​Who are we, if not
Monsters masquerading as
Put-together beings
Driven to disguise ourselves
In the hopes that we will eventually forget
What we may be
Animals altering the perception of the public
But maybe it’s time
We stop worrying as to whether or not
We’ll fall out of line
Try to be true to ourselves for a change
Arrange for a chance to put our
Innermost parts on display
Let our monsters come out to play
It might be good to 
Let them experience some shine
And if you decide to unleash yours first
I may just reveal mine.
 

​First date jitters
A bouquet of the finest roses
Glasses of wine that will
Remove your instinctual need to remain cautious.
You don’t strike me as the type of woman
Who daydreams about 
Classic romantic gestures and
Wonders if someone will eventually
Find her to be worth all of that trouble.
Second date expectations
Conversations that attempt to 
Puncture the surface
Superficial tendencies temporarily 
Fade away as the possibility
Of a third date seems more likely
You don’t strike me as the type of woman
Who devotes all of their attention
To that one person
And worries about something going wrong
The peaks and valleys of dating
Do not interest you
Finding someone to help you feel grounded
Is neither a desire nor a goal of yours
And that is just something I will have to get used to.

​We exist to dread the inevitability
That is meeting our untimely demise
I surmise that we all have the ability
To shed our former selves just a little each day
The way that time continues on with no regard
As to those being left behind in the dust
We must tread lightly
The days are long and heavy
Slightly, we pull apart
Only to return to the space where we last
Left remnants and particles
From an unrelenting heart.
Recklessly we intend to make sense
Of a senseless world 
Under false pretenses
The odds are meant to inhibit us from 
Prospering beyond boundless boundaries
In a state of being, there is nothing more to be
Than individual entities
Striving toward the nearest idea
Of bliss there is.
It’s hard to know for sure whether 
In the long run, any of us will be all right
We take flight to ascend over trends
Instead of pretending that we share the
Same struggles and the same thoughts
We have been taught to bask in our differences
Because they are what keeps us from falling
It’s time to stay alert and ready
Because our destiny is calling.
 

​You are probably tired of being
Asked about your current emotional state
You contemplate giving the same 
Glum answer that you have countless times
But everyone knows that “I’m okay”
Never really means what it says
I won’t dig any deeper
And not because I don’t want to hear
What’s on your mind
What’s keeping you up at night
But because you must be tired of talking
Trying to explain why you are this way
To others, but mainly to yourself
I could offer my interpretation
I could offer my perspective
But what good will that really do?
You don’t need to say anything
We can just sit here in silence
Let there be just one night where
You don’t find yourself getting choked up
Over feelings you never intended to show anyone.
 

​Depending on how much time has lapsed
After a period of immeasurable loss
It is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment
When you can allow yourself to laugh again
After a 24-hour grief binge
It seems as though you have exhausted
Every possible emotion
Every inkling to collapse into yourself
You temporarily affix a smile to your face
In the hopes that in due time
It will no longer feel forced.
The day then comes when you surrender yourself to
That first burst of laughter
Those brief seconds of being unable
To catch your breath
It’s the first time you’ve felt alive
Since the moment you were forced
To acknowledge the inevitability of
Succumbing to one’s own mortality.
Once the joyous feeling subsides,
You wonder if it’s still too soon
To feel anything but guilt
You are overcome with laughter again
And wait for it to return 
After another moment of indulging in self-pity
And constructing an emotional guard, you wonder if
Learning to Laugh Again should really be this hard.
 

​She is as different from our Ben as a child could be,
this girl in combat jacket, distressed jeans,
and ruby heels. There are Kool-Aid blue streaks
in her hair, a silver stud through one brow.
Her eyes take in our anally manicured yard,
the pristinely painted house, the rusted metal
and weathered net of the hoop above the garage.
Her face releases nothing.
When the woman from Child Services
places a hand lightly on her shoulder,
she steps aside with a fluidity born of practice.
For the umpteenth time, I question the wisdom
of the course we have chosen.
 
I move forward, hold out my hand, unprepared
for what I feel when she takes it.
 
