Sunday, December 24, 2017

Weekend Poem


A love can lapse;
Loosening ties that bind,
Widening the gaps
In the sulci of the mind.
We no longer touch,
You’re beyond my grasp.
What remains is a question:
How wide is the cleaved space?
Could I reach out and touch your face
Or has there been a complete rescission?
Is the chasm too wide?
Will it take a blind running leap,
A flinging of self across a great divide?
Or is it just a synapse
A nano-slit between fixed dendrites
Gone fallow, unfired, the silent nights
Of atrophied flesh erringly eulogized?
Who will first awaken, ignite, depolarize
And bathe the array in fluids that seep
Into the spaces that get decreed
When our hearts break
When our fingertips get pricked
And start to bleed?


Sunday, December 17, 2017

Weekend Poem


We sit together on our balcony by the coast
Sipping coffee, reading the papers.
A plate of untouched stacked toast
In repose on the table between us.
We meditate and take exaggerated deep breaths.
Complacent, self-assured smiles
After all the hard work, all the trekked miles.
I write in the margins of a magazine:
The surf gently laps against the shore
The ocean is a flat gray mat
Lapping and lolling
But the early morning ocean sheen
Unfurled before us is not a peaceful scene.
Before us is a vast, unbeknownst killing field
And the ashen water an impotent shield
Extending westward in ever deafening silence
Until it’s cut by a diamond blade of horizon

The predator birds swarm like wasps
We barely notice, lost in smug thoughts.
Watch now how the sharp beaked, black-eyed birds recklessly
Fling themselves into the sea
Scooping shimmery spear tips of silvery prey
Dozens of dive-bombing herons and terns and gulls
Swooping, darting, swallowing fish whole.
We exchange calm grins and sip from our mugs,
Slowly embalmed by the dense, humid air.
The balcony is warm but wordless.
This is our respite, our chance to repair
The broken promises, the forgotten half shrugs
While carnage plays out beneath the surface