Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Chasing Sunsets

The sun faded in front of him as he headed west.

No matter how fast he drove,

The golden goal eluded him nightly,

Hiding carefully on the back side of the world.

And he ignored everything trying to catch the sun:

The vast cornfields of Iowa, the orange waters of the Colorado River

Flowing through canyons of ancient clay, and the sounds,

The sights, his wife.

“When I get to the shore,

You’ll be waiting for me,” he chided his nemesis.

And so he chased that sun until he got to the Golden coast,

Where the sun did, in fact, wait. Then laughed.

Then faded out of his sight.

July, 2008

Power Outage

Power Outage
The heat from this – the hottest day of the year –
Caused the electricity in the entire town to go out,
Presumably from everyone in the area
Turning on their air-conditioners at the same time.
(What good it did them … and the rest of the town)

With not much food in the refrigerator to go bad,
I placed the beer in a large cooler,
Went to the store for a couple bags of ice,
bought another 6-pack in case I run out,
returned home and took the cooler by the pool.

I imagined thousands of people lying on their couches,
Probably with a fan going,
Even more likely with a cell phone in hand,
Calling the electric company complaining of the problem,
And keeping one eye always on the blank clock above the stove.

I sat alone by the pool with a book in complete silence.
The pool’s filter was not running, the hum of the water treatment
Plant made no sound, nor was there a radio,
Loudly playing from neighbor’s yards,
Music I rarely liked to listen to myself.

The only sounds were page flips, and prose bouncing off my brain,
directly into my heart when a stanza rang true.
The birds, too, hiding from the heat in shade, sporadically chirped,
As if they also read a line that touched them so deeply enough
That they wanted to share in my delight.

As sun sank lower behind the trees that line my yard,
the words slowly faded from my sight, and, without
a light to turn on, my reading for the day was done.
How much misery people must be enduring, I thought,
of having to talk and listen without the aid of music or television.

All day long, non-readers were forced to suffer constant conversation.
Hearing stories they wished not to hear,
Telling tales to others, who reciprocated their disinterest.
Silence broke when the hum of electricity elicited a cheer from bored lovers.
It is truly sad how far away we’ve traveled from each other.

Summer

Song of Summer’s End

And so summer sank down to autumn,

Like Sunday into a Monday morning.

Aware of the metaphor like the new

Breeze that blows this time of year.

Everything begins earlier: the streets clearing,

The light illuminating front porches,

Retreating to the pillow to finish that chapter,

The moons tug-of-war with the sun.

Our eyes adjust to the dark, like our

Body’s clock to our new schedule,

Our clothes to our clientele,

Trading our choice of books for theirs.

The morning cup of coffee seems more

Imperative now than ever, clear-headed

Lazy mornings will now be spent stressing

Looking for keys or a matching sock.

Give me my August back, with campfires

And summer flames roaring at peak heat.

Give me my August, with blue horizons over

Mountaintops, and the lilacs still blooming with hope.

Auden said, “Time will say nothing but I told you so,”

Yet we still cheat on logic with our faith.

August 2008

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Newest

Almost Ten O’clock in New Delhi

Almost ten o’clock in New Delhi,
But there’s green everywhere around me at home.
The traffic light on the library wall, the young girls tank top,
The stretch of lawn like someone painted a parking lot.

Thoughts overwhelm silence
And yawning is contagious
Enlightenment followed by sleep is best
Or is it vice versa?

The stopped clock gives new meaning to
“where did the time go?”
What is considered a greater loss of our lives,
In play or in study?

The smoke follows the tree to Earth
A summer spent inside
Glasses on and an unshaven face
I am impressing no one.

July, 2008


A Young Girl in the Library

A ball of nervousness in front of me,
Foot tapping the ground incessantly,
Switching legs each minute,
Fist to her chin, studying something I probably
Don’t understand.
An unopened dictionary sits on her bag,
She’s switching from pen to pencil, pencil to pen,
Erasing mistakes then writing new ones and
Adjusting her glasses from time to time.
Scratching her head like from underneath her eyebrows
Will fall the answers.
And at what point do I tell her to relax?
It’s only a test.

