As he grew ever older he said
he wanted a sudden unanticipated death,
“In my sleep preferably” he added
with an unmeant chuckle.
It would be a good way to go,
I imagine, but it denies those
who will most mourn his passing
the chance to hope for a miracle.
And no matter when it happens,
if it is sudden it will always be too soon,
only the protracted death is timely
for those needing to say goodbye.
It is strange knowing that your vision
is not what it was, not what you
want it to be, not necessarily yours
in the long run, one eye already
semi-useless for reading and distance.
You adapt, get bigger monitors, a tablet
to read the news, a magnifier
when you need to hold newsprint in hand,
a large screen television (okay, you
wanted that regrdless of your vision).
You realize so many songs you once sung
(badly) will no longer make sense, goodbye
“I Can See for Miles,” and no more Johnny Nash,
“I’m looking through you,” nope, and
“If I still haven’t found what I’m looking for”
U2 will just have to find it for me.
I swore, once, that the poem
I was struggling with would be my last.
Actually I swore that more than once,
several, maybe mamy times in fact.
In my defense, that poem
and the others that followed were
each the last I wrote
under their respective oaths,
so there was a fulfillment,
however partial, of my vow.
I am not making such a vow
with this one, however, and before
you say it, yes it is a poem
despite what you may think of it.
He found the cup by the curb one morning walking to the bus.
He rarely notice things on his walk, thinking always about the
day ahead. But this day he saw it, picked it up and put it in his
messenger bag intending to clean it later, when he got home
after work. He had no idea why he wanted it. It wasn’t
particularly pretty, a drab red with a mark where a decal had
long ago peeled away. He forgot it, until he found it in his bag
several days later, he washed it and placed it on a special shelf
in his kitchen cabinet. The shelf was reserved for things he
found with which he intended to do something, but that
something had not yet happened. He knew something was
missing from the shelf, so he took a selfie, printed it and placed
it on the shelf.
First published in The Birdseed, Vol. 1, No. 3, 2021
The most disturbing thing
about lemmings is not
that they follow one after another
over a cliff or into traffic,
it is not the carnage
that inevitably ensues,
one after another doomed
by the need to follow blindly.
The disturbing thing
is not the knowledge that
lemmings only follow,
so someone directed
the first in line into
a suicidal act.
The most disturbing thing
is that lemmings
do not commit
mass suicide, it is
only in our tortured
use of cliches
that they meet their death.
Life should be a like a mountain
although truth be told, we
prefer it more like a prairie
or at best a gentle, rolling hill.
There is a challenge to climbing,
hell maintaining a grip halfway
up most mountains, and
there are no maps, no
well worn paths, you just
go up until you cannot
go up higher then you
figure out how to come down.
Down is the hard part,
and you don’t want it to go
quickly for that is a prescription
for the undertaker, and when
you do finally get down, you
want to say I did it all,
there is nothig left
that I still need to do.
Someone suggested that
it is certain if you fall
into a black hole you will be
crushed well beyond diamond.
Not exactly a fate I’d want,
but that person added
that time elongates as you
go through the event horizon.
If I understood him correctly,
death is instantaneous but
that instant will seem quite long
as you verge on your death.
I could live with that, I suppose
although with my luck I would
irritate my sciatica before entry
and suffer its pain with no Advil.
As you stare
into the mirror
it is your reflection
you clearly see.
As the face
in the mirror
stares at you
it is its face
it sees reflected.
There is one face
and there are
a thousand faces.
A reflection on Case 88 of Dogen’s Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye) Koans
It ran, got me from point A
to point B, often with a few
starts and stops, always
begrudging, and a ghastly
shade of yellow that helped
explain why I could afford it
in the fist place.
The windshield wipers died
periodically, so I avoided
rain when possible
or accepted a soaked
or frozen arm when not.
Eventually the top
of the carburetor came loose
but Double Bubble gum
chewed for no more
than five minutes
made a suitable glue
that was good for at least
a couple of days.
It was a disaster, and yet
I miss my old Opel Rallye even
if the German’s couldn’t spell.
Mars has risen in the western sky.
Perhaps it is waiting for the moon
to draw our attention,
but the moon is periodically
irascible, as tonight, and has
chosen to abandon Mars
to the stellar firmament.
Mars has risen in the western sky.
I wander into the dark in search
of the peace that only
night affords, but the horizon
is war and disquiet
and I stumble and repeatedly
fall, and the ground holds me
denying me the sky.
Mars has risen in the western sky.
The plants that have reached
for the sun, and borne
fruit for months
now shrink and wither
under his unrepentant eye,
and I know a cold
foreboding wind will
still blow and I will mourn
the passing of summer,
the season on peace.
Mars has risen in the western sky
and Jupiter watches jealously.
First Published in Cerasus Magazine (UK), Issue 3, 2021
an old writer and his words 