I, the

Eyewitness 

to Things 

That 

Never

Happened

I don’t recall

things exactly

as they

happened

because I

tend to

remember

with my heart.

The only thing

I can be sure

of is how 

I felt

at every

turn.

This is 

particularly

true in

dreams 

where

everything

that occurs

happens

unbidden

and only

seen

through

closed eyes.

That said,

when awake

I look solely

through the

youthful eyes

of someone

afraid 

one day

they may

go blind. 

In my days

I’ve taken to

collecting

things 

to keep 

them 

from hunting 

me down.

I turn off 

the box 

that narrates

the world

in only

cold facts, 

sure that

a memory

of beauty

can still

warm me. 

Even as

the trees

of my 

childhood

grow

further way,

I am

the fort

that still

holds both

our hearts

up to the sky. 

The world 

presses 

its face 

at our windows,

azure sky

scratched

by a

solo plane;

if only 

scars

were so

impermanent.

I tell myself

I will not

grow old 

rather only

grow up;

a flower

breaking

through rock

with the 

force of a

bomb blast;

I am

all boom

and bloom.

I know

one doesn’t

necessarily

grow old, 

but can

stop

growing.

Tonight I am

the one-legged 

man

keeping 

his poems 

in a shoebox

beneath the bed.

I part 

my hair 

to the side,

signalling to

the departed

that I feel

their quiet

longing.

I am

the mute 

playing

silent piano

in the corner

of the 

speak easy.

I am

the woman 

in Illinois 

grazed by 

a falling star

whose 

fading bruise 

is erasing her

proof of

celestial

contact.

Apart from

my body,

I could be 

a horse 

or a cat

ambling 

nimbly over

a path of roots

in a forest.

I pause to

drink from

a spring,

only to wake

with a 

pebble

in the pocket

of a mouth

ready to 

open again.

2/21/22

 

One Day Our Shadows 

Will Hit the Ground Running

We keep our tragedies hidden,

choosing instead to live 

by design.

Those who reach for Personas

often do so because their truth 

went unaccepted

by those around them 

at an early age.

A Persona enables

an individual to adapt

to society's demands.

Personas serve as a template

and are often chosen 

for their integrity.

To be rejected for 

how one truly feels

causes a wound. 

The wound heals over 

but leaves a scar

on the psyche

that like a burn 

continues 

to blaze beneath

the surface years later. 

A Persona is a way 

to live with a wound 

because the pain 

finds camouflage

and can be hidden

from others.

Personas allow us 

to stand apart from 

who we are inside

by the acquisition of 

a template

for behavior and

consistently adhering to it. 

From here on

the Persona will live

life for us;

an invisible barrier 

between who one was 

and who one wishes

one was. 

One now must live

defending the Persona

as over time it metamorphoses

into a brand. 

Brands are marks

of ownership

like that of a slave.

In this way

one can, in fact,

be one's

own slave.

Personas are generally

positive images,

often admirable

if not entirely good. 

They persuade in order

to keep us in the good graces 

of others who've only ever met 

the Persona 

and not the Original. 

Originals are invariably imperfect.

Having been abandoned

early in life, they remain stunted,

hence dangerous 

because their instincts 

live hidden and are

hopelessly subversive.

The law is: 

That which is interred

in darkness will grow;

potatoes in a drawer

sprouting grotesque

arms and legs.

Eventually eclipsed, 

the Original

continues its life 

un-integrated

and in darkness. 

The Original

is now one’s shadow

and despite how bright

our Personas become

the shadow grows

equally as dark.

If the original was abandoned

at eleven years

the shadow resurfaces 

still at eleven

while we are ourselves

middle aged. 

Our shadows want to live

a life beyond us. 

The Persona must defend

its existence with 

all the pent up energy 

of an ex-con

denied parole. 

That said,

there need only be a breech

for our shadows to bust out

of their confinement

and hit the ground running.

Shadows prefer to set up shop

in a sunny warm climate.

Sunlight strengthens them.

