15 February 2018

Why Earthworms are Good and Slugs are Evil

I would really like to post something here other than incoherent and esoteric poetry.  I'm not sure whether any of these are good, I'm mostly just throwing things up against the wall to see what sticks. (That's how I cook food, too.) If there's still an audience reading this blog, I'd love it if you'd scroll down and look over the poems I've written over the last few months and let me know which of them resonated with you the most.  If there's a poem that doesn't resonate with you, let me know as well. This is a massive experiment and I'm really curious as to whether any of it is working.


Pop pop pop pop
It’s raining agin.
Pop pop pop pop
The earthworms know what’s up.
Dad says earthworms are good,
slugs are evil.
Like the bees and wasps, I suppose.
And he’s right,
earthworms are soft and slippery
they squiggle and squirm in your hand and
tickle your fingertips
You always put them down when your done withum
back in their home. It’s indoors for them
outdoors for me, Mom says.
Slugs are slimy and sticky, though
You don’t wanna pick em up, ory’hafta
wipe it all off on your shirt, and even then
your hands don’t feel right agin until
you’ve rubbed some dirt on em.

Topsy-turvy tumblings on the trampoline
Dad says you can break your neck if
you’re not careful
But we never break our neck
That only happens to bad kids
You hear stories about them
(one uvom even died!!!!)
I can’t do a flip, but Jim can.
Issokay, I can still fit in small spaces
that he can’t fit in.
We wrestled on the trampoline
in the dark. Jim won.

Topsy-turvy tumblings on the trampoline
it was the closest my face ever was to a girl
sitting there, light bouncing of her hair
almost touching, not even jumping.
I liked her better than jumping.

20 December 2017

The Tears of God

I have fought with Satan and emerged
Triumphant but not Victorious
The schoolboy who answers taunts
Loses even as he wins
The battle begins before it begins
And ends when it begins.

Close your eyes and curl up
For the long desert night of the soul
A whip behind and a worm ahead
And nothing in between
Save your breath and ration your heartbeats
For the long desert night of the soul
Time is both ahead and behind
So do not fall out of his footprints.

The Nile is departed.
Like the pump of pistons without water
Like bone against bone in the bodies of old men
The Nile is departed.
We are dizzy from the deep droughts
Out of neon, 21st century temples
Though it is not warmer than fire, it is brighter.
You would not snuff it out
If the glow of your phone was the only light?

Winter was our curse
Snow was our forgiveness
A way to cushion the fall
Because our punishment was
Too great to bear.
How much deeper must we plunge into
The long desert night, O God?
Will You embalm us like your Lazarus?
Will You weep for us?

17 October 2017

The Man with No Echo

The season aiónios washes patiently
Over the whittle and worry
Of man’s movement; the tenor
Of Time; squeaky boots
Which scuttle and scurry in a hurry
Making the music of fledgling flutists
Who breathe too soon and too soon
Managing only to gasp out a husky whisper.
Ashes to ashes and mist to mist
They sound waves too short and hot
To travel very far and low
One Pop! One isolated movement
Dead and gone like a shot
Like a shot without an echo.

29 September 2017

The Water-Bead World

Observe the water-bead
clinging to the clover-leaf
observe the little figures
of the inner innerworld

They do not walk on a convex
pulling downwards
but on a concave pushing upwards
tending towards some unknown center

Pools give insight
of the other otherworld
a chance to see your face
as your face sees you

To see the terrible kingdom
of inverted beauty
dashed to pieces by a pebble
or a breath of wind

I have seen the child-kingdom
that fat paedriarch atop a heap
of glorious scrappings
It needs no sleep, and tells me the secrets
of the perilous perilous realm

Observe this, this absurd subverting Truth
which our eyes cannot convert
the only Reality we will
ever have the pleasure 
of unknowing 

27 September 2017

Pât pat pat pat Pât pat pat pat

Pat pat pat on the window panes
Small pale fingers on the cold clear glass
Small hot hand leaves a frosty stain
And waits for the pat pat pat to pass

Water in the gutter, signalling the fall
Signalling the final phase of fires fading fast
Time to pile pillows into playgrounds in the hall,
Time to save the daylight
from the day that doesn't last

25 August 2017


This animal shall not die without witnesses.
Green and red intermingle to produce
A hot heathenish color, a sticky infection in 
The forest. The green is dark now, like poison.
It is darker now that the sun has looked away.
Still, they are looking. The forest looks.

This animal shall not die without witnesses.
The ants go marching one by one
Red and green intermingle uncertainly
And in my dream, the red overcame the green.
The ants go marching one by one
The ants go marching one by one

When they are hungry, they grow to be
Larger than racoons, and they are hungry.
These are the raincloud of witnesses,
Come to celebrate. You can hear them
Crunching the grass from under
Ground; it makes me whiskers twitch.

“Gentlemen! You know God forbids
To drink the blood of the dead.”
“Forbidden? Then why did He
Make our coats such lustrous red?
Do this in remembrance of Me, He said
And where is He now? He also is dead.”

“Oh ants! Why don’t you hesitate?
Are you not ashamed, not afraid?”
“We have no time, no time to wait!
If we don’t eat, our neighbors will.
And they certainly don’t hesitate”—
They added with a shudder.

This animal shall not die without witnesses.
And how did I become one among the eyes
Which glows in bushes around the dead?
I used to strain my ears to hear
The laughter of the forest: now, I can’t
Get it out of my head.

18 August 2017

The Worship of Defiance

Evil is not a force but a cavity
Rotting stones underneath the foundations
            of the earth
Evil is a force with a purpose
Not decomposition: the orderly re-
            verse and renewal
Of hexagonal flakes
But deconstruction: the harvest of matter
Before harvest, leaving only flakes.

The motley grizzly of the earth
Runs a certain manly course
The spring berries, and summer salmon
And honey during harvest-moon.
He does not deviate from the habits of men
And though he’s safe beneath the firs
He has forgotten, he has forgotten.

The Greater She-Bear of the sky
Never bathes in th’ ocean wave
Her white neck is outstretched ever North
She knows that life abides in the colder
Regions, where the air is thin
No-one who has drunk from the heavenly hives
Shall ever thirst, shall ever thirst again.

The bees of the earth make gold
But the bees of the stars make silver
Stringing their polygons in spirals for
pedestrians who comb
Along the shores of space. They make
Food fit for their make: planets are like
Pebbles to them: they weave their wax
Out of suns, and the sun is their home.
For the bees of the stars know their art
They know that the temper of celestial milk
Must last them a longer winter than
            their urban cousins.

Gold is young, but silver is old
Gold is warm, but silver is cold
Gold is better, or so we are told:
Gold is good, but silver is gold.
Is the ocean a friend to man?
Is God a ghost, but a good ghost?
Or is the only worship
The worship of defiance?

It is true, we have lost the claim to kingship
But how is the rightful heir restored—
In the City of Man? By participation
Or conquest? Or is the only worship
The worship of defiance?

The bees of the earth make gold
But the bees of the stars make silver
What mad pursuit? I’ll wonder no more
At the fiery hunt. The boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.

[1] T.S. Eliot “Four Quartets” 59-61