Sparks from a Single Fire

Sparks from a single fire they are, numerous
yet mysterious as quarks: women wink
and blink through one man's life, full of fret,
each another variation on a recurring theme.
There's no need to worry whether you'll achieve
the turbid dream, one impressed since birth,
the one telling you you're incomplete unless
you're partnered. But be heartened, sparks fade
and so does hurt, and the fire that started it all
remains stalwart and doesn't stall, and one day
you'll be free from all this beguiling thrall.









poetry

Flux and Fire

Flux and fire, the old Greek said -
though now he's long since dead.
What's beneath the steeple or the spire
fails to compare to the unrivaled allure
of such a thing as a bird on the wing,
born without the charge or the care
of an anthropic Master, minuscule or large.
This Greek was clearly prescient: no god
had a hand in the thrust of the pheasant,
flushed from a field by a fox on the prowl.
Yet some folks still seek bromidic answers
beneath the spire or the steeple. And still
others believe that a trust in apparitions
remains the opiate of the people.









poetry
Heraclitus

A Spring Robin

A spring robin sings the sun awake,
as dawn breaks - not with a quake,
but a quiver of liquid color - a river
of blood-red or vermilion. The bird
stakes its claim with verve, but without
thought to maim or hurt, a song
filled not with dread but with mirth.











poetry

Pigeons Suddenly Burst

Pigeons suddenly burst out of the city skyline,
flaunting muscular flight and deft maneuvers
to fend off the thirst for feathered flesh haunting
their fidgety habits: the strife incited by the chase
of the falcon perturbs the previously halcyon
state of the oblivious pigeon. It's so obvious
the difference between life and death depends
sometimes on only the smallest smidgen.







poetry

Crows in Snow

Crows in snow: immobile they resemble
irregular blocks of coal. When floating on
freezing air, they become like free-flowing
wisps of smoke, without care, anathema
to our earthbound stroke of cosmic un-luck:
we're slotted to plod like a duck but stuck
without a flare for flight, or the easy freedom
bequeathed to those unaware of despair.

poetry

Keep Your Shoulder to the Door

Keep your shoulder to the door
that feels like a weighty boulder,
because as you get older you get
weaker, and the world outside
grows colder, and that part of you
that used to be bolder, and a seeker,
returns to what it was before,
and down at your very core
your prospects turn even bleaker.

poetry