Hallway to Nowhere

Category: poetry

  • The Date (Poem)

    I’m not excited about your arrival.

    I’m not.

    (The world is poised in anticipation,

    Breath held, one hand slightly extended with a tremor.)

    I don’t care how I look.

    I don’t.

    (The trees have rearranged their leaves multiple times,

    Dropping the yellow, one leg swinging forward to showcase ripped jeans .)

    I don’t wonder about my voice.

    I don’t.

    (The birds exchange songs back and forth,

    Deciding on a warble, one hello deepens in tone.)

    This is just a date. I’m not bothered at all.

    (Please let her like me like I like her.)

  • Cry and Response (Poem)

    Sometimes (ofttimes) I want to be finished with this life.

    The wearisome minutiae of the body demanding attention,

    Insistent muttering claims that needs must be addressed over and over and over.

    I answer these as best I can.

    I do so in full knowledge that these efforts are but a slight delay.

    Everyone crumbles in the end and flees their particular carapace.

    Mine was not well constructed or comfortable or nice,

    A hasty and ill-conceived effort from the beginning.

    Like all fleshy dominions, it has pride of being and the illusion of remaining.

    I want to shrug it off and move on to whatever comes next,

    Sick of being sick, and harried by the futility involved.

    Let me be done and close my eyes.

    (In my worst moments I fear doing just that.

    Only to find on awakening that I’m once again here.

    And here. And here. And here. A cicada who lives on,

    Dying forever.)

    Still, suffering mind. Breathe and know you’re breathing.

    Let the beads slip with that rhythm through your fingers.

    Om mani peme hung. Om mani peme hung. Om mani peme hung.

  • The Lithic Dare (Poem)

    Scientists discover the shape of a lithium atom:

    In the absence of corrosion, the crystalline structure

    Is that of a rhombic duodecahedron.

    The die used in Dungeons and Dragons, also a particular 12-sided throw.

    So perhaps the universe does provide a gamble.

    Should I chance this?

    Or will I find that rather than the orderly form,

    I’ve thrown instead metallic bones with spiky filaments

    That ultimately produce an explosion.

    No good result there.

    I am no scientist, merely a wordsmith.

    I’d better not tinker with that sort of risk.

    Words alone can be tricky enough,

    Sometimes becoming spark to a fire that burns uncontrolled.

    Then I stand bewildered

    In the midst of an unintentional conflagration.

  • The Most Distant Part OF The Marianas Trench (Poem)

    No sleep this early morning. I rest in corpse pose.

    The salt from my tears, the salt from my sweat

    Has become the salt in the water of the sea.

    Waves collide in tumult under a bone-white moon.

    I sink beneath them into the depths of subtle mind.

    Down, down, down into the emptiness,

    Losing self in the interconnectedness of it all.

    The world breathes into the Challenger Deep.

    The atmospheric circulation, the sigh and gasp of existence,

    Moves through the body as a dream of life.

    Opening my eyes, I taste salt on my lips.

    Throughout the day I catch the linger of the currents

    And shiver from the thermohaline flow.

  • Gravitational Questions (Poem)

    Gravity changes according to mass.

    Will an ancient heart, burdened by woe, drift faster

    Than a feathered laugh?

    What hidden weight calls forth tears to flow

    More heavily than a midnight’s rain?

    If griefs collide like tectonic plates,

    Do they join in mountainous uplift?

    What unseen anomalies can change despair’s descent?

    What will catch the fall of sorrow?

    Walk with these and look behind,

    To judge how deep footsteps go,

    Then make them lighter, lighter, lighter still.

    Today becomes tomorrow.

  • In The Morning (Poem)

    The tea growing cold on the table.

    The book lying open on the chair.

    The ceiling fan whirring the air.

    The door hanging half-ajar.

    I have gone now,

    Walked over the sill without a backwards glance.

    Everything is as it was.

  • Endmost (Poem)

    All could seem like a dream,

    These grey skies, this pouring rain, this sodden earth.

    But it does not, for these are real as anything.

    What does this mean that these exist,

    Measured against the need to say farewell?

    Sorrow and joy have equal weight;

    Turn one over to find the other.

    As I look down the length of my days past,

    I do not mourn.

    The clouds have always been beautiful;

    Tears matter no more than any other water;

    The dirt accepts us without regard.

    If I have forgotten to thank you or you or you,

    Let these words suffice as time runs out.

    I am so very grateful.

  • Do Apples Still Comfort? (Poem)

    Once I would have given myself apples.

    Apples for comfort, apples for solace.

    I would have poured from a flagon honeyed wine.

    IWine to soothe my troubled dreams, wine to soothe my sorrow.

    I would have held these dear and kept them close

    So not to dwell upon the morrow.

    Had someone sought my counsel,

    These would have been my most precious gifts to offer.

    Now I seek not that provision, nor do I store such to bestow.

    Good thing this, for the fruit trees stand withered; the wine casks sit cracked and sere.

    All I have to show, to myself as well as others, is a cupboard made empty.

    “Inhale the lingering scent of sweet memory, then let it go on the breath.”

    See this changed storage made into an altar:

    A mala strung with apple seeds rests beside copper bowls filled with water

    A small bunch of grapes beside these, and the aroma of incense floats in the air.

    What peace do I find before these? What boon to give, if someone asks?

  • Wednesday Writing Group (Poem)

    There was noise. So much noise.

    Multiple conversations occurring at once.

    Street construction banging into the walls.

    Bright skies with bright sun. People wearing even brighter clothing.

    I tried to listen with the focus of my breath.

    Myriad sounds clanging into one another.

    Important words disappearing into the general roar.

    Kaleidoscopic images outside the window joining the chaotic affray.

    I briefly spoke then broke in frustration, fleeing to find some silent gray redoubt.

    I do not have a good loud voice. My hands can randomly shake.

    Sometimes I must leave. Sometimes I must be rude. Sometimes.

  • Aubade For A Fellow Traveler (Poem)

    Alone he walks down the side of the road.

    The longing he feels for his distant home enshrouds him.

    We sometimes speak briefly in passing.

    He settles his dark eyes and gentle attention when we talk.

    I do likewise with my lighter gaze.

    When we part from our brief encounter, I do so saddened.

    His heart the greater part of him still beats to another rhythm.

    I hope he finds his way. I fear he will travel forever.

    Or at least until he can do so no more.

    The circling carrion eaters will clean his bones.

    I offer them mine so that he might have more time.