 

​I find the album lying on your bed,
forgotten Kodak moments, trips we made:
a close-up – twinkling eyes, a Mouse’s head,
the backdrop of a magic-lights parade;
those Belfast hills, and us in trekking gear,
one person’s weary gaze, one’s sullen look
that underscored an adolescent year
of fruitless and unending donnybrook;
our smiles, returned once more, outside Beijing,
the greatest wall the one behind us now;
two barefoot women, sundress-clad, on shoestring
getaway from snow to Curaçao.
 
I touch the face of one who’s now a ghost.
In friends and mothers I’m more blessed than most.

Another swell surges in, crests, and curls.
An amateur, more foolhardy than brave,
vanishes inside the whitewater whirls
 
of the planet’s most notorious wave.
He’s pulled ashore, to the beach crowd’s relief,
by a vigilant lifeguard’s skillful save.
 
The vicious surf renders many rides brief,
and more than once a promising career
has ended on the shallow lava reef,
 
each maim, each death instilling healthy fear
in those who watch and those who dare compete
in hopes of earning recognition here.
 
Breaking from the pack of North Shore elite,
dropping into a wave, a bona fide
Pipe legend rises steady to his feet,
 
his perfectly timed set-up, his swift slide
into the green room of the Banzai whorl,
his triumphant shoot out the other side,
 
the dream of every surfer, boy and girl.
In his wake, Pipe turns into cauldron swirls
as one more swell surges in, crests, and curls.
 
 
 
 
*  The Banzai Pipeline, or simply “Pipe,” is the name given to the surf reef break located off Banzai Beach on the North Shore of Oahu. It is the steepest and most powerful tubular wave in the world, and the wave every serious surfer wants to ride.
​

​Days of shadow, multiplying,
thunder, unrelenting rain 
render every underlying
sunny outlook all in vain.
Optimism wavers, fades.
Little left to keep me sane.
Dismal forecast soon abrades
any starry expectation
in this room of pressing shades.
 
Final desperate incantation.
Sound of rain intensifying.
Trapped inside, such isolation,
tending you as you lay dying,
even Heaven can’t stop crying.
 
 

​When my time has come, let the ram skin wheeze
and pipe me to rest with Amazing Grace.
I’ve only a wee bit of Scots, but please,
when my time has come, let the ram skin wheeze.
Send ashes and dirge on a fairy glen breeze,
dispatch me to heather and thistle’s embrace.
When my time has come, let that ram skin wheeze
and pipe me goodbye with Amazing Grace.

Seems like you’re taking things a bit slower
These days.
 
It happens. Shall we
Back off a bit.
Let it rest?
 
Look. Maybe it’s just not okay, Cupid.
Come on.
It’s not like you were the first.
Or the only.
It happens.
 
Radio’s on in that quiet room:
That careful soft voice
Sing it, Bessie!
The voice in your head:
 
            I woke up this morning with a awful aching head
            My new man had left me, just a room with an empty bed.
 
Says it all.
Walk round your now-spacious place
Hey, now you’ve got another half a medicine cabinet free to put stuff in.
 
Stare down at your naked hand,
Your hand not-held.
Look out the window at the street below:
 
That pile left out by the door: Goodwill?
 
Strangers on the street hurrying to late dates
Goals plans hopes
What do they know?

 
 
Listen. She’s still singing.
 
            I need a little sugar in my bowl
 
I’m not going anywhere.
Forget how to...
 
            When my bed get empty make me feel awful mean and blue
            My springs are getting rusty, sleeping single like I do.
 
You too?
 

​ 
Yes, of course he’s human.
Meaning more like us than shark, snake or earthworm.
We humans, we anticipate.
Feel fear, avoid danger
Plan ahead.
 
His family came from a known place,
Northern Europe (like mine actually).
He was born out of a mother’s body,
Must have cried and fussed as a baby.
Did anyone read him Hansel and Gretel?
Did he ever memorize conjugations?
Help set the table?
 
He apparently breathes air.
Did he have
Swimming lessons at summer camp?
Watch the sun set?
I don’t get it.
 
These days
I’m feeling closer to other creatures than ever.
Even beetles.
Look, that black bug crawling up my bean plant.
It sees me—or smells or hears—knows danger
And scuttles away.
 

