A Psalm

for the

Discontented

 

"Let this darkness be a bell

 tower and you the bell. As

 you ring, what batters you becomes

 your strength."

                          ~Rainer Maria Rilke

 

Here lieth

the language

of the unsaid,

where trees

grow green

remedies

and medicines

from fruits

are bred.

 

The fact that

repetition always

forms a rut,

it’s best

to cleanse

your lens

of ways

as aches

and pains

that come

with age

can and do

build up.

 

The days

of the week

might have been

fashioned by men

in pitch black robes,

but to keep repeating

these ghostly

demarcations

is like being tethered

to a rope.

 

If weeds 

be heartier

than the flowers,

perhaps the garden

not be pruned.

Being caretakers

of our own environs

can be like being

put in charge of

an amaranthine

ruin.

Thank goodness

what's no longer useful

eventually falls away.

Just be careful

you don't burn bridges

as the moat

seems here to stay.

If you can

learn to tell

the time without

glancing at a clock,

then don't you feel

it may be time

to find freedom

from the flock.

 

Nothing outside us

can satisfy

if the self

can’t step aside.

Discontent is an angel

whose breath blows

far and wide.

Let this prayer

blow through you

like a reed

not letting

one judgment

go unchecked.

Though everyone

is doing

their best

despite being

a veritable wreck.

 

From here on out

take notice of sleep

when shopping

at the market

or walking

the street,

or even when

coming back.

Your dreams

have a verdant vitality;

a primal life

that can break through

the cracks.

 

If the ego

should go sour

inside the owner’s

mouth,

don't blame it.

It’s only the mind

that conquers

and divides 

by cleaving

North from South.

 

To know

what someone’s

going to say

before they

even say it

is consciousness

turned on its head.

This prayer

is for them,

so why

not pray it

just before

going to bed.

 

Some say that God

after lending us his

very breath

ends by deigning

to take the fifth.

Rescinding on

his agency

as if it’d

been a myth,

so that from

here on out

we walk

and breathe

as if apart and

on our own,

as wellbeing is

a participatory sport

and never ours alone.

2/20/23

 

Attack of

the Colossal

50 Foot

Feelings

 

“Feelings, nothing more than feelings.”

                                   ~Morris Albert

 

Holed up in a darkened bedroom,

I’m forced to eat flowers to survive.

 

The feelings (or creatures) are known

for taking infinite forms.

 

Last night I wrapped my heart

in an ace bandage to stifle its beating.

 

Now, here, in this moment

within an hour of a day,

all that’s left and all

that ever was are the feelings.

I know I must preserve them

despite their attempt to devour me.

If they die, I shall too.

Aye, there's the rub.

 

My friends have all succumbed.

Whether from trying not to feel,

being unable to feel,

or feeling too much,

I can only pray they win the battle.

I fear that most are hiding the truth:

that the feelings have taken over

their bodies and are controlling

their thoughts. This is how they

swarm in mass and procreate.

Sparking off each other like

firecrackers setting off fireworks.

They live by knee-jerk reactions

and their desire to live more fully.

 

Our dilemma is complicated

because the feelings

which live on emotional triggers

are engendered by our own sensitivities.

We are their gun powder.

 

Joy will cost you.

Pain, on the other hand,

is free, but highly contagious.

Grief is quite sticky.

Fear tends to flood.

Jealousy is a fire.

Hurt leaves a wound.

Love, well love

leads to rehabilitation

by making the ego helpless,

therefore, vulnerable to disease.

More than once

have I relearned to walk,

speak, and even weep.

 

Hate is a quake.

Sadness, a collapsing.

Anger an explosive.

Disappointment, a detonation.

Horror is a contraction.

Disgust, a spitting out.

Awe expands the mine field.

Longing baits the hook.

Loneliness cannot see

any beauty in itself.

Frustration is a hunger.

Confusion circles the wagons.

Admiration, opens a wound.

 

Last night I wore a pain patch over my heart

because the feelings are coming.

God help you.

 

2/13/23

 

 

 

 

World Builder

 

This morning I noticed

the cord of my vacuum

had inadvertently formed

the outline of a man,

the discarded shadow

of an imaginary self.

I wanted to believe

it was a sign, if

for no other reason

than to reassure

my real self

that every detail in life

has a meaning, that

even the accidental

has its purpose.

 

Only the night

before while

on the hunt for

the sacred

pinecone

did I discover

I’d been wandering

inside myself

in search of a thing

I could not

swallow.

Maybe it’s our duty

to devour what

we love in order

to gestate

new life

deep within us

like a seed.

 

Today I am desperate

to find something sacred

in real time, even

while at the mercy

of this morning’s

callow math,

I’ve taken to using

my days

with their abbreviated

appellations…

Mon. Tues. Wed.

Thurs. Fri. Sat. Sun…

like the artifacts

of some

humdrum division.

I prefer to think

of this day as a vessel,

each moment,

a cup made of

interlocking hands.

I favor the body's 

geometry.

 

After all, the hours

seem to grow on trees

telling as fluttering diaries.

The seasons groomed

by a sky of

dictatorial stars.

So what if at night

I lay asleep at the wheel.

It suits the territory!

Isn’t it enough that

during the day

I’m awake

at the brake!

 

My predilection for stories

is a narrative contrivance.

Aren’t we all

unreliable narrators

pushing to

the head of the line

to tell things our own way?

 

Here, now,

as my fingers

tentatively glide

across a

dormant alphabet

of keys

like a pianist

creating a sonata

on the cuff,

I sense

the growth-spurt

of a zillion buds.

 

 

2/5/23