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How To Sit In A Whirlwind (Poem)
Because there is no beginning no ending
Not even an ouroboros but more a writhe of serpentine time
I revisit the past reexamine my roots reword my existential stories
Who I am today changes who I was but who I was influenced who I became
A twisted entanglement that cannot be teased into separate threads
All or one or some lead to who I will become but really
All eventualities are present in each moment of my becoming
And voidness too is there in the pause before
This happens just so this happens regardless therefore no need
To try any harder than I do no need to make my eyes see the back of my head
It is there or not a hand clap a finger snap and I know
Just breathe
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Family Fishing Trips (Poem)
One summer family fishing trips began, with my father, my mother, me.
I liked the walks involved, often down some overgrown dirt road
That ended with a view of the river and a dock.
My parents had the usual gear of poles, wiggling things for bait,
Bad snacks, and beer, all things I would not touch.
I carried my own, being a couple of books, pen and paper, sunflower seeds,
And a thermos of hot tea.
They’d settle down to nosh, drink, and the usual trash talk, all given requirements for catching a fish,
While I’d find an appropriate tree, climb it, open a book and read.
Sometimes I’d ponder my own hypocrisy and wonder at its nature
Which was that I refused to kill worms to catch the fish,
Often protested the act of fishing itself on the spot ( to the point of monotony I was told),
But once home and presented with dinner would still eat the catch.
The time I tried to follow the logical end of my principles,
I found myself given an empty plate at every meal, for my mother had her own set of rules.
Stubbornness, even that of a small mulish child determined to be right, eventually succumbs to hunger.
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A Case For Better Pre-K (Poem)
I knew what I would find,
yet I returned again and again.
It wasn’t that I thought
that your cold eyes would thaw
that your stony visage would soften,
rather, my misguided belief that I could learn
to warm myself before your frozen disdain
to make a home within your rocky disregard.
my fault, my grievous fault,
but I had not yet read the tragedians
to understand how deadly a mother can be.
I found comfort in the Oresteia.