​Two black horses, regal and unbowed,
pulled his caisson solemnly across a bridge
forever stained by the blood of peaceful marchers
led by a rising star in the Civil Rights movement
affectionately nicknamed the “boy from Troy”
by his dear friend and mentor, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

A humble man and ordained Baptist minister
steeped in Scripture and the exemplary life
of Mahatma Gandhi, John Lewis
preached and exemplified non-violence
and redemptive suffering at great personal sacrifice.
The price included a skull fractured and never fully healed,
a body beaten unconscious and left in its own pool of blood,
and wounds and scars of every stripe inflicted
in dozens of hate-filled beatings
as he led freedom riders and
chaired the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee
riding buses and marching in the Deep South
for a righteous cause.

Staring death in its face
on more than one occasion, he stood tall --
ready to make the ultimate sacrifice, if required,
in a compelling struggle to create
a more just and holy nation,
one true to its founding principles of
liberty, equality and justice.

On March 5, 1965, the nation felt righteous indignation
as they witnessed the anguish and suffering
of John Lewis and his fellow marchers,
brutally beaten but morally unbowed,
just as two majestic horses
bore the casket of a man too humble
to rename the bridge in his honor.

On this day of remembrance, rose petals
lay scattered across the bridge,
vivid reminders of the
drops of blood shed that Bloody Sunday
in the searing face of racism
and senseless hate in a futile attempt
to thwart the historic march
of Doctor King and his followers
from Selma to the steps of Alabama’s capitol 
as Doctor King, John Lewis and their fellow marchers
blazed the trail of voting freedom
marching 54 blood-stained miles.
John Lewis’ words about
the many bridges we still have to cross
echoed in my mind with the footsteps of
each mounted horse as
they pulled the beloved Civil Rights icon across
the notorious Edmund Pettus Bridge,
 trailed by his family and chief of staff
and watched in adulation by a nation
marching with him in spirit and in truth, together,
one bridge closer to the Promised Land.
 

Armed with bass fishing lures
guaranteed to work or
be re-shipped from China
and visions of largemouth bass
swimming in our heads,
my 11-year old identical twin sons
and I headed for Little Seneca Lake.
We were brimming with confidence
that we would land the big one:
the Lock Ness Monster-sized bass
with perhaps a pickerel to boot,
rivaling the size of the mighty
Arkansas River catfish
we had watched Jeremy Wade noodle
bare-handed on River Monsters.
Hours later, we emerged with a small arsenal
of bucketed fish that we released back into the Lake
and memories of other sundry captures
enhanced by a fish tale of the giant bass that,
fortunate for itself, had managed to bite
its way through Gregory’s fishing line to freedom,
thus narrowing escaping
an otherwise certain pan-fried death.

This mighty arsenal consisted
of a tiny Green Perch
hand-caught by my other son, Alex,
while hiding safely, or so it thought,
beneath a late summer leaf,
a three inch iridescent Green Sunfish and
four-inch black speckled Crappie,
each caught with a fishing net
hovering beneath a chicken-baited line.

Not to be outdone, my personal exploits
notching my hunting and fishing belt that day
consisted of a hand-caught and released
Yellow Swallowtail that, much to its chagrin,
had been caught entranced in a mating dance
with its would-be lover along a creek
and a near-sighted Morning Glory
net-caught along the lakeshore
while refueling for its fluttering travels.
Haiku highlights of the day included:
approaching within forty feet
of a preening Belted Kingfisher
restoring its royal feathers
and blue crown to regal glory,
truly the crowning achievement of the day;

witnessing a Great Blue Heron
displaced by a paddle boat
squawking and croaking in protest as
it flew to the opposite lakeshore;

observing pairs of swallows
playfully criss-cross,
weaving paths hot in pursuit
of doomed and frenzied mosquitoes
along the sun-drenched lake;

noting wood ducks blissfully
paddle their way more slowly
than the reeling of my fishing line,
and even a tad bit more leisurely than
the people-powered paddle boats along the lake;

watching keen-eared painted turtles
prematurely slide off logs into the water
as I meandered over thirty feet away
along trails in a secluded marshy area
fed by the trickling waters
of a modest tributary creek;

inspecting a beaver-hewed birch tree stump
partially chewed through and surrounded by
myriad pieces of wood clippings
marked with souvenirs of beaver teeth
fit for ornamental display;
viewing a twenty-odd V-formation of
honking Canadian Geese
noisily hydroplane onto the placid surface
of an otherwise serene lake; and

last but not least,
beholding a bright green grasshopper
steadily plodding along the pebbles
of a rocky embankment near the dock house,
only to realize that it was being propelled forward,
not by its own energies, but by a tiny ant hoisting
its lifeless body along an arduous path
all the way to a mound of dirt
housing its awaiting colony.
And so, we left that Lake,
likely teeming with giant bass
that had lived to roam free and wild another day,
but bearing a most valuable realization.
This true haiku moment was our appreciation
that  Mother Nature has a remarkable sense of humor which,
if properly appreciated and nourished with humility,
brings wonder and enchantment, transforming
ordinary moments into extraordinary experiences. 


