Have you ever thought about
How we are dead stars —
Fragments of stellar explosions?
Or about hemoglobin?
That iron core of our blood
Carries our breath
With each heartbeat,
Sustaining our journey
Through mitotic decay
And meiotic rebirth.
That same iron was
A stellar core once,
Whose ferrous mass,
Like some metallic cancer,
Was the harbinger of
Its collapse and death.
Did you know that
Gold is made in the
Merging of neutron stars and
Violence of hypernovae?
That auric glitter narrowly escapes
Black holes’ all-consuming
Event horizons in relativistic jets.
Maybe that’s why…
It’s far too beautiful today
To be mired in yesterday’s
Least of all,
The man imploring
God and gazing skyward,
Buffeted by tempestuous trepidation.
The raindrops belong in the clouds,
And tears don’t belong in his eyes.
Tears don’t trickle like rain—
Like freshly broken hearts.
Share a kinship
With the tides —
Those little brackish,
Lunar-powered ebbs and flows. …
Today’s a most auspicious day
To honor such a man who cares
Beyond what any words can say —
Although I’ll see how well mine fare.
He is my role model and more,
Though he may downplay this effect.
He gave me wings to help me soar,
And loves me more than most detect.
He has the brightest, shining soul,
And from it, he emits a light,
That all the world should extol.
He can make daylight out of night.
He’s given me his thoughts and time
When they were what I needed most;
Encouraged all my prose and…
I had a recent, lengthy talk
About the meaning of eternity,
And how so many of us balk
Amid the fixtures of modernity.
He really seemed to have the Answer
To my slew of quips and asks,
Yet they were blooming like a cancer,
Despite us having other tasks.
He spoke on the origination of
The sins of all humanity,
And of a man who died with love,
To save us from our own insanity.
Could it be more than just a fable,
Or is it tantamount to myth?
Though I try, I find myself unable
To make my way into the pith.
My ignorance, it speaks
To my vulnerable side,
Though I doubt the Truth I…
If you want to know
To what heights you can go,
On the street, here’s the word —
You have to write about birds.
All of the greats do,
And you really should, too!
From Robert Frost’s little snow-kicking crow,
To Galway Kinnell’s Canada Warbler woes,
And the ever-famous Raven from Poe,
All of the greats describe birds, don’t you know?
If you don’t want your words
To get flushed with your turds,
It’s simple — ain’t you heard?
You’ve got to write about birds. …
Listless, calling sheepish
I remember a languid digit on
A figure cowled, dark and lonesome,
Soaking up the moonlight,
Beckoning me through my window,
With a crooked little hunch.
Did I surmise from the disguise
That it was you, or you were me?
Hammering a litany to my door,
You skittered back and forth,
Took up the rocking chair on the porch
And set about tipping fore and aft.
While you were preoccupied
With repetition, soothing bodily aches,
I read your scrawl by silver moon slivers
Penetrating through the trees to my door,
And felt my heart hit rubber knees.
Poet. Writer. Editor. User of ink, paper, and fountain pens. Bassist, guitarist, fly fisherman, former high jumper. Retail trader. River wader.