Thursday, July 10, 2025

TWILIGHT OF THE IDOLS

          Is man merely a mistake of God's?
          Or God merely a mistake of man's?
               -Neitzsche

Some causal chains 
are so long, thought 
cannot wind them;

others, as inexorable 
as the final chord in songs.

Quirky and immortal
and mercurial 
as quarks—

as wiseacre cartoon 
rabbits, pigs, and ducks—

the first gods must have sprung 
from the volcanic 
islands of our minds

as general outlines,
suggested by the anxious 
agitation of our motions—

then grew tall
and strong on all
the sugar, fat, and salt 

of our desperate hopes 
and fevered questions, 

til at last they turned 
misshapen 
and strange,

which gradually changed 
to strange-
ly quiet—

then just dead-
silent—

then just 
dead-wrong. 


Wednesday, July 9, 2025

THE SHARP END OF THE SPEAR

In the end, every life
is a dull heavy shaft 

which is suddenly honed 
to a breathtaking point; 

and each, the sole bearer's 
precious own to lose, 

the splendid 
and the simple one.

Given time, good and bad 
fade to ignorance—then pity; 

after ignominy, 
after fame, 

there waits the same 
oblivion. 


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. .