signs, portents, bells (20171109)

seems innocent enough
a holiday display
a single word
with a dozen tiny lights
the word
joy
as seen
from outside
shining in a window

but looking at it
from inside
with the lights turned off
it looks so much like
you
but broken
or stunted at least
if not shattered

this isn’t
a fundamental or cosmic truth
and i’m not reading
anything into the odd bit of
seasonal dyslexia
or the inside/outside holiday dichotomy

it just struck me
is all

apex (20161207)

the hawk took up more space
than its feathered frame implied
brooding on the light pole pinnacle
watching cars
smart enough to know
that some rabbit would eventually
be spooked by the growl of tires
and make a break for the cover
of the sparse, low brush
lining the onramp

for a moment i’m that hawk
hooded eyes
cool detachment from everything
not at eye level

but all too soon
i am again that rabbit
hoping for sharp shadows
tall grasses
slow traffic
or the mercy of the tire

Poem 20160214

i want to be a cartographer
when i grow up
although only a grown up ought to say
that he wants to chart every curve
every hill
every slope
of you

the map is not the territory they say
but i refuse to create an unusable guide
–something destined for a dusty
grave beneath a book
on some mouldering shelf–
without first hand knowledge
of the topography of your body

i suppose a grown up would not
say such a thing
–just so
then let me remain caught between
this youthful lust
and an old man’s cautious wisdom
and let us go exploring