The Morning After

the Miracle

The morning after the miracle 

I sat in unspoken silence.

The sky outside my window

bared a bruise,

sole survivor

of a beatific harrow.

Steam from a rooftop pipe 

released a frenzied genie

of diaphanous steam

setting it free 

to evaporate.

Above, 

a crowd of clouds like

abandoned parade balloons

hovered; somber onlookers

to what had

transpired in the night.

Pulling my attention back 

to the room,

I shut up like a telescope,

mourning the cessation

of months of hymns;

now no more than

faded headlines

heralding yesterday’s 

life changing news.

I sat dumbfounded,

tranquil as an animal,

naked, weary, alone,

leary of those thoughts

that would intrude

upon this holy purity,

thoughts that think

themselves 

regardless

of rhyme or reason. 

My wish, 

(the prayer

of a child 

who doesn’t

know how

to pray)

was simply

to hold onto

this emptiness

in my hands

without 

need to

fill them with

a greater

purpose.

If not a wish,

a prayer,

if not a prayer,

a psalm,

if not a psalm,

a poem,

if not a poem, 

a spell,

if not a spell,

a dream,

if not a dream,

a work of art.

It was enough

to be present,

emptied of expectation,

gazing at

the arrival of 

this glorious

newborn day.

12/26/21

 

Omichronica

Omicron ~ the fifteenth letter of the Greek alphabet

transliterated as 'o', Astronomy, the fifteenth star

in a constellation. Noun: "Omicron Piscium"

i

When I was in my twenties,

hopelessly impressionable,

to be worth your salt

required a breakdown.

Fitzgerald had one.

So did Zelda.

They called it cracking up.

Plath was famous for hers.

Many artists courted theirs.

The bottom line being

if you hadn’t tested

the limits of your urges

and emotions

how serious could 

you be taken? 

A breakdown brought

you down to earth

hard and fast and messy; 

proof of having scaled 

the heights,

loving too hard,

letting sex go awry,

relentless self-observation,

only then to have

one’s sensitivities

come surprisingly to

more sober conclusions.

One knew after 

several suicide attempts

(the benefit of which

cracked you open

like an archetypal,

if non-marble egg), 

countless confessionary 

conversations with tentative

listeners, that there are

in fact no prerequisites

for living a happy life,

that nothing outside

oneself is at all required,

that wealth’s more likely

to create anxiety than joy,

that clinging onto things

cripples the constitution,

that life itself unfurls

like a virus mutating

by way of some divine order 

merely in hopes of surviving

it’s own voraciousness.

I had to ask myself:

How had I kept

my capacity for joy

after so much

alteration?

ii

Yesterday I met 

a joyless man

who knew himself well,

a well-thought out man

who wore a laundry list

of neuroses, each with

a very definitive title.

Right up front

in a matter of minutes

I was informed of his

sex addiction, clinical

depression, OCD,

bipolar disorder, and

very personal journey

of self discovery

(or was it recovery?).

I was taken aback, 

if not dumbfounded 

by the over-sharing 

of such vivid self-prognosis.

In that space and time

“knowing thyself” 

seemed more addiction 

than edict.

I suddenly knew that

the aspect of seeing oneself

in the mirror of another

always takes us aback. 

And yet,

there was a significant

difference between myself

and this imposing reflection.

The man before me

radiated not the slightest

joy de vivre.

His experiences

had seemingly drained him

of any trace or

intimation of

sweetness and light.

It was as though 

he’d lost his sense

of taste and smell

for what was 

before his very

nose and eyes.

He was for all

intents and purposes

all in his head.

It made me think…

but with my heart

if that’s possible,

can we ever see

ourselves rightly?

Or regard ourselves

as subjects if we are

unable to watch ourselves

watching without judging

(hardly a substitute for insight)

in so harsh a light.

All I know is that

there is a rapturous sorrow

that has filled my emptiness

as easily as a child fills in

the picture of an ocean

with a cerulean crayon;

the color forever

taking me

to itself.

If prayer is the purest way

the heart makes itself heard,

then creativity is a clarion fountain

inviting others to drink

whereby we may

water the world.

One needn’t travel anywhere

in order to restore relish

for what we feel we’ve lost.

Returning anywhere is done 

solely within the edges 

of our soul

(which is borderless). 

That the sight of falling snow

can return me to my youth;

its scent, a panacea,

its sound, the voice of the moon.

Its feel, a gorgeous desolation.

If what makes something holy

rests with the beholder,

then I will behold 

everything with an open heart

as we all now

find ourselves in

this state of

Omichronica. 

12/22/21

 

 

Animal Mind

“Every phenomenon on earth is symbolic.  

 And each symbol is an open gate, through 

which the soul can enter the inner part of 

the world, where you and I and day and night 

are all one."

~Hermann Hesse

                

Hiding in plain sight,

two hares in a winter field 

disguised as snow

draw predators

to read the

fine prints

of their

lives.

By stopping

in their tracks,

they tempt

fate.

If at night we bind 

herbs to our feet

in an act of alchemy 

encouraging the release

of our fears 

because we are

predisposed

to petrification, then

why not

hibernate in this

same drift to wait

out the storm, 

improbably warm 

beneath a cold

blanket above.

Our fur, 

beauty itself,

acts as

clothing.

Sleep is a time machine

and at night some

of us  

are map makers, 

by day, cartographers

navigating our own

insular dimensions,

ingesting everything 

seen, smelt, and heard

 wherever we go;

another reason for

hiding in snow.

As silence is purity,

our quiet has purpose,

dreaming adventures 

inside the forests 

of ourselves.

These dreams 

never last, 

so we pause

to sniff the air

one last time

before heading 

North.

12/14/21

 

A Glass 

Half Full

It’s an easy 

alteration, 

flipping 

an hourglass

midstream 

before time

runs out

and we wake

from our dream.

As if time

were made 

of sand 

or wine

or stout.

The trick

is to exist 

between less

and plenty;

because 

a glass 

half full is

a glass

half empty.

How easy 

it is to be 

fulfilled,

yet drained, 

while the life

in our lives 

need still

be maintained 

no matter 

what we lack

or what 

may come,

as long as

there’s nothing

new under

the sun.

The trick

is to exist 

between less

and plenty;

a glass 

half full 

is a glass

half empty.

It’s a delicate

balance,

this patience

to persevere,

with just

the right talents

we may 

overturn

our fears. 

The trick

is to exist 

between less

and plenty;

a glass 

half full 

is a glass

half empty.

Do we dig 

in our heels

or put on 

the breaks?

Life goes

by fast, so

there’s no

time to waste! 

Do we have

faith in a wind 

that blows

us North 

and

not South

like a will

borne of

wanting

what we’ve

always done

without?

The trick

is to exist 

between less

and plenty;

a glass 

half full 

is a glass

half empty.

This feeling 

that nothing 

will be given 

without 

endeavoring

to make 

it so

with no need

for finagling.

To trust

in a God

like the money

says,

allow fate

to arrive without

undo distress.

If the trick

is to exist 

between plenty

and less;

a glass 

half empty

is a glass

at it's best.

11/22/21