Category: Book 1

She said, "Spring will come."
I said, "Yes, but it's okay.
I don't mind the cold."

Each day turns up one new card
this one tells me nothing
knowing meanings can be hard
emptiness puts me on guard
maybe it's just bluffing

The tower rose, all arabesque and white
a thrusting gesture at the patient skies.

Painting at right by Pieter Bruegel the Younger, 1563

[daily log: walking, 1km]

Work to ignore the critic, just babbling…
but – like trees – eremitic…
dendritic.

that wild man enkidu in the fields
galivanting and breaking things
shaking his fist at the sun
no one approved of this
the woman shamhat
went out to him
there that's nice
now he's
tamed

dark path… I looked up
the red moon staining old snow
over in the east

Air and earth and latent meaning
made of categories,
skulking there behind the leaning
sheets of stone just intervening –
all important stories.

a few snowflakes fell
some fat ones drifting sideways
children tasted them

In the monster's mind was pain, so it thrashed;
it killed rather than complain –
not quite sane.

isolation gives
a needed rest. the sun shines
but the air is cold.

December, 627
The Emperor Iraklios disliked
the foggy plains where Sumer once held sway.
He marched for Ctesiphon, but then turned back;
they’d cut the bridges, stopping any chance.
He’d made his point regardless: King of Kings
in Persia signed the treaty in the end.
[daily log: walking, 7.5km]

I have one hour till I have to go.
I'll make one more cup of coffee.
And think of something to write.
It's hard to imagine.
Meanwhile the sun slants.
Dust motes settle.
Motionless.
Static.
Still.

clear time tumbles down
spilling out onto the path
forming ice crystals

Skies aglow with drops of Canaan,
cupric calm advancing,
broken blue and sun-filled heaven
frozen earth, all motion waning,
stones will stop their dancing.

The Martians came for lovely weather, then,
and put up houses on the tops of hills
to look out over earth's inhabitants.
They were in fact invading just for fun.

Age asserted pains and torments,
Feelings drifted downward.
Guillible neuronal contents
Spun and spiralled, broke in segments,
Grim-faced birds of doubt soared.

Remember when to yawn seemed refreshing?
Yawning now sucks: cancer-themed
pain undreamed.

Dreams unfurl like flags of symbols
each unknown in context:
first I saw the men make troubles,
then one man whose face resembles
world destroying vortex…

The emperor doesn't care that he's naked.
He's like, check this shit out, man, and fuck you all.

This "poem" is at great variance from my typical approach for making a poem. But it appeared spontaneously in my blotter – my ongoing note-taking document where my poems typically appear. And I decided to just go ahead and include it. I still consider it poetry, though of a different register.

The other day I woke. It was dark.
I made coffee. Sat for a while.
Light clarified my window.
So I stood to look out.
I saw clouds and sky.
Why does the sky
crack into
fragments?
Dawn.

The sky was grayish
with some tinges of yellow.
The earth was made air.

Some lesson plans – despite hopes – seem to fail.
Against this, the teacher mopes
or just copes.

Gold bits spin beneath closed eyes
Nothing but the night cares
Moons and planets grasp dark skies
Dead and broken leaves breathe sighs
Nothing but the night cares

The day had started with snow, unfolding
like a monotone rainbow,
hours ago.

[daily log: walking, 6.5km]

A dull piece of bread,
Some coffee with added milk,
Snow falling at dawn.

Lift the pencil, write some lines,
Force the words all out.
Graphite glyphs as yearned for signs,
Making text that redefines
Facts as seeds of doubt.

The frigid air, a week before, had lurked
across America, but now, it seems,
it's slipped beyond the polar realms, and down
into the east of Asia where I am.

Just
Tuesday.
The long week
stretches ahead.
Though I like my work,
Sometimes I start feeling
stuck, frustrated, and doubtful,
about my actual teaching.
Wanting to be good isn't enough.

The snow stuck in spots,
in weird patterns on sidewalks
in patches near trees.

The snow doesn't come when it's forecast,
instead it waits and just sneaks in
at those unexpected times
between the days and hours,
at the welds of time.
No one sees it:
the sky fills…
motes of
white.

Certain flaws of character
tattooed on the skin of the soul
and borne agonistically
through the beautiful world
without compromise or clarity.

This poem, unlike most of my daily efforts so far, has no meter. It's free verse.

[daily log: walking, 7.5km]

Of course the winter is cold, I might muse
walking homeward from work.. old,
not so bold.