This morning, I am certain
the earth pulled me down more strongly,
as though gravity needed to reassert itself,
having lost someone in its grip
to the virus, a common complaint
as we stumble through still another year.
I fought it off course, the birds
in the wetland at once admiring
my effort and laughing at what they knew
would ultimately be a futile gesture.
You belong to the earth, they said,
you arose from it, are bound to it
and it is a matter of time before
it reclaims you as it does with all.
It was easier, they added, in ancient days,
when the gods truly cared, for then
you need only sufficiently irritate them
before they would sever your earthy bonds
to serve eternity in a celestial prison.
in their foraging in the lawn
to peer up at us,
strange looking interlopers,
but they are used
to us by now
to the task at hand.
We no longer
find them strange
though we never quite
get used to the curved
salmon colored beaks,
and we do wonder
why the ancient
It seems that they
have never forgiven
their Egyptian ancestors
to a man, god
or no god, he
a grub if his life
depended on it.
Deep in the valley of memory
on the altar of Ares
we sacrifice them, always young
each generation we are
the pardon always moments late.
We are Olmecs, relying not
on the sun’s passage
but on a mainspring tightly wound.
Our gods hunger and must
be sated lest we lose favor
and their image change.
In our boneyard
priests and victims
fade into earth
by tears of Gods
powerless to intervene.
First published in The Peninsula Review, Vol. 5, (1998)
Here, in these unmown fields
where the morning mists gather
once stood the ancient chieftain
his clan assembled about him
staring into the distant trees
under the watchful eye of the gods.
As the October winds blew down
from the hills, they strode forward
blades glinting in the midday sun
ebbing and flowing until the moon
stood poised for its nightly trek
and they stood on the precipice
of exhaustion counting fall brethren
sacrificed to the blade of the claymore
for glory of clan and entertainment of gods.
On these tired fields no chieftains stride
and the mists no longer wrap the boulders
left to mark nameless graves of kin.
These are now ill sown fields, lying
in the wasteland between chiefs who sit
in silent bunkers, clansmen gathered
to retell the tales of glory long vanished, to come.
In these fields they till the begrudging soil
and beg the gods for meager growth.
As the moon begins its slow journey skyward
they pause to count the craters torn
into the rocky soil, and gather the bones
of those newly fallen, sacrificed to the wrath
of the claymores, the entertainment of the gods.
First Appeared in Main Street Rag, Vol. 7, No. 1, Spring 2000.
The trees, bearing up strongly
against the still falling snow
remember leaves, though the memory
has run deep into the sap and slowed.
Beneath the frosted bed
the bulbs imagine summer,
try to picture their blooms,
but quickly returned to frozen stasis.
The cat thinks of venturing
into our yard, sinks its paws
into the growing snowbank, decides
the rug by the fireplace is adventure enough.
We turn up our collars, stand
firm against the wind driven snow,
remember summer, and curse the gods
of weather for taking it from us.
I have lived many lives,
too many to count, and I
remember bits and pieces
of each, but not necessarily
to which life this bit
or that bit should attach.
It is why I run them
together, view them
as a singularity, easier
to cope even when I
know it is a nice delusion.
I do wonder, at the moment
of death if each life will
flash by in turn, countless
short films, or if the gods
will go along with my
delusion, or maybe just
say time’s up, lights off.
The night was ripped
by the lightning,
the thunder piercing
our dreams, awakening us
to the shadow’s play
on the skylight shades.
As I slip back into sleep
the gods turn their backs
and continue to argue
well into morning.
The once gods have been reduced
again to mere mortals
and find the change disquieting.
Just the other day I saw Hermes
meandering along Fifth Avenue
pausing to look at scarves in a window
of a store he never imagined.
Even the once great queen
finds herself behaving like
a love-struck teenager.
One who bred desire now works
as a hack writer for a card company,
a blow to his psyche more
than anyone can imagine.
Even the nameless one
has been seen working behind
the register at Walmart
thankful for the extra hours
as the holiday season approaches.
We no longer aspire to be gods,
it is too much work and there is
simply no payoff.
Good night, Sisyphus
try to get some sleep.
It’s been a long day
and you already know
the rock will await you
when you arise in the morning.
I suppose by now
you’ve come to realize
there is no percentage
in pissing off the Gods.
Think of this as a personal
where right thinking
is the lesson of this
and every other day.
Did you really think
they would let you stand
in the middle of the Square
all of their edicts.
Sleep old fellow,
we have all the time
in the world, it is
one of the benefits
perches tree top
winter barren gray
and stares at stunted pines.
tucked under massive
for distant stars
rides a thermal coaster
waiting for squirrels.
Hills cry out
raging against dawn
tears flow puddling
of a distant god.