, a way to keep my spirit right
and STRONG
flexed before all positions
and all the mysteries, histories, and traditions.
The people that inhabit and embody all of these
contribute to my notions with their varieties.
So what’s my course?
I’ve been waiting for my notions to grow and fully form
to dig them from the vent-fed hole where they’ve been warmed.
But if I hold my tongue it may not extend
or be informed by the sources that contend
for position in my mind in my soul in the folds
of every chasm, dogma, schism, doctrine young and old.
I will not be confined by false comforts designed
to deflect inquiry and breed one-eyed minds
because it’s more than god’s will
it’s not just how it goes
there’s a catalyst to all we see and know.
And what we can’t explain
we can’t pretend to define
rather seek, feel, reflect, connect, and climb
to a deeper understanding
without reprimanding
anybody with a different view on anything that can’t be proved.
So this is how I see
how I hope to be
I don’t expect you to follow or agree.
I continue
flawed and motivated
to hone and improve upon what I have stated.
Spread
Intellect is a powder
the pen is a gun
experience the spark that strikes the flint
and I’ve begun
to spread some shots in the wild
and follow what I hit
learning how to feed and trying not to get bit
by jaws that try to clamp
or any loaded trap
hidden under red carpet for a foot to make it snap.
I need to keep my legs free
scramble to a precipice
look upon the wide world
not live inside a folded crease.
And with an unencumbered view
I can see true
and sprinkle what I find to the valleys if I choose.
I can’t evangelize
I have no doctrine to report
but what I share might pair
with the pieces that you sort.
Throw my pettiness aside
scatter grudges to the sky
intersect with people
be prepared to modify
what I am and what I do
if it’s something untrue
to the purity I seek for me
and what I hope for you.
Bleed light
aid flight
tend to any need in sight.
Lines and Wires
The kids become deaf to a tone repeated.
Calls to brush and flush
for clean and quiet
delivered with scorn will be reborn
as shrill charges between polls.
Both sides will recall the heat that transferred
and the seared edges
where the wires melted.
Dream Routine
He pounds the tray
in the morning kitchen.
I fetch coffee grounds and formula.
Drinks mixed
we swap exclamations between sips
and daydream
about the toys and rivers out of reach.
Longings explored
we clean our faces
content for now
to laugh at the dog
running in his sleep.
December Edges
Frost has started
the hues are faded now
I breathe and savor cold
on uncontested paths.
Winter suits my wandering
in between the torrents
a softer tread
a crisper vision
my howls travel farther.
What should I gather?
I chase more than I need.
Give me dry sticks and matches
I'll suffer nights
beside a crackle of embers
to wake with passions intact
with boots that need thawing.