Long tired of dank basements 

and cramped quarters,

they want to make a big stink

and they have revenge on their minds.

Shadows feel their oats

and need to prove their worth.

Having been denied for decades

they're ready to shock us all

right out of our senses.

The moral:

Never bury parts of yourself alive

if you can't find it in your heart

to forgive the world.

2/16/22

                                               drawing by Medi Belortaja

My Cat, the Existentialist

Imagine always having to wait 

for someone to feed you;

having to rely on the kindness 

of otherworldly familiars

who often appear remote, 

if hopelessly preoccupied.

Wouldn’t you sharpen your senses

into one long prayer?

Imagine if your God lived 

right down beside you

but kept departing the premises 

for God knows where.

Imagine realizing that to be loved

was all that could assure your survival

and to love kept you 

in treats and fresh water;

wouldn’t you use your tongue

to make yourself more beautiful?    

Imagine a God so unpredictable 

or unmanageable that you

are forced to cry out

for everything you want.

And finally, if set free

could you watch over yourself, 

when like you, your God

is always in danger 

of putting himself first?

2/1/22

 

When Not to Think

Never think in the woods.

And for God’s sake stop thinking in traffic while driving.

It’s actually not good to think while chewing food.

Never think while climbing a tree.

Do not think when petting a cat. They prefer you don’t.

Never think at night when you go to bed.

Do not think while smelling a flower.

Do not think with a toad in your hand.

Never think when staring at a sunset.

It’s best to do away with thoughts when washing your hair and bathing.

Try taking off your thoughts as you take off your clothes.

Never think about eating when you’re cleaning a commode.

Don’t think thoughts in a high wind.

Don’t think while doing chores, like washing dishes or watering plants.

Definitely do not think if you’re being tortured. 

Case in point: don’t think about your life in the dentist chair under anesthesia. 

Don’t let thoughts wander while painting a picture. 

Drawing a picture is something else entirely.

Don’t think when having a photo taken, as it reduces frowns.

Resist thoughts when preparing a meal, especially breakfast for two.

Never ever think while kissing.

Don’t think when operating heavy machinery unless its to do with operating procedure.

Do not think while napping.

Resist random thoughts while pumping iron.

Never think while having sex.

Don’t think about other things when you sing. 

In other words, you are the world

and to enter fully into that world,

its best to lose yourself.

1/28/22

 

When the Hours 

Fall Silent

The hours flow through hands 

afraid to be swallowed.

The hours sift through fingers 

meant only for ground.

The hours flee  

for fear of being noticed.

The hours flow

like recalicitrant holy water.

The hours slip by

in ungovernable love.

The hours weep 

from the wound of ourselves.

The hours tumble 

both unsayable and said.

The hours fall away

in unfettered joy.

The hours topple down

in their hurry to depart.

The hours pour out

to avoid our embrace.

The hours weep 

the clear blood of starlight.

The hours spill our

memories turned into dust.

The hours flow 

like weather wrung from hands.

The hours drain 

our tears through a sieve.

The hours fall

silent in order to be heard.  

1/24/22

 

Words to Love By

When we expect nothing

we can be more easily ourselves,

alone or with others.

Adept at containing our thoughts

as the breadth between book covers!

If the condition we’re in

is the result of our successes,

or failings and strivings,

aren’t we equally the result

of all our contrivings?

After all, our lives are 

their own consolations

if all we've to offer

is what the alchemists

call permutations!

Don’t you think its time

joy acknowledged it’s debt to pain,

as suffering encourages joy 

to know itself

before it can attain.

The dark makes light palpable

like paint on blank canvas,

through paint the heart

recreates us while

loving expands us. 

 

Then why not agree 

to call this our blue period?

Rather than thinking woe is me, 

and besides having read

 Homer’s Iliad.

For trials are meant to clarify 

each happiness and joy; 

our sweat and our tears 

moisten the colors

they employ.

Accruing hues both singular

and pleasingly plural

so that what’s begun 

a self portrait ends up 

as a mural.

1/23/22