Hallway to Nowhere

  • We Do Not Go: We Are (Poem)

    in the night hours where do we return

    for that is the time, that is always the time

    when we begin and cease our wandering

    there when we find our forced rest

    nowhere to go nothing to do

    where are we in the mirror stare

    and who gazes back at us

    are we our body yes are we our mind yes

    are we whoever knows this yes

    and what does this mean when we go away again

    we the constant reinventors of ourselves

    yes yes yes but and

    does this matter at all no

    in the end we are not we are they are not anything are everything

    we always return home

    we are only home

  • How We Become The World (Poem)

    weary of navigating this terrain

    the constantly shifting landscape of malfunction

    physical breakdown and decay

    eyes do not see clearly, nor ears hear

    breathing an onerous labor and disruptive

    of the smallest ordinary act

    confusion steals former abilities away

    by turning the mind into an unnavigable maze

    institutions stymie their designated intent

    with such regularity as to make them suspect

    as they heap more suffering on those who presume

    to ask them to perform their basic task

    this casual cruelty surely accidental

    life is not purposely unkind

    though to those who struggle in the harshness so ready at hand

    this matters not

    sometimes there seems little remedy and yet

    be with each other, witness to the end

    hold and give comfort, all are in need

    just this is enough

    just this is all there is

    just this

  • Funereal Years of the Anthropocene (Poem)

    flowers have died despite care

    we too shrivel in the dry hot wind

    we wait upon rain in the evening

    placing hope in the massing gray clouds

    neighbors murmur to each other

    tonight I have heard it will come

    one places an umbrella beside the door

    another his rain boots

    and one carefully checks her water gauge

    remember how recently it poured everyday

    vegetables rotted before they could be picked

    ants invaded homes to escape the wet

    streets became fast-flowing creeks

    drought, flooding, we move through it all

    with eyes closed and fingers crossed

    believing that superstitious behaviour will save us

    instead we are being delivered

    to the consequences of turning away

    when shall we mourn

    how shall we grieve

  • Prayer Beads (Poem)

    long ago I would listen to bullfrogs

    now in the evening I watch fireflies

    these two acts feel connected

    spacer beads on the same mala

    the croak and flicker measuring a length

    thus I count my moments lived

    thus they in turn count me

    a silent mantra humming

    this and this and this and this

  • No Becomes The Answer (Poem)

    outside the heat tries to draw me back

    with air that shimmers visibly above the street

    asking me to recall other roads in other times

    I’ve been down them so much

    that I still pick gravel from my shoes

    today I turn away and close the door

    then go into the cool shadowed room

    any memories that linger beyond

    can burn away in the sun

  • Anyone (Poem)

    as a child, I knew that I was ordinary

    I am ordinary today

    nothing I did was new, nor is it now

    anyone could do it, anyone can

    it being whatever act might be called out as special

    my circumstances were not ordinary

    I had little control over those

    I did what anyone would

    Made the best of where, when, and how

    still I do this but now with a bit of grace and ease

    not hard to learn for anyone

  • Why I Am Silent (Poem)

    was I ever able to talk?

    on that day when the cloud covered the sun

    then split open for just one second

    so that light became a focused dazzle

    I remember speaking

    not important nor memorable nor heard

    something dropped from my mouth

    a foreign coin falling from the pocket of a careless guest

    I am a visitor here

    have spent my time in useless loiter

    pacing the platform of trains that do not exist

    when the next one arrives, I shall board

    settle into the window seat until I am home

    pay the conductor with another word

    another word another word

    placed with attentive care into his waiting hand

  • As Honey Upon Awakening (Poem)

    long discursive fever dreams

    drift without effort but still somehow

    heavy with the heated weight of story

    not mine always

    slow building intense profound

    teachings light and delicate as spun fairy sugar

    reach too tightly and they dissolve

    relax and they linger

    sweetness dropping as a seed within

  • Father’s Day (Poem)

    I never knew my father as anything other,

    though from stories I heard he lived a life

    rich with travel, music, art, and other dangerous things.

    for years I carried with me my sole testimony to this,

    a charcoal self-portrait he had drawn of himself as a young man,

    the paper creased and worn from years of being folded

    before it passed into my hands, and I chose to keep it close

    in the left back pocket of my jeans just like he had done.

    one day it simply fell apart, and I went to a bridge

    and scattered the tattered remnants over the water.

    I doubt he ever traveled in this area but think he would have approved.

  • Summer Muchness Fatigue (Poem)

    as the heat rises, as the dome settles into place

    and even the mountains lose their cooling air,

    where now do I go?

    before I could slip easily away into a boat

    and take myself into the shaded silence of bayous overhung with cypress.

    the local alternative is a trail which offers some canopied foliage

    but also people and dogs and bikes and noise.

    summer has become overwhelming at times,

    too bright with sun; too loud with all sorts of clatter;

    too noisome with industrial odors.

    in other worlds I find the hush and stillness,

    so that is where I’ll be.