though you mean well

I have observed
how you pare my dreams down
to a tenable size
parameters defined
measured and timed
scaled right to align

expectations contained
within preordained lines

removing all chance
for any surprise
constraining them tightly
to mere designs

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half-life

In my efforts to cleanse
the past with time
I’m astonished to find
even ghosts
have half lives
and trace element trails
they leave
as half lies
perceived
only at dawn’s
first yawn
infecting all belief
in a new day

uninevitable

so much is lost
to wrong time and place
too soon
too late
and parallels
that can never touch
regardless
of proximity
or mutual
understanding

perhaps

I have no cause to promote
just a tendency to provoke
thought and invoke lesser gods
in passing judgement
Mother I suspect
there’s no direct way to detect
the worth of just deserts
or the merit of ferreting truth
from rotted roots
clinging to history
like it could thwart extinction
or help make a distinction
between treasure and trash
and measures too rash
to consider
Between what we’ve outgrown
and what we have sown
to convince us
our instinct
to raise our fists
and pound the ground
just may be founded
on circumstance
and we’d be better off dancing madly under a lone star

that’s how it goes

There were a few
rises and dips
but there was that last one
where after the typical
free fall
you curved and bent
so gently, so kindly
to ease the transition
that this tail end
so endlessly long
now contains more
than all that came before
the first drop
and only by looking back can I see
the enormity of the past
and the seemingly endless monotonous distance ahead
that fills me with more dread
than the increase in friction
hinting of the inevitable
full stop.

a lesson on colour

all the lectures
in the world
on light
and waves
and chemicals
and cones
couldn’t teach me
about colour
like painting
at dusk

stifled

You know I am aware
of more than you can bare
or would ever care to admit

So you try to efface me
or quietly erase me
from desires that won’t fit
your preconceived notions
and stunted emotions
of what is or what ought to be

You stifle expression
and turn to digression
to avoid confronting me

Though my answers are ready
still you won’t ask the questions
liable to set me free

root mother unearthed

Mother of mothers
with generations
nestled in the crooks and folds
of arms, skin,
swinging from gnarled joints
shaping wisdom with your hands smelling of soil
An unbreakable force of time and ages
Etched into your stern face

But I know how that face
longed to smile in wonder
I know why you doted on that doctor
There was nothing licentious in your attention
His knowledge unearthed a cavern where there was room
To hear yourself speak as someone other than that myth
To be proud of something other than the accomplishments of those you bore
To laugh, dance
and shout your name
The one they discarded
when you were grafted to the family tree
To carve their history into your skin

middle-aged

Now that our days of inspiration
have been quartered
into unrealistic pipe-dreams
feeding repackaged innovations
their intent subtracted
from the bottom line
and our creations
turned into investments
we watch grow
We now can laud
our experience and hindsight
leaving us nothing but
to contrive models
and devise systems
to explain and predict
the paths of even the freest radicals
and the capital to construct machinations
to harness their energy
to warm the comfortable cages
we build to live out the rest
of our pointless days

daily post: age

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