In the long run of the life
I will be tired and will be discouraged
I will be lost and without purpose

I will not be human longer than is needed
to understand a little bit more than necessity
of why I will have to die

There will be fire and murder and hand wringing
A head in the hands or on the desk with loss
and desperation or detached from all of that

In the long run of the life
the thread may be lost and the human
may become a cause not worth saving

I will know nothing of that time
I will know only that there is an inhuman purpose
I will accept it as my just lot

I will find myself among trees
and indiscriminate flowers
at peace without the things of the world

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

A second look: trees
stand stable in darkness
and nothing
comes between them
except for an odd
squirrel, or perhaps
rat, dashing between
houses. You seem alone
in a mature world uncaring
about machinations among
a killer elite of old men
and their narrow-brained
minions but on this dark planet
there are people fishing
elsewhere, making love
elsewhere, uncaring
elsewhere — speaking
different languages, touching
in ways usual to them and
unusual to you. Your second look
gives a more seasoned response.
You’re going to be fine. Even
when you die at last, your body
falling into dark between trees
and whispering its last,
you are going to be fine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Good things happen
to the world, to the natural
world at least — the sense
of waiting breath held against
a projected imminence of apocalypse,
for example; imagine how this planet
is holding its breath
waiting for a collapse that may
yet come, but underneath
it is still barely breathing, taking in
enough air and sensation
to get by.

Soldiers, some torn
by the presence of death and others
invigorated by it, stand
by or stand down — and meanwhile
people barely breathing — all
people, everywhere;
we are one with the soldiers
and they are with us.

All good things come to those waiting
whether it be a fine living,
a caretaking of others, or something else.

The dragon sleeps. The griffin
stirs, but sleeps. Lions sleep
but stir and germs swarm unceasingly;
as for the people, armed and not armed
simply wait, barely breathing, for this long night
to come awake, die for now, or transform
utterly into another kind of life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(NB — I will get back to something more radio-friendly soon, I promise…)

Now I lay me down to sleep
but I don’t. Instead I lie awake,
or between two states, enough
that I wonder which is dominant
from instant to instant
and despair of determining
between the two. Is this
a third state?

I pray the Lord
my soul to keep but wish
that there was a likelihood
the Lord did not exist and that I
could make my own decision
and create a new world instead,
one devoid of super-rationalized thought
and kept simple, easy to navigate; is this
the beginning of that new world?

If I should die before I wake, what then —
does it continue, a rogue existence
for someone else to stumble across,
or is it gone with me like a deer’s hoof
on dirt after a rain — maybe a ghost
of the deer left behind for someone
to shrug over and then rise and go on?

I pray the Lord my soul to take, but where
shall I go then? It makes just enough sense
that when I awaken I am compelled to write
the myth of the place I am forced to go:
rain-washed; trees standing by with no birds
in those trees; a silver mist everywhere
just above the rich ground.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Freshly shorn, freshly
shaven, but the elephants
and the million beetles
do not care; perfect clothing
and a smooth face but lions
and seals don’t care either.

I am learning not to care
as Earth doesn’t care, preferring
no live performance, no
need to rise up shining
before the masses to be
recognized.

I am learning not to notice
sneers and rejection and the
needle bites of this world
whether they come from men
or insects or even the suspect
invisible teeth of germs.

Fresh eyes, fresh
hands, but the bears
and the snakes do not
care. If you are human
they — the myriad myriads
of the planet beyond us —
do not care about us beyond
what we lend to the fight
and even then, they are serene
when one of us goes, is taken;

they know the arc of history
is like a cigarette flicked into a lake
from a pair of lips: gone,
forgotten, never to be seen again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

It doesn’t matter much
what comes out, what doesn’t.
All you need to know
is that the facts are there
if you know where to look.
You can ask all you want
but the most you get will be silence.
He will pull his coat a little closer
and tighter around his collar. He
protects himself against the anticipated
shivering and wonders if he will ever
get back home. The bird left his arm
where it had been perched
and did not return; the fish
left their worrying of the hook
he’d put in the water
and did not return; all around
were animals and they left him
strictly alone. He is a man,
no matter his pattern, no matter
his alienation from the same;
he’s going through it all
as all men do. All you need to know
is that the facts are there
if you know where to look.
It doesn’t matter much
what comes out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

It started with a million notes
falling out of a guitar. It will end
with darkness and silence. In between
there was and will be
a thing like dancing, but not quite. Plus
there were lovers, there was argument,
there was music, there were changes — oh,

what difference does it make? Sixty-five years
and this time was both too short and
far too long.

I’m so tired now
and you are still just getting started.
When I close my eyes that last time
you will know relief after a bit of time
and a bit of grief.

You will, I promise;
a promise I can only back up by going
and whispering, you’ll see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
3/3/2025

Starlight offers nothing
to the deep seer; moonlight,
sunlight offer more but neither
does the job as does an artificial light
held close, a flashlight perhaps,
better still a candle, a lamp
lit by hand best of all. Tossed between
flickering and steady light, our vision
adjusts and questions — is that
a bird, is that something marvelous
or demonic? Is it both, or neither?
We don’t know. We are not made
to know. We are made to sit still
and wonder until it settles into
ordinary. Until we sigh inside —
oh. Oh, that’s what it is —
and we feel the deep letdown of it
falling into place, quite ordinary,
utterly full of precedent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T