RHYTHM IS THE INSTRUMENT
Ministry without religion, since 2013.
Tuesday, July 8, 2025
MATURITY
Less of a ripening
than a
tipping point involved:
all that it takes
is one
or two more problems
than commensurate tomorrows
in which
they can be solved.
Monday, July 7, 2025
FINALLY
My name:
one mighty
syllable—
wind
through arborvitae;
say it
softly if you will—
if you must,
you won't be
capable.
Friday, June 20, 2025
SUMMER SOLSTICE
In tune
with the fanfare
of solar noon,
gold-fuzzed bees drift by
confused, gassed with the scent
of a million flowers;
and birdsongs
are launched
from a cache of cool rocks,
then pitched at you
underhand
by the same clement wind.
But what measure is disguised
by glinting treasure
troves of light?
One day, you might
appraise this as the longest
of your life.
Thursday, June 19, 2025
ODYSSEYS
Year after year,
we inure,
stay aloof;
we insulate our ears
from the siren
song of future—or else,
disguise ourselves
from ourselves
to walk like a ghost
through the Ithaca
of our hearts—
which only serves,
to all we meet,
as proof of how engrossed—
how
invested
we still are—
in our most
deceitful
and adulterous parts.
Wednesday, June 18, 2025
DEMOTION
And here
I think I am
all alone—
think I am
the subject
of this poem—
when a trio of round bees
lands, keen
but conscientiously
to steal
from the rough
swirls of clover where I sit
those leading-man kisses,
which go on
long enough
to make me feel
invisible—yet more
than a little embarrassed. .
Tuesday, June 17, 2025
CODEPENDENCE
What is faith
but the process
of making up shapes
in my mouth
as I go?
There is no—
there is no—
no such thing as—
a correct structure,
I stutter;
yet I can't
shake the feeling
that something
must come next.
*
Not to sound
defeatist,
or morose—but
I'm a completist, so
carve it on my stone:
Here Lies A Sucker
For Matters Of Course.
Reality may be
a bad marriage,
but I'm far too
invested in it now
to divorce;
in fact, the quicker
time passes,
the less and less
I even notice
the flicker.
Monday, June 16, 2025
WILDFLOWERS
From pasture
to parkland, parkland
to landfill,
from swirl of hills
to roadside ditch,
let the nominal
pests and invasives
proliferate—
their odd-
numbered petals,
their frowsy leaves
once drenched
with the curious
blue rain of night,
now lousy
with inviolate light—
filthy with
the summer wind.
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