Categories
Quirks and Quarks

The Day I Spotted God Shoplifting

The Day I Spotted God Shoplifting

Many questions arose the day I spotted God shoplifting in the grocery.

God, God of everything, steals canned chicken? What could She possibly need, Producer of produce, Potter, Baker, Maker of meat and me? Stuffing another can in Her purse, out popped tomato soup, and I thought She’s sloppy in Her old age. I wondered if She had ever been detained – the sign reads “Shoplifters Get a Free Ride In a Police Car.’’

A unique opportunity, I followed Her and pretended to examine limp yellow celery, though She had to know my intention.

I wondered what She thought of this produce department? She’s probably seen better, like the good stuff that First Week. That was some fruit, I tell you.

I asked Her some of the big ones.

Are you God? THE God, God of everything?

Of course.

Would You recommend another market for fresh produce?

Anywhere is better than this dump.

Why are You shopping here?

I’m not shopping. Are you blind?

So, this Neil Diamond guy: What do you make of him?

Not my freaking problem. Get away from me or I’ll smite thee.

Annoying God of everything not on my list of errands, I apologized.

Have a good morning.

I shall.

Of course.

I waited in my car. I had to see the car God of everything drives, even follow Her home. A brownstone on the tony north side? A flat in the near west side?

I considered now I have something on God of everything, though She has plenty on me, because She is God of everything.

She drives a yellow ‘72 VW Beetle. It’s probably hot.

Categories
Poetry

February Haiku

February

Thin gray twilight draws
Threadbare blanket close around
Winter’s stony heart
Categories
Poetry

A Second Opinion

A Second Opinion

 I won’t tell you
 these things happen for a reason
 and other cruel lies.

 I will tell you
 I’ve seen your feral cells under my microscope.
 Unlike you in every way
 their genes encode bald greed.
 One of you must go.

 I will tell you
 about tears you can’t spare.
 You will ask how terror
 restores harmony to the universe.
 A perverse counter-weight
 to immense good.
 A life lesson that takes life. 
 You will hate your new vocabulary:
 anorexia, intra-thecal, stochastic.
 You will say chance insults intelligence.

 In the end, if you still seek a reason
 I’ll hold your cool hand.
 I will tell you
 chance favors greed
 and greed serves only the greedy.
 Beautiful one,
 this life is a world apart
 from your generous heart.
Categories
Poetry

Ballad

 Now comes the quiet hour.
 The sunflower bows its heavy head,
 its soft petals curl,
 drop like tears to the dry ground.
  
 Now the finch eats her fill.
 She sparks across the garden 
 to hungry chicks
 and sings one true ballad.
  
 All depends on this quiet hour,
 the faded flower, its heavy load,
 the finch's wings
 and one true ballad.
  
Categories
Poetry

October: When to Worry

October: When to Worry

 Today you would not write lines on October
 like the musings of your youth. 
 You said the rosy sky was afire and the smoky air was sad. 
 You smelled leaf rot (deep in your soul), and so on.  
 You marveled at pearly dew sparkling in morning sunlight 
 because that’s what dew does, and that’s what a boy writes  
 the day he sees October.  
 He’s learning to write October.

 It’s time to worry when you see brown.  
 When you hear “the terminal sound 
 Of apples dropping on the dry ground.”  
 You’re going south the day you see 
 geese flee, sunlight fail, green grind down. 
 You’ve got bigger problems than gray wind and dry rose hips.  

 You’ve pulled out of your dive the day  
 brown becomes cinnamon,
 when October nods, slips into red, and Autumn creeps. 
 You’ve turned the corner the moment you see  
 Summer pause on sunlit hill, weep, and move on.
Categories
Poetry

An Uneasy Accord

Dynamic Equilibrium
  
It does me no good; violence has changed me.
My body has grown cold like the stripped fields;
Now there is only my mind;
With the sense it is being tested.
 October by Louise Glück
  
The moment I knew
wasn’t when my phone 
logged three miles        
though I had never left the basement,
my notebook crammed 
with verse I didn’t write,
or the day I couldn’t make the streets talk. 
I don’t know why I demand
the signs tell me where I’ve been.
It does me no good; violence has changed me.
  
The moment dawned with light. 
How long had I been downstairs?
I might have been tinkering.
The workbench lamp, swinging yellow, white, yellow.
At my feet, a shattered mug.
I wondered why I should hate the thing, 
why snails evolved such unlikely bodies,
water boils in the kettle, 
every October day looks like May, 
why my body has grown cold like the stripped fields.
  
The moment followed the clacking latch.
Between the stairs I saw slippers, one and two.
The way her ankles peeked
below her jeans, how she took coffee.
Are you down there, Hon? 
I heard my voice reply
I don’t know.
The moment I knew 
where once was whole body and soul 
now there is only my mind, cautious and wary.
  
Some say they fear the unknown.
I read the dying astronomer’s 
antidotes to fear of death. 
Lying on her back those nights
she would swallow all of the stars
or swim to the beginning, 
before space and time, before fear. 
How to make such lasting peace
when I wake each day 
with the sense it is being tested?

Categories
Poetry

Immanence

 I want heaven above shattered. 
 I want its silver splinters 
 picking my skin like leaves of grass 
 among clumps of green clover.
 Give me a taste of salt-in-the-wound sweetness.
 I want hell’s madness searing my soles 
 like summer dunes above the bay. 
 Bring the cool burn of gin, 
 kiss my sunburned skin.
 I want to know 
 what I’ll be missing.
  
  
Categories
Poetry

The Passing of a Poet

Mourning the Passing of a Poet

You distilled life to a poem 
Knew what to hold
What to let go.
Like a poet only you knew
Each word you left out. 

Absence carves niches in my heart
For the absent. 
Memories cast light 
On what I cannot see.
I mark your passing as I write. 

I read back lyrics
Milled from memories 
By my split heart. 
I grieve with and without words.
Categories
Poetry

Remember

Remember, echo is to laughter 
as bronze is to sculptor, 
reflection can only recall a face. 

Remember the echo grows mute, 
all traces erased in time.
Unlike sun full gold upon your face
memory of sun leaves you cold. 

I remember: A memory drawn 
from grey matter 
like ink up a quill, wicking 
up neurons, seeping down limbs, 
leaping pen’s synapse with paper,
becoming this poem. 

Remember.
So much in time 
is remembered far too little 
and too late in time.
Categories
Poetry

Fidelity

Fidelity 

These days are not grey 
as I will remember. 
Days of low fresco skies
watercolor apples
bruised
life, still life. 

These nights not empty 
as I will remember
of silver moons
cinnamon leaf-light. 

So much depends on forgetting.
But one promise 
I will remember 
every day 
each jewel of light 
grinds down to cool darkness.