O fall, let this lore of love be the last...
as your tight, chaotic grip holds me hostage.
Don't count against me, my downfalls, but yes,
the endeavors that have spun my fabric of life.
Still, this mask of sadness displays its ugly cry,
wrapped so tightly against the core of myself—
absent of mercy, mocking disdain
for that pure moment in time,
that allows us mortals to be human.
Yet, neither dusk nor dawn can delude me,
trying to imprison me, though hate may fill me with sorrow.
My flame carried within shall never be dismissed,
O hunger, that is not easily satisfied and refusing to die—
discarded—
A silent alchemy working in the dark,
I am the fire the shadows could not tame.
I turn the leaf, I rewrite every page,
and rise above the sorrow and the blame.
Last standing—amidst the dust and foliage of farewell!
It begins long before the pen touches the page,
in the quiet habit of noticing what others miss:
the amber morning streaming
through slatted blinds,
the heron lifting up from golden water.
To live this way is not to speak in rhyme,
But to breathe, to watch,
To listen for the rhythm.
It is the tea kettle whistling its low hymn,
Flour dusted across the counter,
The deliberate pace of walking slow enough
To hear what silence carries when it leaves.
You learn that nothing is too small to keep:
A river rock worn smooth by tide,
The wild fire of an evening sky,
The grief you thought would crush you into dirt.
Writing is only the light you bring back.
The poem itself was the breathing,
The wide eyes, the steady pulse,
The courage to face the grain of living
And find in it
A reason to begin again.
Tick tick tock ….. watch that eerie clock,
with buddha shaped tuscan stain shroud,
intruding the silver-blue eyed fog waker,
me, the gem treasure hunter hovering,
oe’r sunshine focussed raspberry trellis,
that sturdy bamboo shoot prop “ripener,”
I sabre rattle squishy mango downpours,
in my nirvana of forest green subconscious,
now jolted by the red rose tint second hand,
into mortal transit’s dwindling time-lapse
A young discus thrower hurls the discus with all his might
It lands, churning up the soil somewhere nearby
The discus thrower is happy, or perhaps disappointed
If his rival has managed to throw the discus further
Let’s try to give these competitions some meaning
Is there anything in them, hidden behind the obvious
Behind the victories and defeats – perhaps a thirst for a little power,
A sublimation of war, or, conversely, the peaceful labour of farmers?
Or do competitions serve as a consolation for those
Who cannot or do not wish to compete?
But perhaps someday, another time,
When discs are made to order,
Tailored precisely to the thrower’s palm.
When Post-modernists say race or gender
Is a social construct,
They’re not really saying anything
Other than we don’t like your definitions.
Since race and gender are words
Based on conceptual classifications
They are no different than any other words.
In this way everything is a social construct
Depending on the world view of the society.
The difference in animate and inanimate?
Just a social construct.
The difference in plant and animal?
Just a social construct.
The difference in positive and negative,
Black and white, good and evil, up and down
Me and you? Just a social construct.
We live in a world of such constructs,
They allow us to function
And manipulate this world.
And yes, that includes manipulating others
If you are so inclined.
Who doesn’t live in such a distinct
And discriminating world?
The new born infant at the portal of life,
And the mentally dementiaed at the edge of death.
The rest of us, are thank goodness,
Somewhere in between.
(9/19/26)
An anchor forged of dust and bone,
we keep our footing on the stone.
The world demands a quiet weight,
a patient, unyielding state,
where hands stay rested on the wood
and do the things they always should.
Yet in the space behind the eyes,
the architecture starts to rise.
No heavy earth, no pulling line
can tame the sudden, bold design.
The walls fall back, the ceilings clear,
and distance simply disappears.
You step across an ocean shore,
unlatch a long-forgotten door,
or stand atop a wind-swept height
without a single fear of flight.
No rules of earth, no pull of stone—
you build a cosmos of your own.
And though the waking world will claim
the daily posture of your name,
it cannot reach, nor can it bind
the infinite map within the mind.
For when the heavy eyelids close,
the spirit goes where no one knows.
