Lessons From a Dying Garden

In order to survive the pain 

of beauty passing,

as so much dies here

and so often,

the flowers teach being; 

being what one is

and where one finds oneself.

If self satisfaction is a failure of imagination,

amounting to nothing, 

only repeating;

we can learn to bloom 

in spite of our dismay.

Flaccid cups of chilly sunlight,

the drooping tulips care little for love

or adoration, 

while losing their perfume

and leaving lipstick stains 

on an errant cuff;

a tipsy farewell to evidence

their fondness.

Brittling sprigs of sage 

gone to mulch, 

dropping to the ground

to flavor the earth

with their long goodbyes.

Their scent lingering on fingers

like a lover’s name

on the tongue.

The basil, long since gone to pot

or as some might say: to seed,

draws its last bee

only to lose its reputation

over a May-December

flirtation.

Perennials believe in reincarnation,

so the peonies are planning ahead 

for their next appearance, 

knowing full well

they’ll always look exactly like themselves.

Which makes the carnations cheerful,

though rather too chummy. 

As for the annuals, 

they’re not entirely in the dark

knowing only that the dormant seeds

amongst them

will bridge the gap between

this world and the next.

09/30/21

 

The Beauty 

in the Fading 

of a Bruise

“The colors! The colors! Stop the colors!”

                          ~Tippi Hedron in Marnie

In the mirror the clock

tells a different time.

We’re patients now.

All of us.

The world’s a hospital;

this is where we find ourselves.

Now every room’s a waiting room

waiting for our names to be called.

Someone looks up from a magazine

forgetting to disguise their distress.

I remind myself that despair in the morning

can lead to gratitude by end of day.

Between desperate measures and coping skills 

this may be all that’s holding us in place.

The scales have fallen from our eyes

and the colors close in.

Some colors conceal 

an Old Testament violence:

Teal sets it’s trap.

Blue, a camouflaged pit.

Yellow, a hangman’s knot.

Green, a meat gone bad.

Red, a trip wire on the stair.

Purple, a plunge into a morass.

The bottle of Rivaroxaban reads; “May cause bruising”.

From now on will every memory leave a mark?

The difference between a weapon and a tool

is how we use it on ourselves.

If its futile to resist, at least we can still persist.

Flailing only ends in being swallowed whole.

Best to spend each day overlooking what we can,

despite the violent colors pulling us towards themselves.

Why deny flowers a life in a vase?

When only something wild can save us now.

09/28/2021

This Is Your Life

Night takes you apart.

Morning repairs you.

If making your bed

and lying in it 

is the best medicine,

darkness is your doctor.

Tonight he’s a stranger,

tomorrow, a dead friend.

With your bed a hospital,

the only remedy  

is a discharge

and a return

to light.

Mind’s an open house;

every thought a guest.

You entertain angels

and devils with the same

willingness to please,

as if accommodation

were your salvation.

Tonight could offer

answers.

In night’s amphitheater 

the spectators gather:

the grade school teacher,

Mrs. Sherman,

the mother coifed by clouds,

the father gray as birch,

the teacher clutching an apple,

the best friend thumbing

through a book.

Yet all you can manage

is to make a fort 

in your father’s arms, 

each hand a foothold,

his mouth, a hollow

without a heart

decidedly

helping you

to climb.

No recurring dream

can spare us the repetition

of ordinary days. 

But here, nothing can happen

and everything will.

If dreams break the law

then a dreamer

is lawless.

Sleep brings no rhyme 

or reason, just free verse.

Your mouth, too slack 

to form a smile

speaks in fractured verbs.

Those you lost faith in

clamor for provocative words,

blatant bids for 

intransitory attention. 

When they speak, your

listening lets them in.

Were you on a bike 

going up Amsterdam

or was that a dream?

If you don’t understand,

how will we?

All you’re sure of is

you go into labor 

at the drop of a hat,

christening a cab

with your broken water,

elevating elevators

with delivery pangs.

A park bench adds only

insult to your beautiful

injury.

Standing in the checkout

of a grocery

timing your contractions

you make a break for it.

Ducking into a bank

to find 

your deposit refused.

Finally in the lobby

you give birth to a hare

with bloodshot eyes.

Try and remember.

Abandoned as an infant 

in a closed room 

with one open window,

you’re found by 

law enforcement 

whose flashlights cast

your first fairy

on the walls 

surrounding your crib.

Is this how

fairytales begin?

Orphaned until five

you learn becoming 

desirable is your best 

chance for survival.

Chased out of

your neighborhood

by bullies afraid

of your androgyny.

you escape out of

the clutches of

the insensitive

only to land

in a fire

held safe

(or is it captive)

by an alchemist’s retort?

Your adulthood will mean

in order to transmute

you will need to

transmogrify.

You take a job as 

a sex worker

knowing eventually

all scum rises

to the top.

You wed your opposite

in a marriage

of inconvenience,

two wrongs

destined to make a right.

Your guilt leads to priesthood.

But the dreams persist.

Each morning you wake,

an amnesiac struggling

to remember 

how to love.

9/24/21

 

P r i s m

Go into it.

Serve your sentence.

Don’t resist

the pain.

If you begin 

to sense

the suffering 

of life, 

you’ll awaken 

to a deeper 

reality,

a truer one.

Suffering smashes

to pieces 

the self satisfaction

of our 

ordinary fictions, 

causing

us to 

come alive 

in holy new ways.

To see 

more carefully,

to feel 

more deeply,

to be touched

by the world 

in ways we

had hitherto

meant

to avoid.

Now we are

nuanced,

with a reference

point

for all

the colors

we will

encounter;

in every cell

of our being,

we are sprung

fresh from

our

prisms.

09/20/21

 

~Newest Posts Appear Following "I Will Be Your Guide"~

I Will Be Your Guide

“Let the beauty we love

 be what we do.”

                    ~Rumi

To say this was

built in 2021

isn’t quite true,

being that the

man who built it

was himself

on loan

and may

be measured

only by what

he has done

with what

was availed

to him.

From this

vantage point 

we can see

how the abuse 

over time was

effected by

thought, word, 

and deed

as he attempted 

to be more

valuable than he

misbelieved 

he was not, 

but how he

himself resulted

in becoming

the very feeling

we are now

receiving

on finding

ourselves at rest

within the ruins

of someone who

felt he must

make of himself

his own

work of art.

Here, it is possible

to witness the history

of all his striving.

See how the arch

barely stands half

dappled in irony 

by morning light.

Notice how 

the sunlight

plays on the

amputated arm,

in tandem with 

the subject’s

headlessness;

a statue too 

stilled by time’s 

passage

not to try

and still 

speak.

Which one of you

thinks this stone

is marble?

Anyone?

Well, I can tell

you all manner

of stones

have been known

to give themselves

away in hopes

of being made

more useful.

8/31/2021