Timeless Universe

i’m not trying to write a good poem
this is just playful, holding a flashlight,
watching words appear on a page like
reading The Hobbit as a kid, and i can
do this, sometimes pausing to notice
shadows where dark becomes light,
a bright circle, where meaning emerges,
my handwriting, this timeless universe,
in quiet night

Harness the Stream

and when the time
comes, the sentence will
appear already begun, as
if words were writing
themselves, this is how

the subconscious works
creating narratives that are
never heard, only thought
until someone tries to
put it all in print, and

then what happens? so
tricky to harness the
stream, all this like a
dream become understood
or forever a mystery

So I Keep On Writing

Mary Oliver writes of
flowers and she does it
very well, as I just stare
at words, wishing that
goldenrod could mean

as much to me, stuck in
this urban world, nature
on the fringe, everything
I cannot see, because in
the car I move too fast

to even smell the air,
but excuses will never
win, nor are they really
true, so I keep on writing,
this much I know to do

Making Sense of Time Passing

Usually the plan is to
read and read and read

the poems of others, until
something strikes my imagination.

This often works, sometimes it is
just a word, like pulsating or

scramble, a pathway to completely
forget that my shoelaces are tied or

that these fingers belong to me.
Lost in the moment, obvious and

unpoetic, then again, also true.
That really so much writing is just

abstract painting, adding color,
a swirl, skip a line, then do it again,

and again, until the crickets outside
sound like laptop keys, and nothing

is lost, not these seconds, not the
clear air of night, not my quiet mind

making sense of time passing,
time passing.

He Pretends To Be A Poet

He pretends to be a poet, but does he even like poetry?
Sawgrass shallows, dark forests and trellises, the
language of description, erudition, evoked through so
much longing to be heard, to be read. But what does

it mean? Instead, he writes about what he knows,
which most nights seems like not a lot, sometimes silence
or that most mundane of all arts, parenting, being a dad,
or he reads half pages of zen books while munching on

frozen blueberries, while trying to remember the pickup time
for ballet. No, he doesn’t live in Paris or London, or
New York, although San Francisco is a writerly city, that frigid
foggy place where he was once young, and a real poet

in his studio apartment with Chinese takeout night after night,
the J Church train rumbling, urban soundtrack mixed with
Sonny Rollins, oh yes, he was cool, back in the day, but now
he sits in the kitchen, barefoot, wondering where his socks are.

4 Words In A Line

hard not to smile
when thinking that this
is one of my
favorite things in life

to put four words
on line after line
free to do this
when dishes are done

and the kids are
in bed, and no
one is speaking, not
even the incessant TV

can reach me now
for here it is
just one word, then
the next, neatly placed

like scrabble or a
crossword puzzle, or some
other kind of activity
where concentration is everything

anyway, this is mine
this little moment here
inside my brain’s imagination
where anything is possible