Not right versus left
(but)
right versus wrong
The truth standing firm
(both)
unlabeled and strong
Preying among us
(the evil)
inure
Till verity triumphs
(with)
— Forces Majeures
(The New Room: September, 2025)
Like us all,
he was good at naming things,
trees, minerals, the anatomy of rabbits,
butterflies and all things
he saw or imagined he saw.
Later he had an epiphany,
he realized he knew nothing of anything
that walked the earth or grew upon it
or flew above it.
As most seekers do
he sought the advice of a guru.
“Your mother did not love you,
not in just the way you wanted her to love you,
and so, you had to name
all that she was not.
Now you are caught.
go now and un-name yourself!”
He then foolishly,
asked the wise man for his name?
To use one word to describe
one so beautiful and wise
seems an impossible task,
but why not try.
Gorgeous? Delicate? Ethereal?
No, they sound too focused on the physical.
Bright? Witty? Smart?
But then you lose the art.
No matter the effort.
No matter the might.
To reduce to one word
your celestial light
is too big a job for me
and my ability to fight.
So for now you'll go unlabeled.
Unable to be confined
to a box that would bind
your body and mind.
If nothing else, I do amuse myself;
I chuckle, thinking where this all will end -
all my possessions, lined up on the shelf,
with which, one day, my children will contend.
Five years ago, my mother passed away,
her photos stored in boxes in my home.
I opened up the first the other day;
at first, it seemed a wondrous place to roam.
A thousand images of times gone by,
unlabeled faces from so long ago,
have all gone to a cardboard tomb to die,
kept there for reasons only Mom would know.
My poems, like my mother’s photographs:
In me, I see my kids, and I just laugh…
Perusing some recently mindless & unlabeled
shelfed works (my recently ancient poems),
benumbed fingers pluck jumbled words;
musings that had much meaning once
but now seem more like
the random scattering of monkey turds.
A thousand keyboards are buried in my brains landfill,
and here come the plucky and ribald seagulls
to peck at the words still wriggling through
unplugged motherboards.
Still and all, there may be a line or two
that have escaped the ravishes
of times disinterest and ennui,
there may be a poem here - somewhere,
its small, quivering spirit still hopefully squeaking:
"pick me, pick me!"
I wake in a memoryless room
unlabeled and unanchored,
a floating proprioception unhinged
from time and place.
The bathroom has moved beyond the present
it is where it was once maybe.
This room is homeless.
Who walks now out of a past
thought?
Is she this other person
who haunts another me?
Who am I to gather up her reality,
to piece her together
or to deny her to sit next to me now
here at the edge of this unmade bed?
Enigma's holding hands,
children seeking comfort
in a Delphian land.
I wake in a memoryless room
unlabeled and unanchored,
a floating proprioception unhinged
from time and place.
The bathroom has moved beyond the present
it is where it was once maybe
yet where it is at this moment
is forgot.
Who walks now
out of someone else’s memory
as if she owned this space?
Her face keeps changing
it forms then falls apart like melting snow
now she is this other person.
Who am I to gather up her reality
to piece together her history,
to deny her to sit next to me now
here at the edge of this bed
wanting to hold hands
for some comfort in a strange land?
Perhaps she will explain to me
why we meet only between
the shallows and the deep?
Immeasurable,
unlabeled, word-
less by
studded
tears
and
voice,
APHONIC.
Only death by
tenderness
swoops down
as eternity
and her hands,
soft as fire;
as time
the flesh;
a billboard
the soul
neon lights.
:: 11-06-2017 ::
Under a grin, redirected,
A sniff of grief claws
Through, revealing
A sad blue artery,
A pain 24-7.
Underscored with carefully
Emoted verbs,
And adjectives imbedded with
Mock sincerity,
A simple sentence: a right to be honest.
Beneath the pulse in heartbeats encephalo
A few tearful regrets
Lob empty phrases into
A field with no guilt, washed and dried,
And returned unlabeled.
Please tell me why it's meaningless,
When a woman is assaulted.
Is it because somehow she must'v asked for it,
Why is she the one who's faulted?
Why, is it more believable,
When a man says it isn't true?
Even when his friends know,
It's something he would do.
He gets to walk around unlabeled.
While we pay for therapy.
His life, never really changed.
It must be nice, to be granted that luxury.
And why are we the ones made to live in fear,
While their women fight venomously, by their side.
As if that somehow confirms nothing ever happened.
But I'm not the one, with something to hide.
hate knows no limits
Boston or Beirut Bombings
innocent ones die
in Paris or Pakistan
atrocities unlabeled
innocent ones die
Baghdad or Berlin
Lives should have the same value
innocent ones die
innocent ones die
religion or politics~~~
extremism kills
Terrorism reigns
the world is no longer safe
innocent ones die
say a prayer for all
terror plays no favorites
innocent ones die
Eileen
you said to me once - that
you would let me know - if
there was anything I could - do
to help
and at the end, lying in that
hospital
all your futures lost to an
unlabeled sickness
all your brilliant pasts
standing in stark relief with
the pain
you must have not thought ...
that I could do anything to
help,
but
you were wrong. you were
you were you were
'cause I could have come to you,
and held your hand,
and looked into your eyes,
and left with you.
i could have kept you from being
alone
and myself from being left behind
My old friend struggles
with his life's meaning.
Familiar with dead cats, Newton,
Einstein and incredible fractals,
he gleans patterns instantly
and misses nothing
in his galactic surveys,
nor leave a clue unglued.
He can entertain the most bazaare
concepts in the fervent hope
that truth will emerge from under
some unlabeled rock.
But all such inquiry always gyres back
to herds and migrations,
lemmings and old habits,
and wave upon wave upon
an ancient beach,
simply maya and samsura.
God forbid we should draw inspiration
From fellow neighbors who try to comply
To better a craft, push beyond limitation
Expanding the graveyards where sunsets die
Envy runs rampant within the benign
Sucking the life out of lessons to teach
While sticking new frames on old designs
They rant and rave, practice and preach
And hide there faces while spitting in the wind
Like not being able to face their fears
Like false starts in rearward races begin
Or crying in rainstorms to camouflage tears
They stand for elite ones in business suites
Forgetting of the ones down in the dirt
While reaping rewards and picking the fruit
Anchored in faith that contests such hurt
Protesting the feelings that all of us know
Unlabeled compliance humanely built
Confessing true lies, while hoping to grow
And cover with tree shade their feelings of guilt
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