Category Archives: Poem

Time enough

I long for time,
Reaching across
The table to grasp
At its keeper, 
As if I haven't 
Enough when time
Is all I have.
Time to think, 
To write, to 
Rearrange memory
There is plenty
Life is a long
Stretch of time
While you live
It. Shortened in
Retrospect, or
Not. There's 
Always enough
There's never
Enough. It slips
Or does it slither
Syncopated by 
The tocks ticking
Away minute by
Minute, its very
Precision a 
Rebuke of time
Wasted, misspent,
Of things not 
Done or undone
Gone in a flash
Lost in the hours
Unsaid or frivolous
Scolding will not
Bring them back,
Restore them.
You cannot keep
Time, it can keep
You, as it passes 
Not just in days
Or hours, seconds
But also in years,
Time holds such
Infinite variety
Its shape shifting
Hold this moment
These moments if
You can as they 
Slip like water
Into decades. 
Into memories of
Times passed, of
Time past.

With every hour

Upon awakening I quote
The Scottish play. Time
Creeps from, I say, then
Interject hour to hour.
Days, I say, are too long
I, whose mornings get 
Away from her, turning 
The corner at noon and
Too soon becoming an after
It's afternoon and where
Has my day gone, what is
It I have done with the
Promise mornings brought
How could it be that my
Leisurely pace sucked
Away the day's breath 
How could it suddenly
Be nearly two and I not
Ready to creep out to
Face the sunshine, I 
Misquote the Bard again,
From day to day, time
Creeps into all my 
Tomorrows. What have 
My days signified

Yesterday, or maybe a few days ago

There was snow on the roof.
Today, in the sunshine, it's gone
Its disappearance an absence,
As if, as if it had never been.
There was snow on that roof.
I remember it, as if, as if it was
Yesterday, or always, as if snow
On the roof was the usual, the 
Appearance I expected to see.
Its disappearance an absence,
Not a fact, not today's reality.
Memory is like that, bending 
The mind back to where it was.
Today, it's gone, its disappearance 
An absence, not today's reality. 
Memories are like that, indelible


A postscript, by way of extension, And a sigh over memory, often mislabeled fleeting, but actually etched…..

Full moon

The full moon, foolish, yet
It takes its hovering and 
Its haunting seriously as
It shines over the sky and
Beams into our windows.
Every month for twelve, it
Takes its plumpest shape
And beams a bright light
My way. Its effects make
Me foolish as if I had been
There, on the moon's face
Lighter in its atmosphere
Less weighty and serious
Myself, ready to play each
Month in the clear bright
Moonshine of a full moon

Winter’s wolf

The sassy moon fulsome and
Full, plump, hanging low in the
Center of my sky, even as the
Morning light begins to clear
Away the night that was never
Truly dark under the shine of
That fat moon or the electricity
From high-rises in its vicinity
Skies at night have no right to
Be so bright, and if they must
Be so, the moon should be the
Only beacon, the only light that
Paves the way, the sassy moon,
The savvy moon, January's light

Dawn

Objects in the half-light of
A dawning day teach me
Lessons I never sought
To learn. Lessons about
Impermanence and the 
Ways in which our eyes 
Deceive, lessons about 
Altered shapes in altered
Spaces. They show me 
How wrong I can be, and
That not everything I  see
Is right there where I think
I put it. They move, they
Change. They are not who
Or what or where I imagine
Or imagined they would be.

Behind the scenes

There's that search for the image
The one word that encompasses
The whole picture I want to paint.
The simile that is just so. The right
Adjective, an adverb to tide over
The thought that ties up the story
My poem wants to convey. In the
End we need more. More words.
More thought. More time to draw
You in. Do you see it now? There's 
The moon, but no, it's just a sliver 
Less than the piece of cake you're 
Always refusing, but so far away, I 
Can't imagine how it got into my
Bedroom window, into my heart.
There's that search for the image.

Whereto

Where does the poetry go
When it leaves us, departs
To parts unknown, perhaps 
Unknowable? May we also
Follow? Should we? Is an
Invitation required? Is it?
Don't I have an open invite
To drop by any time? Can't 
I find the lyric, the tempo,
The reason to rejoice at will?
Isn't inspiration my whim,
My whimsy and the rhythm
In my days, life as it comes
And goes. I can follow along
I can see the poetry. There,
Where I left it to sit, to stand
To rumble in the corners, to
Await a new day or an old night
Never quite gone. It's there.

Poetry

The lyrical soul is
Skipping its beats
Tonight. At a loss
As images wane in
Pedestrian forms,
It hopes; it aspires
But dreams elude
All inspiration. It is
Quieted by its lack
Of transcendence.