Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Gratitude Meditation

We forget what we have because we have it, and only know what we've got when we've lost it.

Making a habit to be grateful for things we take for granted is hard work.

Religion's rituals increase awareness till their repetition loses meaning.

Loved ones are the first to be lost from everyday consciousness.

Skills become rote: the choreographed precision of my father's trowel movement is as thoughtful as chewing gum.

Domestic objects are invisible till something is misplaced.

Admiration from others only reminds us we have something to be admired, not of the something itself.

Only earnest gratitude pierces familiarity and gives us anew what we already have.


Monday, March 30, 2015

What's Left

In late old age, all that remains is the skin of the apple of conversation.


Thursday, March 26, 2015

A Form of Therapy

A cousin of Byron, rumored
mad, would race roaches
over his body, tapping them
with a straw to spur them.

Why?

Having vile vermin run
over him mirrored his
mind, or viewed through
a skewed lens of Christianity

he saw himself devoid
of grace and craved feeling
his sins. At least this way
he could control them.


Thursday, February 19, 2015

My Father's Work

Life is a lapping of stones
into homes. Each day a stone
wall. Each moment housing
a stone among stones.


Thursday, January 29, 2015

Warm Frequent Guest

(Hey, if it's a good enough subject for Auden.)

Your declaration before entering
keeps children giggling and makes
company in elevators uncomfortable.
But my posture to present you
often invites the muse, thankfully
she's rarely embarrassed. Oddly
your entrance is also an exuent,
duplicated actually, the second
one swirling. And after each
meeting, I always leave feeling
lighter for having met you.


Friday, January 9, 2015

On the Ubiquitous Use of Superlatives

How loud must we shout
before realizing our ambient
dissonance is that, vociferous
unintelligible shrouds of sound
cloaking us in invisibility.


Saturday, January 3, 2015

Salomé

With bed-head hair,
She's barefooted
And smirking,
Having just requested
The Baptist's beheading.

Salomé by Henri Regnault