FIRST PUBLISHED IN LITERARY YARD 

​A sand crab scurries along the beach
Oh, what lessons it could teach
Innocent and unfazed
Paying no attention to my gaze

Long ago, I walked upon this shore
A young man, wanting for nothing more
Yet, now I stand here feeling so alone
Seeking inspiration, my soul to atone

Toward the sea, I stare past the pier
As the sun looms near the edge so clear
Infinity revealed before my eyes
Orange and yellow hues; my lovely, only prize

I muse now, surrounded by eternity
Hidden in an ocean’s swell’s certainty
Cranes swooping down unbound
With their taunting, mournful sounds

A few clouds gathering up high
I sense a rainstorm is nigh
A certain sadness now I feel
This power of nature becomes all too real

​I hold in my hands a thick crystal vase
Its glass deeply etched with gleaming flowers
Within that vase, I still see her smiling face
The image that had welcomed me into this world

Hot, baking summers that would burn any soul
Travel slowly down the shallow path into fall
Swirling crimson leaves of fall fill the sky
As naked trees give birth to winter.
 
A mound of snow gradually grows tall; beautiful but so cold
As months pass, it slowly melts to paint a gleam of green
Soon, tiny birds fill the air with their enchanting chirps
As blooms bright and fragrant appear on branches by a stream

I still remember her laughing face
Skin as smooth as silk
With eyes of mothering blue
To mimic the azure sky above
 
Tears shed both in joy and pain
Words both spoken and never said
Giggles shared in happy times
Embraces exchanged in times of want, of need

So many days, so many nights
Months, years, and soon a decade
Passed away into the ether of time
A slow tempo, yet beating so fast

Immortality relinquished to reality
The smile of nature that offers relief
Yet, so harsh, a brutal robbing
Of things that I treasured most

Reality as cold as stone
Yet, as warm as a summer’s day
For in my mind I will always feel
Her warm touch, forever to love and to comfort  

​Glowing eyes, like orbs from heaven
Earthbound, envelop me with love
Here to soothe and comfort my soul 
—My precious little Chihuahua

Sir Galahad prefers “Sir G”
Reborn from years long, long ago
Passed down through the ether of time
Resides by me every day

Noble, innocent, and loyal
Vastly superior to man
No deceit nor malice nor hate
Inviting as a cool spring breeze

Wars, religions, and politics
Define the human condition
Fuel cauldrons mixed with love and hate
Fear escalated history

Yet, my little boy simply smiles
Asks only for love and some food
Needs so basic with no contempt
Tells me, “You are mine; I am yours”
 
 

​Rabid dogs roam the streets
Parents and children huddled in fear
Foaming dogs’ mouths indicate their plight
A town locked down in horror
 
Years of agoraphobia constrain
A young girl who sees bright blooms outside
Her heart races like a locomotive
As she secures the deadbolt on the door inside
 
A student stands in front of the crowd
Words struggle to escape her mouth
Her heart bolting like a ticking bomb
Embarrassment and despair cloud her mind
 
The convicted man peers at his ‘last meal’
Savory and delicious; even garnished with a rose
Yet, his stomach churns as a numbness fills his mouth
Thoughts of tomorrow make his soul so morose
 
It is a day passed away, long ago
A Jew cowers in a concentration camp
Will tomorrow mark the bitter end?
Cast into a chamber to suffer a horrific demise
 
A virus now blankets the world
Looking into every corner, every crevice
No one spared the risk of infection
The world slowly grinds to a total halt
 
Is anyone really at fault?
 
Through the clerestory window up high
Rays of sun lightly, gently pierce
Prayers hurled skywards as pain envelops
Will hope someday perhaps return?
 
Peace at last? Or is this only an empty dream?
 

