At tender age of twenty-four
I stood at the crossroads obscure.
The rightly path in front of me
lay thickets bare and thornily.
I could not muster courage strong
for that path so I chose the wrong.
I took the dead-end path instead
and danced and danced on feet that bled
until at last I came around.
Inside myself a new path found.
Through letting go in present tense
uncoded psychic dissonance.
This time I heeded inner call
walking without a fear to fall.
Darkness no longer terrifies
when clarity and truth belies.
Tag Archives: poetry
At tender age of twenty-four
Alice and Dorothy
go on a journey
where nothing is good
though that it should.
they fall out of bed.
They want to go home.
They want to wake up.
They drink from the cup
that fucks they shit up.
They deal with dimensions
of shape and of size
not too easily defied.
confused with desperation,
what they need is meditation.
At last they say
to those who hear:
surrender all to your home inside
that palace of wondrous fanta-sci-fy.
There is nothing else.
No here nor there
that once imagined
All due praise
to the Geese of Fenway
reminds me to be human
even as I sidestep the shit
and whose power
can bring traffic to a halt on Boylston
in the early afternoon light
of opening day.
Nowadays, no one stops to hear a bird sing.
Instead, we google it and think we know.
These shortened attention spans are trying to
(pause, pause, pause, pause, pause)
drive me crazy.
Remember when butter
came wrapped in quarters
with an expiration date
a year and a half,
a full Year and a Half!
from its date of its purchase?
from July to the January after next,
and things even more wondrous than that:
water melons at Halloween,
people whose only job it was to deliver couches,
ice cream for dogs
and factories whose only job,
whose only job!
it was to make tiny, tiny, tiny
Oh, you should have seen the toys!
Rainbows on every surface,
lights so bright you could spend a lifetime
never knowing a star
and music that you could swallow and swallow and swallow,
and never feel full.
Do not cast blame when it comes.
We all ate of that easy butter
like it was nothing.
You are my lost city of sorrow,
lost city of light,
of illuminated minds,
illuminate our hearts.
Calling all cars: hear ye! Hear ye!
You make movies of mobsters
with whom we’ve fallen in love
because we see ourselves in them:
We are the underdogs of life.
You teach me to look down
when passersby pass,
to pretend we are invisible,
but I see your hidden heart in parks,
in the corridor of London Planes that line the Charles in witness of
your sad soil, your grit and insistence, armies of wasps,
your tribalism and no-nonsense attitude.
Today I was awakened at the Fort
beneath Rapunzel’s tower,
listening to the Grandmother-wisdom of willows.
I witnessed my own mobster movie of rebellion unfolding
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I never thought I could love you,
your fields of broken glass
where things still grow.
Four years ago
I saw a woodcock
undulating in the shade of the
massive puddingstone of Thwing Street.
Our eyes met for a second and
I thought I saw the gaze of my teacher.
The keys, hidden in plain sight.
and the gentle sound of leaves falling,
i think this must be it.
and the sound of the neighbor’s car arriving home,
and i think this must be it.
and the sound of the dog contentedly licking his chops right next to my seated ear,
and i think this must be it:
that invisible thing i’m longing for–
but i don’t want to be one of the masses
holding my arms in the air at the first glimpse of avatars, messiahs or alien ships.
i do not grovel for salvation.
what god would ask this of me?
i welcome Bashar to my own castle.
we open the lock together.
come to my party when you already know this:
God is a sexy slow dance in the basement.
and, with that, i take my tea inside.