It matters not how much the wind may blow,
nor if the seas should rise up through the floor;
the anchor of my craft is sunk below,
and I am to this spot moored evermore.
Should this fierce season flail its storms at me
and seek to wrest my hold from this small spot,
to face the torrent is my destiny;
what comes, if good or bad, shall be my lot.
‘Tis not an act of courage, or last stand,
but simply put, I’ve realized to run
is just as futile; what good are new plans
that rest on such foundations? I’ve begun
to realize the import of a place:
it rests not in its grand design or sport,
but rather in the nature of its space,
that finds in such small things such great import.
What if the ship is wretched loose from its chain,
its timber torn asunder in the fray?
Despite the great destruction, what remains
is greater than what’s lost. And so, I stay.
27 AUG 2005
Cast my future stars as void of course;
reduce to ash these ragged charts and maps,
and let the sails take from the restless wind
what strength they will. I will not feign I care
to know what line the sextant sight-glass proves,
nor where the ruling planets may align.
Let destiny release my wearied soul,
and through my worn and cambered heart, let flow
the cooler blood that marks a passion’s end;
give to the angels of our nature’s best
their just reward: from danger a respite,
and soft Elysian breeze to fan their wings.
Plot down no points, but wander free instead,
where the whole sea awaits; its fleeting touch
rests not upon a single shoreline’s crest,
but skips carefree between each distant beach.
Give unto me naught but my decommission;
I care for no more of your revolution.
25 AUG 2005
Set my stars as void of course, recast in iambic pentameter
Set my stars as void of course;
reduce to ash these charts and maps,
and let the sails take from the wind
what strength they will. I do not care
to know what line the sextant proves,
nor where the planets may align.
Let destiny release my soul,
and through my tired heart, let flow
the cooler blood of passion’s end;
give to the angels of our nature
just reward: respite from danger,
and soft breeze to fan their wings.
Plot no points, but instead, wander
where the whole sea waits; it lingers
not upon a single shoreline,
but would visit distant beaches.
Sign my writ of decommission;
find your own damn revolution.
25 AUG 2005
Watch the eyes: they reflect scars
that long since faded from the flesh
still mark the hard survivor’s face
with phantom traces, and though less
pronounced with each new moment’s span
can in some lights, and moods, reveal
the inner content of the heart
that needs no words to speak its pain.
Watch the eyes: in caverns not
so deep or treacherous, the lives
of countless treasure-seeking men
have been cut short, or been sold cheap,
their worth exchanged for one more breath,
a single ray of hopeful light,
the trickle of a hidden stream
to quench some secret, speechless thirst.
Watch the eyes: they can reveal
some lost agenda of the damned
that waits in infinite repose
for hapless fools to seek its depth,
and for an instant, finding bliss,
to think it some eternal shore
where ships with ancient tattered sails
find moorage from the wrathful storm.
Watch the eyes: their surface shines
with the mad heart’s reflected wish,
and can reveal to those who look
what purpose drives the mind to live.
24 AUG 2005
It breaks my heart to think of you
out there in pain; I hope you, too,
likewise consider how I feel
in your attempts to keep it real.
I wonder, though, if broken hearts
are not in fact where real growth starts:
when pieces back to one are stitched
and back to front, are often switched
and bound with glue and tape and nails
that hold when weaker thread might fail
to make the paper thin, weak heart
more thick than it was at the start
and filled with spaces in between,
along the torn lines, not too clean
that each edge matches with the next
in perfect fit. And I reflect
that with my broken heart and yours,
each one survivor of strange cures,
we grow more strong with every break,
with every foolish, sad mistake
and end up better off, it seems,
let loose from small and tidy dreams
thanks to the scars and tissue formed
around our hearts to keep us warm.
22 AUG 2005
It’s been a busy week. I’ve lost a cat, a tooth and a pound or two in the heat.
The smell of the sick-house lingers
where the medicines are mixed;
even fresh washed clothes and fingers
tend to keep the reek of it.
The taste of food is changed,
its scent turned sour and stale,
reducing appetites to nil
and turning faces pale.
Continued deathwatch, so it seems;
each act, each meal observed,
a constant examination, hoping
for improvement’s curve.
A day’s reprieve, perhaps a week
of seeming health and vigor;
and then, relapse. The problems
only seem to grow or linger.
What quality of life is this,
just watching for some sign
that she is half of what she was,
not weary and resigned
to constant medication
and injections, week by week?
Would she consent to letting go,
if she could only speak?
10 AUG 2005