on movement and butterflies

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we strike a conversation by the
lantanas,

tiny blooms of yellow and red
that ask to be held in a
half-smirk’ed gaze,

and wonder on the best way
to get from flower
to
flower

i suggest she fly
let the wind be her motor or
anchor to her sail boat

i’ve seen the
                    way she moves

leaf
                    and
                                        smoke
on the wind

she says i should take the bus
which when said out-loud is
of course, absurd

and so maybe i’ll walk
while she feigns envy at how
i move against the grass

but it’s me who bleeds jealousy
at the pace she keeps /

and i know i still have
so much to learn about
movement and flowers

meditation


closing my eyes
to meditate

and i see only the faint
hint of light behind my eyelids
existing just beyond
that thinnest of barriers

and my mind wanders
and wonders
                    in wonder how

                    anyone can get anything
                    done

meditating since it feels
so much like doing nothing
with my eyes closed

and there is laundry piling
up, kitty Litter to scoop

perhaps i am a
lost cause or doing it wrong
my mind unwilling to clear
                    the way they say it should
be and i’m not even
sure what that means since

how does somebody
think about nothing when

nothing doesn’t really
exist

and now there is a ball
of nothing floating
aimlessly around my mind

like green yarn,

so that
i find myself
thinking of a green ball of yarn
floating in space

and find that i have never
been more relaxed
or ready

to tackle existential
riddles

my life as the moon against a studded sky


bright against a studded sky
i am the moon
who brings up tides
in the wake of my rising
 
half eye squinting between
ripened citrus trees
finite in my reach
 
and yet
                    far reaching
 
i am the younger brother /
stoic captain in a night sea
 
yellow eyed demon and purveyor
of romantic and cursed alike
who howl for my favor
and sing to my good graces
 
                    i am the entryway
to a solitary chorus
 
portal through the thickness
of the dark
 
i am the gilded silver
of the nighttime sky
                    eremitic and alone

how i lacked imagination

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we play rock-paper-scissors
and i lose

not because i let him win but
because he’s beaten me
with a well placed dinosaur;
hands chomping
                    at my fingers

                    / at three years old he’s figured
                    dinosaurs should no doubt

                    beat rock paper and/or
                    scissors every time

                                        which is true /

when i try to explain that the game
is in fact not called
rock-paper-scissors-dinosaur

he shakes his head as if
pitying me my lack of imagination

readying himself for
                    another go

catching bubbles

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ah, the futility of catching bubbles
in bare hands
those blown out the yellow bubble
blower sitting on the patio table

but we try,
and fail and instead count
our successes not in the bubbles
we’ve caught and put into a
glass jar

but in the minutes spent laughing at
the cat as he
tries to catch them as well

and part of my brain is
telling me

this is a metaphor for something

but I can’t think what, i don’t have the time
/ too busy catching bubbles floating
up between laughter and the cat’s
fruitless swiping

view from the mirror

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i look in the mirror and see
a grown man
beard speckled with grays lost
on their trip south
from the tangle of hair north of my eye
brows

                    the light from the
vanity reflected in them

and i think i am seeing myself
for the first time

a poem yet to be written / a man
yet to wander further than the dank
tile of the bathroom

& i see a man grown
old enough to drink at weddings;
a poem waiting for
another stanza

breathing in scents of manhood in
shaving cream and sharp razers
dancing along my neck

                    behind me the door is open,
                    an unmade bed reflected
                    in the clean glass

it is a cyclical thing

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it is not everyone who has had
multiple births – and by
association, multiple deaths

i emerge each time as a
witless spud, devoid of prior
knowledge;
               dying as a witless spud
knowing too much

i feel the sharpness of
sunlight for
the first time /
                         each time
i’m pulled from the
amniotic darkness

and feel the sting of the full moon
in my eyes,
howling to the end of days

but each time i am
made new,

my mind is made fresh
               my soul is made whole

and there is never a time
i don’t think this will be the
life i live in full

youth is a falling leaf

9

youth is a falling leaf
caught in the unseen
pulled towards the unknown
rocked gently in the arms
of spring breeze

resting on the surface
of a swirling maelstrom
just beneath
the clear water

youth is the sprinting river
cradling the stones
smoothed by it’s embrace
kissed by frozen lips;
runoff from forgotten winters

and the marriage to an
indifferent sun,
high above the touch
of the pitiless frost

youth is a sudden journey
ripped from branches
clutching and safe,
left to twist in cursive waters
turned by juts of earth

aloft on sudden currents,
fresh perspective
hurdling towards
waterfalls

the yellow swing

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there / beneath
the yellow swing
 
and my son’s dangling
feet,
 
i see the future in the
space between
 
the plastic and the high grass –
& can’t help
 
          a thankful smile
 

(inspired by William Carlos Williams)