The Poetry Marathon

Late mornings I will often lose myself
in the massive Douglas Fir outside my window
after a hush-like fog has burned off.
The supple Japanese maple in front
rotates the illumination of its branches from
penetrating sunbeams as part of its daily dance recital.
The concrete is absent in my tall rectangular view
and with my still hot coffee, I am able to forget
for a few moments
the damn dystopia of our world.

Leaving the Levant,
you brought with your papers
endless questions that you and
your assemblage of mythical rabbis posed.

The space forming the silence, the void, the oblivion, the exile
and the emptiness merge with their antonym partners
to form the geography of
your hope

Answers are secondary
as your queries about
the limits of words and writing
lead to a place of comfort in a world of uncertainty

You join Kafka and Celan
in their journeys with
responding to
the disquietudes of existence

Floating on the pond
are the dabbling mallards and woods ducks
with the diving golden-eyes

The birds are always alert
for children, parents
and grandparents with bread crumbs

The devolution of the animal world

Our Big Brother is a cloud of rotten eggs
that doesn’t dissipate,
infiltrating all realms

His thought police work overtime
as his malodorous vapors penetrate
all axons and neurons

We smell it but doublespeak teaches us
that old and new creations stories
have replaced known forces and histories of nature

Our faith in brotherhood is weak and
is unable to vaccinate us from the 2 minute hate
that has become 24/7 hate

The rules are unclear
and asymmetric and
we are no longer playing cricket

In the quiet breathing space of now,
enclosed by the dark gravitational
force of entropy,
I drink my java of calm

At my borders, the flashbacks of blinking lights
of numbers, truths,
and uncertainties,
flickers off the walls of selfies.

The shadowed paths of my labyrinth,
which led me here,
were illuminated briefly and irregularly
with no clear way to go

And yet,
I enjoy this respite
for however long it lasts
with this soothing brew.

We are always in-between,
even when our present version
is no more and has become
compost

Our smolderings can become exhausted
flickering out in becalming winds or
whipped up in the winds of change
consuming our present vision.

The hope for a bird of prey
to pluck up the embers
of my demonic cells
glimmers inside me

Do you feel spiritual? No, I am a photographer
Do you drink? No, I cuss
On my walks, I listen to the street signposts
Reality is not always possible or likely – Borges
Hand on the door – anything else?
tomecide
After the last book
So, it begins
Radical evil always appears when a radical good is desired – Arendt
Master of the answer, God tolerates only the question – Jabes
Sometimes a question is the flash of an answer – Jabes
Do not confuse justice and truth – Jabes
You have often been wrong. You are just – Jabes
Perhaps, hope is the book – Jabes
The absurd – my revolt, my freedom, my passion – Camus
Oblivion takes refuge in oblivion _ Jabes
The void is a voyeur – Jabes
This is how it ends

I am surrounded by stuff
particular to me
with my present likes more prominent
and which no one around me wants

The spines of my books and folders
rest waiting like
the red eyed green dragon candle on my cabinet
for something I cannot fathom

Their wisdom remains cryptic
and elusive yet comforting
as the unknown origin of
“reality lies invisible in all this”

How does one organize
and tidy up
the decay in my teeth,
bones, and cells?

It was a long time ago
we flipped a coin
as a joke
and have been separated since

You flew off
through accelerated
space and time
where no-one had gone before

I stayed
living a tried
and true life
with only occasional hiccups

I think of you often
and wonder what if
I had gotten heads
instead of tails

I lost all contact
with you so long ago
feeling incomplete
despite my long life

I hear you are returning
as the scientists are beyond
excitement ready to
measure everything

How can you be much younger
since you came first?
At least, we were
not zombie cats.

I have become a counter
not just one who opposes
but a keeper of numbers
that move me forward

I count stair steps
and reps of all sorts,
with a blind faith
I didn’t know I had

I shuffle the order
mix it up
keeping track of the more difficult
and only occasionally missing a dose

My mind will drift
losing my way in my series of numbers
only to return
to my finite state