paroxysm

it creeps and crawls
and pounces

predator on prey

and i am shaken
in its grasp

paralyzed
by paroxysms
of longing
for ages past

before the murky present
when youthful exuberance
bested all fears and foes

and yet
always this

nostalgia lies

there never was
a clear path

just myopia

askew

drowsing in the backseat
armrest as pillow
the world askew
rushes past
in streaks of color
shifting perspective
tilted billboards
and azure sky
as miles race
the asphalt underneath
and we race
the sun
on a roadtrip
to nowhere

vilipend

I hold my worth
cupped in my hands
and watch it drip
escaping my
imperfect vessel
I long for
another to catch
the fleeing rivulets
of my greatness
before they fall
onto the scorched earth
below
irretrievable
seeing them wasted
I vilipend
myself more
virulently than
the most caustic critic
fall to my knees
kiss the parched
and barren land
searching for
refreshment
redemption
requiescence
and for my pains
ashes and dust
inhale

catbird seat

it's lofty there
it must be nice
to know what's best
never thinking twice
and you look down
from your heights
so high
that we all look like ants
to you

oh, you rant and rave
and issue your decrees
and you believe
we should be on our knees
from that catbird seat
from your gilded throne
we just all look like ants
to you

with our tiny problems
and our tiny fears
you can't hear our pleas
with your deafened ears
and you wonder why
you feel so alone
but inside your heart you know
yes, you know

we just all look like ants
to you

limpid

in limpid pool
she stares
and sees her face
reflected there
shimmering above
the fishes below
and seeing her thus
she knows
they are made
of the same stuff
as are we all
and we are enough

morphemes

in flux
always
from our beginnings
as we begin
to mix and match
our morphemes
like children playing dress up
we switch our tenses
and ourselves
from -ings to -eds
and back again
breaking down
and building up
through all the days
in myriad ways
until the time
when all our particples
are past

timeless

we withdraw
and create a world
for none but we

and in that world
we are all that
we could wish for

we are carpenters
we are kings
we are masters

of all the things
we lead the dance
and win the race

and never wonder
where our place
in the world may be

in our world
we are timeless
we are new and ancient

and we are eternal
in this world
this world we created together

with trinkets and toys
and imagining
we are forever

equinox

as the days shrink
and the air cools,
so do I.

the autumnal equinox approaches.

in solitary rambles
I walk through brambles
beneath the changing leaves
letting go of summer
in orange and ochre endings.
prepare for winter's hibernation;
a well deserved rest.

know as the globe
tilts and turns,
so do I.

my spring
will come again

binary

there.
then gone.
i see you
leave
behind
your eyes.
there.
gone.
there.
gone.
strobe light
flashes
of you
in morse code
that i
can't read.
nots & noughts
and
i am one.
no longer
part of
the binary
we
but
yet again
solitary
me.

war story

dank church basement
the air adorned with
the smell of
stale coffee and despair
and there they share
one by one
each war story told
accompanied
by nods and day old doughnuts
and in each other
find communion greater
than any wafer

peruse

anticipation
expectation
tips of fingers
over spines
peruse the shelves
and judge

in one moment
decisions
can become
revisions
and maybes
may be made
yays or nays
with a chance glance
at a row of Rands
or a stack of unhelpfully
titled self-helps

or so it was
once upon a time
a long time ago
when books
were tangible
and relationships
frangible

incandescent

it arrived all unexpected
a startling surprise
a flash of recognition
when she looked into his eyes
in moment of connection
on a day now long ago
she found passion incandescent
and was warmed within its glow
but a fever is a warning
and a conflagration burns
until all that's left is embers
so every camper learns
you have to feed and bank it
to protect tomorrow's blaze
else striking flint and hoping
ends up filling all your days
better still a hearth to build
better yet to build a home
and within it house the fire
make it evermore your own
such advice she wasn't given
so the pyre flamed and flared
and she watched her love cremated
not bit of it was spared
then she sifted through the ashes
for the pieces of her heart
a bit of future kindling
for another fire's start
'til she found a tiny cinder
with a dull and muted spark
and she whispered to it softly
to shine brighter in the dark
shine brighter than a lantern
shine brighter than the sun
burn bright in perpetuity
until I find the one
who happily fuels my fire
and adds it to his own
so our love becomes a beacon
and a lighthouse thus our home

circumlocution

Around and around,
up and then down
the words flow;
a stream of teaming tourists
get on the rollercoaster.
They take their turn
to speed and scream
before a hurky-jerky stop
to tumble off and
let the new alight.
And always,
the cavalcade queuing,
stretched into the distance.
A column of bored enthusiasts
impatient for their time
off the line
jostle and jitter.
So his words spew forth,
in the circumlocution
of barroom blather,
a rush of vehement intensity
never going anywhere;
a conversational ouroboros
of florid vocabulary
riding hurly-burly and
trapped in
the theme park
that is him.
And she,
a reluctant safety inspector
watches in morbid facination
for the inevitable derailment.

