Reading from Basho,
I pause to ponder the rain.
I feel him smiling.
Category Archives: Poetry
one leg tucked beneath her,
chin resting on the bent knee of the other.
Her hands rest, one palm up
one palm down
From her fingers flow
Knowing is not all.
Understanding is not enough.
1. any of various wild or cultivated trees (genus Malus) that are cultivars or relatives of the cultivated apple and that produce small sour fruit
Having characteristically not thought it
all the way through,
we had a house full of guests
and nowhere to be alone
the day we sprang our wedding
on our families.
Because we were living on my stipend
and whatever you bashfully collected
from carpentry and guitar repairs,
a few sympathetic dears
took up a collection
and sent us to a hotel for the night.
As we crossed the lawn to our rented room,
almost shyly holding hands,
you paused and cocked your head.
“It’s our wedding night,”
you murmured,”you should have flowers.”
And you reached up and broke a branch
from a flowering tree, laying it
tenderly in my hands
as your offering.
It was May
and the blooms were still sweet.
Will’s First Search (Engine)
I was just talking with a former boss about how people I work with like to play with me. There was a period of time during which, when I got too intensely focused on client work, my management would post writing challenges on my whiteboard. So, this poem is for Bill Dawson, who gave me the “assignment” of writing a Shakespearean sonnet addressing the uncomfortable fact that the word “Google” can be broken down into “Go ogle.”
Whilst pond’ring rhymes to use as subtle seductions,
a loutish lad with clothes and accent strange
produced a “tool” he said would speed eduction.
His malevolous mallecho has left me quite deranged.
What ho! In light revealed to wand’ring eyes
but wench upon wench in shocking ruttish pose
with lily stomachs, buttocks, necks, and thighs
all lacy-draped – they left me uncomposed!
Forsooth, Victoria’s secrets there laid bare
and rendered me a fustilarian thrill’d.
Their ivory breasts! Their shameless curves! So fair
I soon forgot what I’d set out to quill.
E’er after do they haunt my roguish dreams,
since now I know what this “Go ogle it” means.
For the love of a past life.
I can’t find my way back
the only trail is a broken path
of things half-said or unsaid
with outcroppings of silence
hanging darkly over it
for a while,
I saw you in the distance —
a glimpse of your shirt
a flash of your hair in the sun —
as you receded from me
don’t judge me too harshly
I never knew what to do
with a love like that
how was I supposed to carry it?
where did it fit?
where do you put something that big
and frightening and heavy?
so I shrugged it off and set out
feeling lighter for a while
but that’s not the way it works
you don’t just set those things down
wipe your hands on your jeans
and stride off, the road suddenly straighter
eventually, the weight of its absence hits you
and you realize it contained essentials:
the other half of your soul
and now I’m wandering
my direction muddled
my feet stumbling
no stars for steering
and no Home in sight
Oh, we have such big ideas
for such a little space of hours!
We plan and scheme
and debate how best
to spend this cache of a day
in industrious (virtuous!)
We make lists
and organize and map
We get lost in our own
And the day lazily unravels…
…until we are holding
only the frayed tail end of it
in our idle fingers,
wondering how to knit it up again
into something to show
for all we haven’t done.