Poems

When we are old,
When more of life has occurred
To us, and more of death
And the daily dramas
And traumas are out of focus
As we sit in our pajamas
And sip on coffee,
Now decaffeinated--as are
Most of our rituals--
When we are old,
What is important will surface
When it will.

The lamp only made the darkness visible
Everywhere except the corner where it
Sat on a narrow wooden table
That once held candles

Art is a choice each day
For some a simple pleasure
About being in the world
Done for its own sake without
Expectation or recompense
Unaccountable to anything else
Words images sounds separately
Or integrated one to the other
Like lovers on a park bench
In the late afternoon light
Indifferent to diligent runners
Amblers and dog walkers

In a time of endings
The last language speaker
Animals and plants disappear
Ancient trees fall to board feet
With their knowledge untapped
Like the stones quiet whispers
Islands drowned by rising seas
Brief footnotes in future histories
If there are more to be written
Perhaps it will all be epitaphs
About distantly remembered this
And that known only from books
Or digital reconstructions
In their cool indifference

Eternal
Ephemeral
Refined
Earthy
Invincible
Vulnerable
Requited
Defeated
Sedate
Tumultuous
Practical
Idealistic
Romantic
Tragic
Simple
Complex
Sensible
Foolish
Articulate
Inhibited
Joyful
Sad
Silent
Lyric