​Opalescent mists wafting down
Cast iron rails growing slippery
Bourbon lies quiet beneath my balcony
Debris flung in disarray
 
Broken beer bottles; beads and more beads
Large beads, small beads
Round beads, crushed beads
Ropes of beads in many colors
 
Vapors rise from cooling pavement
Ghosts float silently by
The stench of vomit rises
Good times pushed too far
 
Gone are last night’s throngs
A few boys dance their tap routine
A wheelchair glides slowly by
Homeless man with dog in the shadows
 
A street so symbolic of life
A short adventure doomed to end
Revelry captivates in the moment
Leaving an emptiness hard to explain
 
Haunting aromas of good times passed
Memories flicker in my mind
Realities stored; or perhaps mirages
Yet, something to hold on to
 
Cycles of life to repeat over and over
A path short, destined to end
The rains pelt harder and harder
I retreat back into my room
 
Falling quickly into my bed
Hoping slumber will drown my confusion
 

THIN ICE
​

​Archangels descend in glorious white,
swinging their hips for us with a vengeance.
 
We find ourselves dumbstruck, trembling, prostrate
with fear. Our tears stream and puddle¾the warmth
 
of our sudden lamentations, a mixed blessing
to those of us backsliding on thin ice,
 
too far from the silver linings of the shoreline.
We are shivering silhouettes, transfixed
 
by frozen starbursts of growling cracks
melting against us, radiating away.
 
“Where are the gilded wings to lift us?” we ask.
We grow weary of speculation. Our shivering stops.
 
Our last image, an icy-blue halo,
as we gasp the numbing waters at last.
 

​We ride
a whim
woefully
roaming
a wild
wickedly
wonderful
wide-ranging
wanderer
waiting
in want
of awe
wistfully
wrestling
with why
for a while.
 
For wonderment
awakens within
a wish of why,
 
and why
is the way
we wrangle
this whirling
world on which
we wait.

​We all know what we want.  Why,
more than once while wandering I
have encountered canny Buddhists
poring over long to-do lists:
to do, to get, to have, to hold,
something to keep out the cold
along the path of least resistance. 
And in this corner are the Christians,
loudly praying for forgiveness
of lucre and many another weakness. 
And students of the Tao, most heedful
when talk turns to the one thing needful.
Libertarians, not surprisingly
letting live.  And socialists, enterprisingly
considerate of the thine and mine.
Austerity’s a bitch, and discipline
makes one less troubled by the taint of
cash.  But we want what we can’t have: 
A five-star spacious gold-draped room
with furnishings to die in.  Then a tomb
that makes the tourists ask their guides,
is there a pyramid besides
the ones here listed?  A brand new one?  He
must have had a pile of money!
But no.  We take what we can get:  Drive-thru
and take-out, frozen, fondue,
limp and left over—and that’s romance. 
Don’t ask about the food!  No chance
of sustenance but bread and ale,
one watered down, the other stale.
If there’s filet, it’s never mignon.
It’s just ground round, you can depend on
that.  If wine, expect domestic.
One’s car? At best a Crown Vic,
never the Continental.  Or, more like,
a Ford Fiesta.  Or a bike.
A lake boat from a second job.  A yacht? 
Fat chance, cap’n.   A time-share, not
a country home, with loud, intrusive
neighbors, who want to see how “youse” live.
 
So I, Erasmus, being no stooge
gave up my search and sought refuge
in the captivating House of Pies,  
where I met some decent guys,
and one who said his name was Jon
gave me brand-new white apron,
a cap and broom.  Here all receive, he
said, their just desserts.  Believe me,
this food is filling.  À la mode or carte— 
have just as much as your little heart
desires, and—what desires are for--
there’s always room for a little more.

​Frustrate with rare-took breaths and drinking dregs
And staring eye-to-eye with fish-eyed fish
And feeling they could gloss their lack of legs
The swimming mammals carried out a wish.
 
And one day came a-stumbling up the beach
And wallowed ‘cross the dunes and up the banks
Each showed a different drive, a different reach
Strange energies possessed their heaving flanks.
 
The tusky narwhal humped along a field
Inuring his tribe anew to air and sun
“Admittedly I’m difficult to wield
But life can be both difficult and fun.”
 