quondam

photographs
scattered across the floor
pieces of a puzzle
make a map
a crooked course
through a labyrinthine life
following a pattern
indiscernible
to the untrained eye
but hid within
the capricious clues
of quondam selves,
twists and turns,
various versions
of perpetual personas
in exploratory exaltation
lies the answer
of a self
becoming

haptic

a hand brushes
across my cheek
and tucks a stray hair
behind my ear
so does my cat
twine about my legs
in haptic communion
to tell me wordlessly
that she loves
and so wordlessly, did he
on a New York City sidewalk
on a blustery winter day
a lifetime ago

modicum

the snowflake
with its pristine pattern
floating in a
crystalline ballet
may look perfect
be perfect
do not try to catch it -
a modicum of warmth
melts it
corrupts its beauty
better let it float free
in this moment
sharing its glory
a little longer
though destined still
to muddy up the ground
in later days

neoteric

a clever contradiction
a teleporter in a junkshop
an abacus internet
this steampunk aesthetic
of our own devising
old-fashioned/newfangled
at once
together
we are
a melange
of abstruse nostalgia
mixt in a mishmash
with neoteric revelry
constructing
our history
in a compostion
an orchestration
building and rebuilding
exploding, expanding
theme upon theme
rework the old
to create anew
this is friendship
long weathered
much treasured
nothing better
me and you

druthers

if I were an emperor
the monarch of all
the world would be different
I tells ya
courtesy would be currency
so jerk-faces were poor
and all the big bullies
would be shown the door
we'd send them to
Antarctica to fight
with the seals
and only have
krill for their fishy meals
yes, people'd be nicer
and not once or twice-er
but all of the time
I'd decree it
oh,  and if I had my druthers
the men would be mothers
like seahorses
kinda
well maybe
but definitely
that first part
with all of my heart
my scepter and crown
I'd never lay down
my subjects would smile
and be greatly cheered
cuz the bestest of all monarchs
(that's me) had appeared!

scupper

the life we build
the love we seek
the homes
the hearts
the hands
reach out
to grasp at straws
but look around and see
that bombs are dropped
waters rise
tempests rage
and we,
we are subject to them all
as the universe demands
and all it takes is just one day
to scupper all our plans
we are not our circumstance
we are not the fall
we are the phoenix
if so we choose to be
yet while we know
that we will rise
the flames burn terribly
to make us ash
in preparation
but this we must endure
to fly again

obverse

every moment
the world begins anew

at least, so it seems to me

trapped in my forth dimension
that only goes in one direction

and tethered here
I think I see the road ahead
I think I know the road behind

but both are warped
(by anticipation or recollection)

each step progressing
as I proceed
informed by steps preceding

each step prior
colored in memory
by desired destination

yes,
every moment
the world begins anew

but the obverse also true

trapped forever
as in amber
always, always, always
the now

ersatz

wake up
every morning
get dressed
go to work
chip away at the day
till the clock strikes right
and homeward bound again

going through the motions
with a mannequin smile
a tilt of the head
and still all the while
autopilot engaged
in an ersatz life
in a makeshift world
insubstantial enough
to seem
like a dream
if dreams were dull

I thought
I woke
once
only to find
a dream within a dream
"too flattering sweet
to be substantial"

so slept I again
so sleep I still
awaiting a prince's kiss
or Morpheus' pill

foodie

it rummages through
each memory
every reminiscence
with long skeletal fingers
pawing
squeezing
testing
every heirloom

it plucks
the best
the most beautiful
ripe and lovely
delicate
pure

and it
cuts and chops
skewers or stirs
mixes or melds
simmers or sears
roasts or ragouts
but always reduces

most enthusiastic foodie
it devours
this gruesome beast
ravenous
insatiable
forever lean and hungry
forever gnawing
until nothing is left
and it starves

contiguous

they curl up
interlocking pieces
in this puzzle
her head rests
on his hip
as on
the softest pillow
his arm
contiguous
against her arm
atop the length
of his leg
a jumble of limbs
on this futon
intertwined
and swaddled
in each other
they found
a fragile peace

ampersand

Somewhere along the way
we lost the ampersand
that connected you & I
into an us.
I thought it was just a pause,
comma, but
now it's over
Period.
No hope for an ellipses....
(Parenthetically, you whispered goodbye
as an aside - dash it all!)
and I am left with
crooked question marks
hunched over in thought
and asking, "what the -?"
But don't quote me on that.

turbid

trepidatiously
i parse
the past
pour over
turbid recollections
aswirl
in roiling rapids
and as
slippery
as fish
to find
the unmomentous
moment
of release

gargoyle

The Gargoyle

The twisted face upon the wall
looks down in judgement on us all.
It sees our triumphs and our wins.
It sees our failings and our sins.
Its stony grimace there decries
our disappointments and our lies.
'Gainst evil spirits does it guard
and when the rain comes down so hard
it spouts out water thus to cleanse
and baptized, we begin again.

affront

the anesthesia cannot last
even rationed
it diminishes
and in it
I'm diminished
I retreat back behind
a transparent facade
hiding ludicrously
in plain view
but still unfound
unlooked for
unwanted
trying to build
with fumbling hands
my own indifference
to match
your structure
of enviable apathy
which towers above
blocks out the sun
and affronts
my front
of insouciance

bluestocking

imagine
her
a first lady of letters
a difficult, lonely woman
who bested her "betters"
lovely, sharp and clever
living with regrets and regretters


imagine
me
precocious child
future bluestocking
smoking and drinking and wild
wishing to be:
not queen of the playground
(always too riled)
not Arthur's round table
(never so mild)
but the Algonquin's
beguiling and beguiled

immaculate

the sky fell down
crushing us
in shades of blue
we swam
infused
among the roots
of sheltering trees
in a lake of tea
long hair fanned out
on the soft waters
afloat and weightless
with the buoyancy of youth
an immaculate memory
of a pristine day
decades ago
but also
always
yesterday

rigmarole

checking off the boxes
ticking off the list 
running through the rigmarole
is how we cope with this

we have our little rituals
we say our little prayers
we organize our spaces
we settle our affairs

we take control where we can
and let go all the rest
this is how we move along
this is our progress

it's very incremental
and seems ever, oh, so slow
but we have no choice in it
for this is how we grow