Is Life But a Dream?

At times life is a parade

in a tumultuous rain

that starts as a monsoon then

turns into a tsunami.

Wait, . . . no, 

that’s not life . . .

that was 

last night’s dream.

At times I confuse the two

and who can do poetry

in a confused state . . . like mine,

which is, like, Alabama.

What is, and what is not, are

so nearby, the difference 

can be difficult to tell,

like that door of Beckett’s play

“imperceptibly ajar.”

Now, dear reader, if a door

be in such state, can we say

whether it’s open or closed?

At times a mind is like that.

Room for One

Truly it is not what’s out 

there that presents my sure plight, 

keeping me from my delight.

Surely it is not some lout

next door awaiting to plot

my true and humble demise.

So it has to be the bout

convulsing here inside me

hiding from me such device

that with tick-tock precision

does the wrong I’d rather not,

shuns the right I know to do.

So be it, on the cushion

of contemplation there sits 

only me . . . myself . . . mere I.

Dust

It appears to be taking

over the house I live in.

Some of it happens to be

skin cells I daily do shed.

Otherwise it’s ev’ry place

I go, and is predicted

(by scripture) to be lying

in wait for me, and for you.

Dust to dust, ashes to ash ―  

we all know our prognosis. 

Wherever we go, there we 

must be, but rusting at bay.

And yet, when I go to make

a poem, time and place slip 

away, leaving nowhere for

me to be found, or found out.

There, in my very absence,  

poems are found, dusting things.

Words Act

 Words . . .

without them, speech would dry up.  

A mouth would do nothing but 

breathe and eat, maybe whistle.  

Take away words and all books 

would vanish into thin air—

let alone the Internet.  

All those fine Hallmark greetings  

would pass away like postcards 

from travel spots, or letters from battles.

Sermons would melt in the dust

like so much hot air, as would

all political fare, say lawmaking.

Imagine counseling or

car-selling or carousing

without words—too tongue-tying.

No song would ever be sung

and no say of how we feel, 

think, dream, mourn or imagine—

save for paintings, photographs,

dance, instrumental music:

every meaningful gesturing

act . . . 

like kissing, hugging, holding

hands, or the attentiveness 

of another’s piercing gaze.

My Best Friend at 12

I never did get to say goodbye 

to my best friend in the coal mining camp 

who did live across the street from me.  

This friend,—

for whom I gave my life at the Alamo, and 

with whom I played in the ’53 World Series, and

beside whom I steered a dinghy down the Amazon,—

was killed in Vietnam.

He died not in battle, not even in a “skirmish,” but in 

traffic as a military pedestrian, or so I was told

long after the event, too late to mourn properly.  

After lo, so many years away from the scene,—

not being there, but rather

safely tucked in my theology school dread 

when I learned he was dead,—

that remains among the saddest days of my life. 

Learning of his death I was flooded 

with the fact that I never said I was sorry 

for the time I did almost blind him.

Playing Tarzan, I pulled down upon him a vine 

from which we were swinging and, 

with a thud, it left a mark on his face

for his parents to hold against me and

for which he can never forgive me.

Whatsoever Is, Spurs Us On

Abundant life is rife with 

glorious distractions that

beg attention away from 

the spur of a just moment.

Yet we need but be still for 

any diversion to serve

as a wake-up call . . . to be 

here now, to be found no where 

without some relaxed notice.

A Father’s Prerogative

So I sit here viewing a photo

a good friend took of our elder son

giving a toast at the wedding of

our son younger, the elder so poised, 

with his wonderful wife looking on

smiling, as if her husband had just 

made a humorous remark so bright

as to put the whole party at ease, 

and so it was, as I remember.

I do remember, as though it were

yesterday, how proud I was of both

boys, by then grown men in need of no

influence I might have on either, . . .

evermore.  The heart is here still too 

full to recall the event with coarse

objectivity and that, too, proves

a mighty gift, for I feel I am

at the end of a tale worth telling:

Still sitting, looking at the picture

years after the event now in mind, 

the tears doth flow here like a river

of living waters, leaving behind

such solace no father doth deserve.

I Am That I Move

I rest here of one mind in 

a small plot of one planet,

itself a mere dot of blue

ink dribbled, as by default, 

onto a page so vast that 

it holds every story ever told, 

any that ever will be.

The masthead of this vast page

is immovable, without 

form or speech unmoved . . . and yet

Moveo, ergo sum.

Aphasia

He is not what he has, nor 

is he what he lacks having,

a memory of teaching

her to throw and hit a ball.

He is not that expression

that now and then comes and goes 

across his face, making known,

to one and all, his feeling.

He is not even the strength

of body he retains from 

a life spent training to win

this or that cycling event.

No, he is not in the least 

what he may seem to those who

struggle to manage his non

compliant will to resist

being told what to do, when

his whole life has prepared him 

to fight for what’s left inside,

his own felt integrity.

Yes, day by day, even that

silently slips through the hour 

glass, . . . yet in that, he hardly 

differs from the rest of us.

Snow in Spring

Like snow in spring
things melt as they meet
being's empty mound