Who truly needs to hear from me?
No one, not even my friends. Surely
they hear enough of my squawk
in the day to day. No one,
not even my enemies. There’s nothing
they could use against me; the talk
is empty. No one in my family,
no one at my job, no neighbors.
I spew a simple stew of garbage;
the scent even makes others stop
their ears as well as their noses.
If I had a love, they’d want me
dead quiet, I’m sure. If I had a child,
Dad would be a dirty word; my voice
would be a dirty wind. No one
wants to, ought to hear from me
until I learn to wash my sins
from my throat and that means
stripping them from my gut
and lungs, never mind my heart,
before I approach the world again
with a song or even a single word.
Monthly Archives: June 2023
Song of My Self Loathing
The Cardinal
When I wake before sunrise
and look out through the blinds
to see the cardinal on the fence
across the street and think of
how sweet it would be
for the red I feel in me
to be visible like that? I imagine
what it would be like to be secure
in flaunting that vibrance.
I try to reimagine my life
from beginning to now as crimson,
as fire, my blood spilling out
so swiftly no one could mistake me
for plain brown or blush-tinged white
no matter how far away they were.
The cardinal as ever
does not stay long but instead
of flying off he comes to sit
atop the feeder here as if to say:
the red in you is yours,
is right here — if not quite
within reach it is yours to attract
and sustain. You can
fly a red flight as I do;
dipping and rising and landing
where you want.
I try to reimagine my life till now
as the start of a long cardinal’s flight —
catching a glimpse of red
as it dips and rises, dips
and rises; not seeing from here
where it will land, but confident
that if I pay attention, I will eventually
see that and be at peace.
The Ride
Waiting at the old station
for bus, train, or shuttle;
no longer sure which one.
Voice in the air, gender
and age uncertain:
“You missed the early ride
but the late one’s still on schedule.”
I’m sixty-three and have little time
to wait, I suspect, for that ride.
I have been here before
and I’ve always left the station
under my own power before riding.
Maybe not this time. Maybe
I’ll take whatever comes for me
with a smile. Right now, though,
I’m a mess. I’ve got one foot
toward the road away, one
toward the road back.
Choice is what’s left,
all that’s left. I hear my ride.
It’s time.
New eBook available!
My new eBook of poems formatted in tercets, “3” is available as a free download for Patrons only.
You can get it here. All you have to do is join.
Lots of other perks — workshops, videos, exclusive poems on Sundays, and more.
Thanks for your support, however you offer it.
T
What We Do
Small gang
of starlings
chittering out there.
Cat loafed
and listening
in here.
She’s not moving
but head’s up. I can tell
she is on standby. For what?
In her life no bird
has ever flown in here
and she does not
go outside. Every now
and then she charges
when one lands
on the feeder closest to
the window and she
is foiled again.
I don’t know
what the starlings think
about her but they
keep coming
near the window
she keeps charging.
The cat’s now pretending
to sleep. I don’t think
the birds are pretending
to anything but I
don’t know,
of course.
Since I’m up with them
as always, I am pretending
to be at peace with not-knowing.
Whether for hope or habit,
game or hunger, instinct
or amusement, we all do this
every morning
we can. It’s what we do.
It’s all we do.
Nothing in this post is about poetry.
Just putting this out there.
I’m a really good training and development professional.
I’ve designed, developed, and delivered literally hundreds of interpersonal skills courses to audiences from the C-suite to line staff in industrial, corporate, governmental, and non-profit settings. I have extensive experience as a platform trainer in person and have done similar programs virtually for longer than just the pandemic era. (I don’t develop eLearning myself, but I know and have worked with folks who do.)
I can work with you and your organization to adjust my content for your needs, or we can develop something from the ground up.
I don’t believe in gimmicks, buzzwords, and slogans of the moment. I believe in doing the right thing and keeping things simple, real, and ethically sound.
I never talk about this stuff, but I need work, and I think I’ve shortchanged myself in not making that part of my career more public.
There are people on here who can testify to my skill level; I won’t put them on the spot, but feel free, folks. (In some cases they are bound by corporate policies to not say anything about my performance. No pressure.)
Anyway, if this is interesting to you, or if you think I might be able to help you with an issue? Hit me up and we can talk.
I’ll also entertain questions here in public if it makes sense.
30+ years of experience is available for your use. I’d love to talk to you.
Thanks.
Grilled Cheese Epiphany
An old man passes by
in the supermarket
with his mouth open
neither smile nor frown
breathing not that hard
but hard enough to notice
Right behind him
a child follows her young father
adoring him and asking
for grilled cheese when they get home
He tells her he’ll do it
They’ll do it the right way
where he puts the butter on the bread
and puts it in the oven
It takes longer but
it’s the best
She says Daddy I know that
Everyone knows that
The little girl is serious
Her dad is just too busy
to acknowledge
That old man’s oblivious
All I have to add
is my unnoticed smile
as I remember I’m going to die someday
and toss bread and cheese into my cart
It’s not going to happen
before I find out
if the dad and his daughter
are telling the truth
Don’t want to end up
like that old man
never having a chance
to be part of everyone
before that happens
Squirrel
It doesn’t question
its own existence,
so far as we know.
