2010

Fresh poinsettias on my desk
Bleed,
A youthful red…
But that’s not what really stirred me,
At this odd moment,
To juggle words in my fingers.

Too many fazed newnesses
Have been rolling around,
Waiting to slip off the tip of my tongue.
My shoulders are weary,
From shifting weights,
Between –
Long taken-for-granted certainties,
Fractured to bits
And
Loading of unwelcome lumber,
Of too much realization.

My frail arms have not
The power to brave armies –
Of ages of history,
Tablets of tradition.

I am but a poor poet,
And words can never undo
Illusions of permanence,
Cast by convention.

In several lifetimes,
I cannot accumulate,
Enough to ever pay off,
The cost of living.

My reality is much the same,
As my people;
But my predicament,
Far worse…
For unlike them I,
Sustain the protracted bitterness
Of knowing I remain –
Half-lived,
Half-loved –
Forever.

Dec 28th, ‘09.