On the Slopes of Mount Olympus

      On the Slopes of Mount Olympus

     

       it is hard to tell the difference

       between what is being built

       and what has been abandoned:

       both stand empty, waiting 

       for the earth to move again. 

Tag, You're Id

This one occurred to me while listening to a lecture on Freud.

Tag, You’re Id

In the cavern

of our unconscious,

all our urges play

hide and seek,

calling out

to each other

in an echo

we hardly hear

of a tongue

we seldom speak. 

The School for the Blind

So I asked the policeman where the School for the Blind is, and he pointed to the building in front of me.

                                                         The School for the Blind

                                                      

                                                         is where you learn to feel

                                                         and want to touch everything

                                                         you truly want to know;

                                                         is where you learn the smell

                                                         of dusk and how it differs

                                                         from the dawn;

                                                         is where you learn to taste

                                                         lemon and moonlight

                                                         in the air;

                                                         is where you learn to hear

                                                         the silence between

                                                         the sounds and beyond

                                                         mere lack of noise;

                                                         is where you learn

                                                         what you can

                                                         and cannot see.

Late Snow

The temperature hit 70; then we had 8 inches of snow. Now it's back to 70 again.

       Late Snow

Snow drops on snowdrops,

and crocuses nearly croak.

Boots boot flip flops;

spring springs an untimely joke.

Wind blows and snow flows.

We all can catch its drift.

White warms in sun’s glow,

melting winter’s final gift. 

Habit

Yes, I woke up, put my glasses on without thinking, then started thinking about this poem.

              Habit

Sometimes when I wake up in the dark,

I still put my glasses on

or flick the light switch on and off

when I know the power’s gone

Just as I pray for those in peril

to a god who put them there.

Though the world is beyond all hope,

it is not beyond all care. 

Blessed Be the Snowbirds

We had our last (we hope) snowstorm of the season this past week, and I could hear the spring birds singing at dawn.

      Blessed Be the Snowbirds

No, not the ones that flee to Florida

but the ones that stay and brave winter’s

last storm and sing, though the dawn

be dim and flake-filled, they believe

in the calendar and not the cold.

Yes, I know their songs may be more

battle cries than lullabyes, bragging

of what they have and wailing for what

they want, but that makes their singing

no less beautiful, merely more real.

Maybe they are winged Whitmans

singing songs only of themselves,

but they sound more like they’re rejoicing

at the dying of the night, and this dark

morning, they have sung me into song.

In The Dark

There's one streetlamp along my morning route that sometimes turns off as I pass it and sometimes turns on.

     In the Dark

One street lamp mistakes me

for sunrise as I set out

on my morning walk,

blinking black

as I pass.

And that same lamp

knows me as nightfall

when I return,

flashing light

on my path.

Loose wires

look like wisdom

when you walk

alone.