July, 2008

Por Ejemplo

Does a man’s library say more about his intellect or his arrogance?

Why do we use the term “fighting for peace”?

Why do we cry over the wrong things?

Have you ever criticized someone you didn’t know personally to make yourself seem better?

Why do we require kids to go to school, but don’t require them to do any of the work?

How come we keep looking an answer to all of our problems when we know there’s not just one?

How can I drink more bottled water in one day than some people do in an entire lifetime?

Does my dog think she’s smarter than me? Is she right?

Why don’t newspapers publish poetry anymore?

If Paris Hilton can get a book deal and I can’t, does that mean she’s a better writer than I am?

Why have we made living in the ghetto seem cool?

If our technology has improved, why hasn’t our intellect?

Why am I sometimes more concerned with calling myself a writer than I am producing writing?

Is the pen mightier than the sword because it’s the pens that send the swords to war?

How come I can praise God if I win something, but not curse him if I lose something?

Why doesn’t Redman just join the Wu-Tang Clan?

How in the world did the Patriots lose the Super Bowl?

If alcoholism skips a generation and both of my grandfathers were alcoholics, am I screwed?

Whatever happened to the idea that swearing is not acceptable around women and little kids?

When did we, as a country, lose our morals?

Whatever happened to the bounce pass in basketball?

How come Vermont keeps letting child molesters out of prison?

Why did my parents always say, “this hurts me more than it hurts you?” I’m pretty sure that wasn’t true.

Why won’t someone create a third major political party?

How much does a man’s spirit have to break before he wishes to hold a gun over a pencil?

Why do we wish for our days to end then arrogantly think that our last one is far away?

Why are the dreams we have at night taken more seriously than the ones we have during the day?

Who decided which words are feminine and which are masculine? Did the words have their say?

Do two waves on distant shores ever crash at the same time?

Does any sound have a twin?

What came first, voice or thought? Who decided to combine the two? And how come we haven’t perfected that yet?

What has more influence over the advancement of human kind, good or evil?

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

The Morning Paper

On the front page, the headline reads,
TOT FALLS FROM 2ND FLOOR
and below it, an article about an angry man
who released his vicious dog into a backyard
of swimming children.
I flip the paper over and remove my glasses.
On the porch in my parents yard,
the sun is emerging behind me,
the sparrows and robins are competing
for the award in best song.
How lucky I am to have this life.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

My Wonderful, Thoughtful, Rational, and Diplomatic Girlfriend

“You never ask about my day”
She admonished.
She was fingering the points
On her fork. For dexterity, I assumed.

“You always stop me mid-story
Because I reminded you
Of something that happened to you
Earlier today or last week.

“Maybe it is my fault,
Or maybe it is society’s fault.
We look to self-gratification first
Or, rather, we subconsciously try to prove our self-importance.”

I thought of paraphrasing Thoreau
But I bit my tongue.
Then I lifted my wine glass to my lips
And finished the last swallow of cabernet

Mirroring my actions
She did the same
And the diatribe continued about how
It could just be that she cared
More about others than herself.

“Much unlike you,” she said conclusively.
I nodded as if what she said
Was as legitimate a fact as
The sun rising in the east.

“You’re not even listening anymore,” she said.
She lifted her empty glass, annoyed.
“I need more wine,
What the fuck was our waitresses name again?”

April 2008

Not titled yet

She has become my muse,
My literary property
The greatest play
Yet to be written

Valued by nature’s first gold
Rivaled only by lightning flashing
Over mountains in a raven-colored sky:
Terrifying but beautiful to behold

And so I gaze on from afar
Silently longing and watching
The stars in the sky solemnly
Dropping into the palms of her hands

November, 2007