Indefinite Infinity in space and time aye doth toss,
Itself diffusely, enclosing entirety in the cosmos,
Only to baffle the stupid,spellbound ,eerie puzzle
Of forms and moulds that ever keep up the dazzle
Every little odd thing claims its own due existence ;
All great marks, flags and colours make no sense
And look like just little dunes and pits on the spot
Or if more, are spilled,broken and torn ones a lot;
Every living thing darts across to catch the other,
Feed on,feast on or enslave all that it doth gather
The lava that erupts from within the restless land
The lofty sweeps of storms and winds reprimand
The deviant excess that yields the froth and slag
As futile tertiaries do stem out of the empty brag !
After spending an hour chasing a dollar, blowing down the street;?
those without need thought that it was wasted time, perhaps.
But while the rich get immediate results while rocking on their feet,
everyone else is busy just fighting over the scraps.
offstage reflection
ideally astounding
simultaneously
brainwash outwards
censurable stairway
impracticable undress
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 14–20, 2026)
a sugar maple leaf slips free
counting toward One proof
the Seven Mysteries
God, I count prime gaps
I watch prime numbers growing
only primes orbit
a rule sends one step
loops return periods double
recursion counts One
an iteration
within fluid smoothness frays
water turns inward
can you see the curve
study elliptic rank shifts
findings test the rank
questions spiral out
unknown patterns circle back
pi bends into sight
a proof can be checked
still search cannot prove it now
checking outruns search
every loop turns east
the count folds back into form
through form, God's Haiku
the sugar-maple leaf settles on frost
children of the corn start to awaken
As old age upon us descends,
we view the past through rosy lens.
It seems to us that bygone days
were far better in many ways.
The memories of better times
help us cope when life serves up limes.
They give us hope that better days
will soon return, like Dawn’s bright rays.
But dreaming of the good old days
can cause us to live in a daze
and rob us of the good in life
that abounds amidst its strifes.
The good old days had their fair share
of heartache, trouble, strife, and care.
The present times, in many ways,
are better than the good old days.
Treasure the good from bygone days
Let them inform your present ways
So, you can reap the very best,
As you progress in your life quest.
In my youth I did my time
Doing strict religious discipline
A whole decade dedicated to mindfulness
And right livelihood.
And in the several decades since I’ve done
All that on and off again, from time to time.
But now my discipline is different
It’s the discipline of do-nothing
The wu wei of effortless action
More like mindlessness
Than effortful mindfulness.
What does it involve? Nothing!
Too simple you say,
And that’s the point exactly!
Like a cloud drifting through an open sky
Neither born nor dying
Simply manifesting
Into something
From nothing.
(9/16/26)
I didn’t feel like running today
Some days I don’t—but I do.
I’ve never finished a run thinking,“I’m sorry I did that.”
I always feel empowered, powerful and ready to deal.
I have blisters on two toes but that doesn’t matter.
Pain is an administrative problem—I just wrap them
with paper surgical tape and run.
I also buy these 1" Polyurethane foam sheets (from Amazon),
that I cut to fit my feet—stuffing them in my socks for padding
—as if I were a professional athlete.
We don’t flinch beneath the heat, cold or rain,
and we don’t prevaricate or complain.
While I believe that life, otherwise, is pretty much nonstop compromise,
I reserve a protected territory for self-respect—where I practice small acts
of discipline—which I can track.
.
.
Songs for this:
Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen
Somebody's Going to Get Into This House by Jane Wiedlin
'Tis another sunrise, bright and yellow.
Yet the world that holds me feels so hollow.
My ev'ry breath is but an empty cask.
Yet ev'ry step I take bears a full flask.
Ev'ry thought that I hold makes the ground quake.
Ev'ry conviction makes the wide sky break.
The path I chose remained a cracked tankard.
Yet my journey is a brimming tankard.
All certainty dissolved, and naught remains.
Each thought gives birth to thought in endless chains.
My life is but a bottle with no hole.
I am the sot who wholly lacks control.
Who am I now to stay here, bound in doubt?
To drink, to think—and still to go without?
I will not be distracted from being the idiot
Do not make fun of my shiny red nose
You are all the clowns in my theatre
The unreasonable man in my shows
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