The great right whale went rolling up and down
Ecstatically he felt affinity
“And when I reach the crest I’ll be the crown
I think I love this hill, this hill is me.”
 
The great sea elephant ambled for the veldt
“I’ve come my tusk-proud brethren for to seek
(Among them I’ll look marvelously svelte)
I’ll learn what kind of cousin-tongue they speak.”
 
The rash sea-lion shouted, “Here I go!”
And forcibly made vertical his frame
He deemed his nimble fins a tippy-toe
And thought that hopping was a merry game.
 
But soon the narwhal’s sense began to reel
He was so homesick he could kiss an eel
And soon the right whale tired of being king
And being the only undulating thing
Soon the sea elephant did realize
He was called such only for his size
And soon the sea lion found he’d reached the point
Where, jointless though he was, he ached in every joint.
And one and all thought one walk was enough
And so they turned them with one mighty chuff
And one and all came ambling back to sea
Where they were welcomed most good-naturedly
Never again to leave it for the beach
Once having honored Nature with this breach.

 

​The marauder has no sins of
omission.  Silence speaks
nothing for him. 
 
We follow the social worker home.  She
drives a modest car.  The succulents
survive in a tray on a window sill.  Dishes
sometimes pile up in the sink.  She
listens to NPR and reads of souls
and other peoples. 
 
Scene 8 I am rewriting.  There is
no need for us to relive this again.  This
has been done to us all too often.

​Two slightly off guitars
Called you and me
We meet in random bars
Unmeetingly 
 
I talk on eggshells first
you take my cue
I say some things rehearsed 
But not with you
 
We make some plans to dine
Or sample beers
We talk about which wine
Goes best with tears
 
I say I’m glad you’ve come
You say that’s sweet
You take a taxi home
I take the street 

​Five lights survey the Carolina coast.
Today last warnings sent they stand
Which once lent gleams into its custody:
Red Currituck, squat Ocracoke,
Old Lookout on its distant, lonely bar,
Tall Hatteras, the lamp that walked,
And north of it, off in a little field,
The faithful pennant of the Bodie Light,
That, though illuming shipways now no more,  
Still messages the insubstantial tide.
 
Keep watch, o light! The tide will wash forever.
Stand fast, o soul!  Eternity is yours.

​You were a delight to be around,
a genuine gem the world had found.
Empathetic and in an eternal quest to enhance your encyclopaedic knowledge,
you were betrothed to virtue in a dedicated lifelong marriage.
Sensitive yet lion hearted, ambitious yet considerate,
concerned about the welfare of each of your mates.
In the face of personal troubles, you never made a big fuss,
in everyone's life, your reassuring presence was a big plus.
You put in your best every single day,
that ensured that when the end may
come, you would be more than just another urn of ash,
deeply missed and fondly remembered
by the world that you left behind.
 
A tribute to one who carved his path to greatness,
To his legend, history has borne witness.

 

​ 
Your will is the strongest of them all,
so said the mirror on the wall.
Eternally composed and perenially resilient,
in your vicinity, evil shall never ferment.
Deep thinker above mindless chatter,
you accurately judge which battles matter.
With a cheerful smile and sagacious grace,
all challenges you masterfully ace.
Dedicated to your duty and helping all,
with your work ethic, you dwarf all.
A pillar of support,
you are a fort.
Caring, considerate, diligent, wise and smart,
you make jaws drop with how you masterfully play your part.
People's demons you always slay,
continue shining brighter than the Sun's ray.
You are a beacon to us all, 
thy name shall resonate in the greatest hall.
 

 

​In crisis,
solace, comfort, peace.
Sharing each
circumstance.
Together against all odds.
Family is life.

 

​John Wick; a man of honour, focus and sheer will; unleashes a discombobulating bloW,
One must avoid messing about with this samurai, although he may have subluxated metacarpI,
He is true to his word, a kick from him will give you a permanent tiC.
Never, even by the slightest chance, forget the name: John WicK.
 

When the Prime Mover let it be known                                          
that homo erectus was his sapient aim,                                          
an angelic committee voiced a moan,
urging that He, the world's Maker, disclaim
this late averment, hinting it would taint
the universe without some taut restraint.
 
But the Omniscient would have none of it,
so loosed his wisdom unassailable
that the sole redeemer from the pit
be agape for himself, and amiable.
Thus were the jealous messengers abashed.
Satan grew his tail; his teeth he gnashed.
 