Beyond that
it seems to be
devoid of concern
for its own meaning.
It is simple
in the best way
possible. Could I learn
a thing or two here?
I don’t know if I could.
I’d have to sort
out and toss so much
head fluff,
then learn
base skills like
how to eat more
intensely, to climb
without fear of falling;
to spring away
from danger
when needed
in self-preservation.
I don’t know if I could,
or should. A question
for a Saturday morning
during a respite, a lull
in a storm.
Urgent need
I received some devastating news today about a delay in my current workflow. I’m self-employed and work that had been promised for July and August has been delayed, possibly until September. Which leaves me with little to no income for the next two months.
While I scramble to make it up, there will be a delay in doing so. I’m applying to other jobs like crazy but it’s still going to be brutal.
I’ve set up a GoFundMe to help. I did it when I anticipated this might happen and now, it has. Here is the address.
I’m of course still taking subscriptions to the Patreon,
And if you are interested in my workshops, send me a note through here.
Please folks. I need all the help I can get. Thanks.
The Egg
inside your head is your egg
where you hold the full life
you will live after you crack
at the moment you are folded
upon your incipient self in there
it can only be seen in dark close up
you won’t know what’s in there
until the shell breaks
and you flop out in your head
less dark and cramped than before
all will feel possible then
light and shadow tumbling
inside your egg is a head
you wish you had cracked open
when you were younger
though the cracking
would have defined
agony
it would have
defined joy
as well
Disciple
Red-eyed, black-shod,
stinking like
an unclean kitchen hood.
Comes slinking up
the side road, shouting
stuff about Jesus.
He knows Jesus personally
and Jesus would dig deep for him
into his pockets except
that robe don’t got pockets.
He’s got disciples to carry
his stuff.
Ask a disciple
how it works. Any disciple
knows what to do.
He’s got that West Side Swagger.
He’s got that Sunshine Energy.
He’s got that late night last night stagger.
He’s got that strapped for cash
but feeling all right air of a man
who knows dead doesn’t last long
even if it takes him mid-sentence.
He’s out here every day.
You ever see him dead?
He’s got that downtown rhythm.
He’s got that boondocks
knows-enough-to-get-by stare.
He says he looks
just like his dad.
He’d show you a picture
but he doesn’t have it
on him right now.
He doesn’t trust himself
to carry it.
It’s back
at the spot.
Asks you for a quarter.
Says you are blessed
when you hand it over.
He isn’t going anywhere.
Even if he dies tomorrow
he’ll be back soon enough.
Shakespeare Nailed It
Once villains die
someone reframes their portraits,
puts them in something plain,
then rehangs them in a gallery
named “The Innocent.”
The old gallery is painted
then refilled.
It is renamed
“No One Alive.”
Every few minutes
someone comes along
and wipes up
the blood on the floor below
all the portraits
in all the galleries.
Everything is
spotless.
Meanwhile some kid
is dying in a village or a slum
and the mother is wondering
who to blame, or even if there is
blame to be assigned.
Generic
not an original bone
in here
not an original thought
in here
my face is generic
should
get out of myself
look around
and see how much out there
is not me
the door
is sealed
from outside
even this
is generic
all I can muster
is a hello
that is more generic
than everything else
Iris Aftermath
What did the iris learn
as its bloom browned
and became thin as paper
before falling?
The iris is not dead.
The swordplay of the leaves
goes on. If anything
they’ve grown longer.
Almost summer now
and no shade
other than green
in the border of the yard
where the irises grow.
Nothing other than green
to draw in the casual eye.
One might say
the irises have become background.
From the annual brief riot of purple
they learned to thrive, to be here
no matter who sees them,
to trust in a future
where they will bloom again
even after their superficial charms
have failed to endure.
Restrung
My all-consuming problems
converge in this ancient guitar
that sounds barely fine today
Not as fine as it did a year ago
It needs some work just to be solid again
but even now it’s too expensive to repair
The cost will double over time
so it remains here in the spare closet
as a memory of what it used to offer
A reminder that pain can sound like
the strangled tone and sharp chirp
of treble strings
when they try too hard to respond
to an urgent upstroke
A request to make it sound like it used to
only makes it more obvious that it can’t
This fragile guitar is past its prime
waiting to explode from the pressure
of being tuned to an accepted idea
of what is right and good and worthy
I restrung it yesterday and played old songs
and thought of new ones I might try
With a softer touch I drew something forth
It briefly felt like music could still live here
Dark Matter 