Riddles

All those riddles with which we fiddle
can trap us in philosophical muddles
or topical nettles. We can try to start
with the end, like some backwards art -
always a tough nut to crack; or try
the beginning, working toward the heart,
being careful not to get off track.
Where we can't begin is in the middle,
because then everything just falls apart.

Anniversaries

On anniversaries, some of us compose verses
while others give roses, and still others forget
altogether, inadvertently casting dispersions
on what should really be unperturbed excursions
into amorous depths of ever greater complexity,
as the inexorable outreaching of desire emerges
perpetually compelling us like a destiny.

A Dog Has No Name

A dog has no inherent name,
nor any need of guilt or shame,
bearing within its bristling frame
a brief, tenuous, solitary flame
arousing it to play raucous games
without resolution, without blame.

Starlings

A starling is a starling is a starling,
with not much variation in the offing,
and hardly any inkling of distinctness.

Between spears of starchy grass
Lilliputian yard-darlings prod and stab,
each bird wrapped in its inky fabric
through which little astral pinpricks peek.

Littering the lawn with feathered automata,
in an otherwise aimless chain of phenomena,
this trilling genus secures its own startling niche
wending tenuously through time and space.

Just What the Hell is a Thought?

Just what the hell is a thought?
Is it ethereal, or is it finely wrought
like a steel blade or an iron bell?
Does it have height, width, or weight?
Does it bully its way into your ken,
or can it wait? Is it maybe self-made:
out of nothing, something came?
Or did it have its start, a special fate,
when the Cosmos burst and flew apart?
Does it stand in line, one in the queue
stretching backward until out of view?
Is it possible for any thought to be new,
when countless thinkers have tinkered
with all the riddles they knew to exist
back when the world was young,
their mental mill filled with grist?

Passion is a perturbation of placidity

Passion is a perturbation of placidity,
a disruption in the fluidity of thought.
The mining for meaning grinds to a halt,
and soon one's previously shining mind
devolves into a flickering perplexity,
and composure into desire for closure,
for the consummation of that tiny inkling
that preceded this torrent of fiery fervor.