Our Earth obeyed its Master: in the oceans,
where gases vented from the floor, fish
fed on them, transitioning through the eons
to seals and apes, obeying the Father's wish.
(This intricate, entangled process grants
dubious sway to miscreants.)
 
This planet then acquired a race ensouled
who scoured their knowledge to determine why
omnipotence with benignity should scold
his offspring with ruin as if He wished they'd die.
They had scant means to see it was to test
whether their faith was worthy to be blest.
 
Now in our day a moiety has failed
the test, yet still maintain they've qualified.
And so "the son of perdition," who regaled
himself above the Lord, is pert and snide,
proclaiming he's superior to law,
for he'd invented lies to quell and awe.
 
The promised end has seemed at sundry times
to gesture its approach, yet stars remained,
though nations quaked. Perhaps, as pantomimes,
they shook the Ninevehs, who then regained
their faith. So goes relationship with God,
who will not, like the pagan Zeus, nod.
 
 

​There is soul among the early morning dew,
It was sewn in long ago by gods older than time,
Gods who carefully crafted the Small Things in the universe, like the way he says my name on a Sunday morning,
Gods whose names have become nothing more than the forgotten gratitude there is for the simple pleasures, 
There is divinity in the blanket of water that covers the sea of grass blades,
When the solar cup is spilled, pouring ochre colored paint water onto the twilight canvas.
And the birds still sleep in trees, and the trees still sleep in the earth, and the earth still sleeps in the hearts of billions,
A cool draft seeping through the window the only other thing besides myself alive in the universe,
 
Zephyr, a holy Romeo, climbing in through the bay window,
Wraps his arm around my shoulder, a heavenly embrace,
The shawl of the universe weaved into my back,
My shoulder blades a road map for the constellations,
My spine a celestial teather, an ethereal motherland,
Reaching out like the ends of the galaxies, stretching to the farthest reaches of my body
I feel the cosmos pulse inside my veins, and beat like oars against my skin,
And for a second, I am the Harbinger of Apollo, and all the other myths,
And for a second, I feel as loved Hyacinth,
To be so beautiful, that I get to sleep in the heart of the Earth,
 
I, a consecrated Juliet, sitting there in honor,
With Cassiopeia sprawling down my back, and into the hearts of billions, 
A guest in the eldritch hollow of the old gods, who built small things,
Gods that were less ark, and more architecture,
Engineers of the human experience,
In which all roads lead to Sunday mornings,
Designers of the pilgrimage of consciousness,
Where every struggle is in honor to the relic of Sunday mornings, and the way he used to say my name,
And for a second, the veil between human and god thins,
And they start climbing in through the bay window,
And then, almost as soon as it came,
The draft is gone,
While the birds still sleep in the trees,
While the trees still sleep in the Earth,
While my heart still sleeps in the cerberus of my chest,
While the gods of small things still sleep in the hearts of billions, just like my own:
Peacefully.  

​The first time I saw you,
You looked like 12 in the afternoon,
The apples of your cheeks looked like the sun,
And I couldn’t help but feel like Icarus in the winds of time, airborne and uninhibited
In awe of how much life I still had ahead of me,
For a just second, it looked like the day could go on forever,
Your eyes were evidence to the fallacy of time,
A bucolic pasture across the center of your face, where gentle winds whispered the names of hallowed Titans and forgotten Mothers,
Its verdure plucked from Gaia’s garden, its roots riddled with old, forgotten magic.
Your eyes had the power to turn back time,
Because every time I looked at you, it happened all over again,
Because every time I looked at you, Orpheus stood on the precipice of the underworld about to take his final step,
Because every time I looked at you, I waited to see if you’d look back.  
 
The second time I saw you,
You looked like July,
The weight of of a month caught between Summer and Fall sat at the corners of your mouth,
Weighed down by the middle of a journey, too far past the beginning, but not close enough to the end,
You smiled like a window seat on an airplane,
Caught between the feeling of your heart pushing through your rib cage with ecstasy,
But also with terror,
Elated at the chance to get to see all the beauty of human creation from the seat of a God,
But also petrified to realize how small you were,
To realize the distance between you and the ground, and you and the gods,
The fact that perspective had little to do with knowledge,
And everything to do with view, with height,
That when you stare at an airplane window long enough, you eventually just end up looking at your own reflection, a morbid Narcissus.   
 
