“I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for.”
~Alice Hoffman
The man I love is far away,
does he exist? I cannot say;
perhaps a hope, perhaps a fantasy~
perhaps a fevered dream’s cliche.
If a dream I will stay most happily
beyond the veil in chastity,
the nightmare is the world alluded,
where vaunted knights are garbed in travesty .
The doctors say I am deluded,
that thought processes are occluded
by parabolic stimulations,
and reality has been excluded.
Am I insane to prefer creations
when life is full of corrupt castrations?
The man I love is far away,
can he not see my heart’s pulsations?
When the kettle screams,
I become the steam~
a ghost unspooling
from its copper ribs.
Bones click like stove dials,
skin hums with the hiss
of a pressure gauge
punctured by a hit and a miss.
(“Tapestry”, 2025, original encaustic)
I like the stories I tell myself about myself.
As cliche’ as it sounds,
They are the story of my life,
But yet, not the actual life.
They are instead the mythology of a life
Of actual moments
Woven from birth by family, friends, and self.
Firstly as a warm, soft, comforting blanket
Then as a home secure and sound
Finally as a world vibrant and vast
Giving us everything we need,
A psycho-spiritual whole to contain
And explain it all.
At some point though we reach the limit
Of our story, our hopes and fears,
As vast as they may eventually grow to be,
And the crack in our cosmic egg
Reveals something completely different
Beyond us, beyond our world and story.
Of course we just add this to our story
But it will never really be the same.
Once the truth is seen
The lie can never fully be unseen.
But lie is a harsh term
For the comforting half truths a child needs
As it prepares to know Life
Outside a blanket, or home, or even world,
A life that weaves and leaves stories in its wake,
Of Self as friend, lover and mate
Or trickster, seducer, adversary and foe,
But as the creator
Always something more.
(12/4/25)
Crowning myself with words I say
I am the king of all cliche!
(11/16/25)
Tongue Tied in Clichés: A Blessing in Disguise
A blessing in disguise,
a double-edged sword—
a far cry from peace,
yet all in all,
at the drop of a hat
we reach for a ballpark figure,
beat around the bush,
break new ground,
burn the midnight oil.
By the book we cut to the chase,
play devil’s advocate,
fill the void with food for thought,
start from scratch,
then get cold feet.
Give the green light,
go down in flames,
hit the nail on the head,
find ourselves in over our head,
jump on the bandwagon,
keep something at bay,
leave no stone unturned.
Out of our depth,
past the point of no return,
we read between the lines,
take it with a grain of salt,
see only the tip of the iceberg—
until at last we throw in the towel.
If you don’t like the weather
wait five minutes and it will change.
A pitcher has pitched a shutout—
he is a hero.
You can bet
he’s talked about everywhere.
Somewhere something is on sale—
it was marked up the first day.
A song in the background rocks
but it is lost in haste.
A stitch in time saves nine
but old blue jeans are thrown away.
People say take care
and disappear.
A man in a bar nurses his drink
half-empty or half-full.
‘Circling the wagons’
is an absurd cliché
‘Cos even stations-wagons
are out-of-fashion today
Love turns into despair
As a slipper who can't find his pair,
All we want is love that's fair
But with you, it's so hard to bear.
The feeling that echo
That we can't let go.
Those foolish things, we repeat
Seems like a constant beat.
One's blinded with stupidity
In the end, oh what a pity.
Once heart's rebound
A soul can be drowned.
Repetition of chances
A dark side of love glances.
Above all pain,
It's love that can't be maintained.
I didn't go to school yesterday
Didn't feel like it
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say
Nobody was very fond
When I was absent from school with no good reason
Whoever "they" is...
You lied to me
I'm sick and tired of the so-called muses,
especially the one who always chooses
to make it clear that I don't work hard enough,
yet, when I ask for a little help with my stuff,
she's always the first one who flatly refuses.
My muse yelled, "Stop! That's prohibited."
I said, "What?"
"The behavior you just exhibited."
I said, "What did I do?"
She said, "You took some lines that didn't belong to you."
I said, "Jeez! Instead of helping me, you're making me feel totally inhibited."
Someone asked, "Could you write without a muse?"
I said, "Probably could, but I'd refuse.
Why? Because a muse is so good at showing
what to tell the audience and what to keep it from knowing
so that you can keep right on going with your wild-ass ruse."
I was having a hell of a time
with a poem that shouldn’t ever have been mine.
The muse had made a big mistake
by giving me lines that shoulda gone to this poet named Blake,
of which I could make neither reason nor rhyme.
He walk the talk
Don't play with fire
Easy as pie.
Although it's a well worn cliche,
there is something soothing
in the thought of lying in bed
listening to rain. Last night
I was front row in a symphony.
An adagio of soft fall, murmurings
on a metal roof and whispers
running along gutters.
Calm in the tempo
of raindrops, muted gargles
and gulps echoed inside
the throats of downpipes.
Then everything changed.
A quickening pace heralded
heavy rain and hailstones
falling in a roar of wind.
Lightning flashed
behind curtains, thunder
drew nearer, giant, swollen
bags of noise burst
to come crashing down,
rattling windows and sending
the spill rushing through
doorways into tense rooms.
Heaven unleashed its might,
as if trying to tear itself away
from this world,
as it still does, weighted
with words and held here
on a page, longing to lift
into song with drum rolls
and tremble in a crescendo
fit for a thousand voices,
straining to break free
and fly somewhere else,
finding itself stuck
in a poem, slowly drifting
towards sleep
and oblivion.
"Be not careless in deeds, nor confused in words, nor rambling in thoughts." (Marcus Aurelius)
In certain moments, less is more.
It's regarded as a cliche,
but when you think hard about it,
it is true in many cases.
I'm not thinking in terms of wealth-
in certain moments, less is more.
Imagine a boring topic,
now someone rambles on about-
tax refunds, software management-
a bacterial infection.
In certain moments, less is more.
It will benefit everyone.
Think back to middle and high school-
your math teacher talking about
their lunch, then algebra, then pens.
In certain moments, less is more.
Is that your name?
Do you want to call it grotesque fame?
Is it truly there?
Or it is floating in thin air?
Can you grasp it with your tiny hands?
Is anyone there from your chosen land?
Do you wish to call it by your name?
Hasn't it arrived yet? Or it is just another game?
The compilation you hesitate to conclude,
You aspire to present it as your finest, dude.
Nobody can live long with this gruesome win,
Is it your another committed sin?
Your fame is quite a cliche,
Everybody wants it to be their greatest niche.
Your utmost blessings are your most disastrous curses,
You are disowning your indispensable circles.
Is it truly a blessing or just a curse?
Nobody can blame others they cannot trust.
Is it on the brink of possessing an innocent soul?
Or is it just a snowball rolling around without any resolute goal?
Regarding Time
Where does time go…absolutely nowhere…only.that
humans believe time is stationary!
9/5/2023
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