Thoughts (on a Grey Day)

. . . a swath of dusky clouds
above a wide, inviting storefront
as leaves and branches tremble
in the sweeping air.

I hold myself firm from the urge
to increase my stride.
They do not castigate you;
Their arms are not filled with danger.

Why do I wrap myself in fates
that are in no way inevitable?

Then– more absorbed than heard–
thunder plunges through
the atmosphere . . .
Copyright 2015

A Study in Empathy

The intrinsic nature, the art of conversation eluded him, how people strung thoughts together in progressive adornment and/or purpose. “Hello” was never beyond him, as well as other simple words and satisfactory phrases. At times he could hold his own with peers, match the effusions of any man or woman who should engage him. Inevitably, however, he would hit an impasse, and ambiguous fulcrum that rendered his thoughts without flow or impact. And there were conversations in their entirety that seemed impenetrable to him, as if they required him to swim through a block of glass: an impossible task at best.

I suppose people saw him as stand-offish, abrupt, anti-social, uncaring, oblivious, or misanthropic. Certainly, he wasn’t shy, fearful, reserved, or introverted. He merely dwelt in the trap of his own mind and body, the unforgiving flesh and viscera always incomplete in effect. For this frailty, he relied on the succor of those closest to him, who presaged the gaps in his communication and eased him around the voids and unto them.

Thus, I ponder what perhaps frustrates me most in this world: why are others’ burdens so often invisible to us? If these defenses circling our souls are meant to protect us, shield us from harsh exposures, know how much light that also excludes.

    And only in darkness does suffering flourish.
Copyright 2015

Love Rumination

“Why me?” you ask.
Well, I don’t know.
I can only tell you that I want you in my life,
And that I believe your presence there
Will ascend my desire for you ever higher.

I see the “Why?” in your eyes
And wish that instead of questions
I found answers, a depth of feeling
Rising with the same momentum
as mine.
Copyright 2015

The Paradox of Self-Pity

. . . an ideal version of the self.
Within us we aspire to some great exemplar
of a physical, emotional, intellectual and spiritual being.
When I conjure that ideal man in my mind
he is wise and wizened, tells me over and again:
“An artist must suffer for his creation
sometimes for long and desperate years,
perhaps even unto to his own demise.
Only then after his passing
is value found in his work.” I now realize that
the ideal self within me, the purest reflection of my soul,
wishes it were dying . . .
Copyright 2015