The last time I saw you,
I hardly recognized you.
The war fought on your smile, between past and future, was finally over
It was unclear who won, though it did not matter,
The present was the only true loser, lost in a pond that ripples with nostalgia every time you saw a picture from that bloody Summer
The sun had set on your cheeks, an ochre colored flush settled on most of your face,
The once overwhelming sense of purpose replaced with little more than an ornate farewell. 
Your eyes were browner than the last time I saw them,
As if the cold chill of fall had began to creep into your very soul,
And began the death of the verdant orbs that once skimmed the rivers of time,
Gaia watched in horror as her prized plain ran barren, the gentle wind whispering nothing but empty promises of protection,
Do Gods change with the seasons too? Are they just as powerless to stop time as we are?
Your eyes were always my favorite.
Kind, pristine foliage that seemed too eternal, and too familiar, to be bound to just one lifetime,
Your eyes made time look like the myth of the human experience,
A fanciful story we told ourselves to try and explain things we couldn’t understand,
Like death, and memory, and change,
But you are the greatest myth of my life,
A fanciful story I told myself to try and explain things I couldn’t understand,
Like time, and love, and change.
 
 

​In my wildest daydreams,
I imagine someone misses me the way I miss you:
In that ancient artifact way,
Where I am the last piece of a lost civilization,
The final son of Atlantis,
The message in a bottle to a New World Order they were not interested in meeting,
In that Greek tragedy way,
Where Titans are trapped beneath my skin,
And I am the living likeness of the ivory girl,
And I am the only face Narcissus could see in the puddle,
In that “I still remember how you took your tea in the morning” way
Where you are ruled by modern mythology,
In a world of science, where just my existence is enough to make you pious,
Worshipping the God of Nostalgia,
Where your most devout act is remembering my smallest methods of existence.


I still remember how you took your tea in the morning,
With honey
Sweet and sticky
You always managed to drip it down the edge of the cup,
And I hate that I can still replay that in my head like my favorite childhood movie
And I hate that I am so stuck on you, in little ways,
In that Old God way,
Where I forget you, until I don’t anymore.
Where I forget you, until you remember me.
Where I forget you, until I can’t stop remembering you.
In little ways,
Like how you took your tea in the morning,
When the sky just barely broke the clouds, a spilled cup of ochre colored water dripped into the window,
The pigmentation performed a daring dance with a thick ooze stuck down the side of a ceramic mug.
I think the biggest misconception about my nostalgia for that moment
Is that I always believed you got the honey stuck on the cup,
And never once believed that the cup was just as sticky, as the honey was. 
The honey, a mere mortal, clinging to the back of a colossus,
White knuckled,
Praying its grip strong enough to beat gravity,
As if gravity is not a scientific titan,
Unbeatable and unwavering
 
In my wildest day dreams,
I am the cup,
I am the thing that gets you up in the morning,
I am the thing you grapple to for existence,
I am the thing you are stuck on.
But on my wildest day,
For just a second, when I open my eyes and I haven’t yet come back to the real world,
And I feel the the ochre colored drip on my face,
The faucet pouring in from the window,
I forget how you take your tea in the morning.

​The first time I killed you,
Was the second hardest thing I’ve ever done.
The hardest was keeping you dead.
My mind was a master of necromancy, my kiss adorned with lipstick made from the Monkey’s Paw,
I subconsciously bested Orpheus’ task over and over again,
As if Tartarus was merely your winter home that you went to when I got cold,  
No matter how hard I tried, I just kept wishing you back into existence,
Just kept kissing you back into my life, 
Your teeth lined like graveyard tombstones,
My tongue a midnight visitor in a solemn church,
Your mouth like a cemetery in the fall, 
Your kiss tasted like dying grass, and warm cranberry juice,
The stories of the dead, our stories, crying out from the back of your throat,
Reaching out, begging for me to listen, for me to remember that of which I wanted nothing more than to forget,
Finally, I give in, and lean into the grave where your mouth should be,
As I listen to the stories and begin to reminisce, I watch as Clotho began to weave again
Nostalgia is the bible we read from in order to worship those we have lost,
But Grief is the god we evoke as an excuse to take them back.