A sudden tail
of smoke twitching
away and to the left,
moving contrary to the patterns of air flow
you’ve long observed in this room,
sets you to considering
that a window may be open
somewhere
that was not open before;

it tells you that you may not be
the only actor
in the house,
that another may have been here earlier,
opening windows
or shutting doors
without your knowledge;
you are not even certain
that you’re alone now.

That errant smoke is such a tease:
does it promise
death or seduction?
Is there, possibly,
either a thug or a lover
in the next room?

It’s a relief to think
that one way or another,

loneliness may not be permanent.

Rappelling:
a first step, then

a horizontal stand,
a leap,
a swing and
a fall,
a collision,
a leap;

repeat.

And all backwards
without looking
to see what is rising
to meet you.

Is it
because you know?

Yes.
It is because
you already know.

How important you feel,
controlling that approach
while not looking to see it,
not directly;  how
divinely inspired the fall
you’re taking.

And at the bottom,
how imploded.
How wasted the journey
since all you can see
is where you were.

A ruptured bottle
of what may be clear soda
in the middle of the floor
is tantamount to a declaration
of the End Times
if you encounter it
unexpectedly upon returning home.

Search every corner of the house
with a Louisville Slugger
and your uncle’s Marine knife
from World War II, hoping to save yourself
from the Satan, the Antichrist
dressed as local crackhead
or desperate soul awaiting battle and death
though justifiable mayhem on your part;
how the papers will honor you if you do this,
this one allowable kill.

But there’s nothing, no one here,
and you’re forced to conclude
it was some feat of nature
that dropped and burst the bottle,
or perhaps it was the cat making mischief.

You drop and tug the bewildered cat close,
your weapons on the floor behind you,
heart askew with relief
and regret. You soak up the regret
with the cat held close, returning yourself
from the killing field.

Pretty things
in Madrid, in Paris,
in Santa Fe. 

Missing them all
for the pursuit of
now, here, present location.

I don’t see
a clear road to
Madrid, Paris, even Santa Fe

from here. Maybe I’ll see them
someday, maybe not.
I still have to learn a million things

about here, now,
where I am, before
I discover them, so while

I still keep an eye on the road,
will take a ride if it shows up,
I will recite their names —

Madrid,
Santa Fe, even Paris — let them
drift through me, salt me

as I toil here, now,
where I am, becoming
the world beyond by standing still.

When my hands retired,
I learned to lift things
with my mouth. 

Why bother, said
my friends?  You know
you’ll drop them, leave them
lying around, and give up entirely
after a while.

It’s good for me, for all of us,
I replied — I let my hands
work hard all my life
and let my mouth run free
and lazy, talking up stupid things
and adding nothing to society.

Now I have to think — how to bite
and hold, how to raise weight,
how not to break teeth and tear lips
and gums…and of course,
far less needs to be said,
or even can be.

I’m committed to this, I continued.
I’ll give my hands a rest, they deserve it,
I’ve abused them so, and as for the dropping
and eventually giving up —
well, that would have happened
anyway, someday; and isn’t it
nice to have the quiet?

reflecting upon myself
in the puddle that always spans
the bottom of the street
after a storm

according to this
I’m unstable

but my feet seem to be
holding the ground

here comes a car to stir the waters
and wipe me out

my feet hold their ground
as I’m drenched with the spray

I don’t care enough to move away

feet on the ground
soaked through
it’s tuesday
rain’s over
car’s gone by

still here

the snow gum trees
in the backyard

continue to tremble
though the wind has stopped

they know
their time is coming

the bare time
when their blanched limbs will blend

into the white that covers the ground
that will then sleep for months

a reflection of what they maintain
all year long

seasonal tribute they consider their due
for holding up against a world

that does not love their steadiness
preferring inconstant green

Tags: poetry, poems, meditations

No matter;
none at all.
All light,
waves of light.
Hostas along the walk,
light; cat sleeping on the couch,
light.  Every last particle of this house,
light.  Even the dark
releases light the longer
I stare into it, and though
I’m no beacon myself
I am light still, dim at times,
blazing at others.  Every matter
I’ve lent weight and mass and density to
is light, only light turning
back into the light I am,
and while I may forget this,
I do not cease shining.