Today

I don’t want to write a poem today.

I don’t want to string words together today.

I don’t want to communicate anything today.

I don’t want to find a lot of pretty words for pain today.

I don’t want to be human today.

I don’t want to be anything today.

I don’t want to come up with reasons to be hopeful today.

I don’t want to read your inspirational quote today.

I don’t want to hear your bad news today.

I don’t want to hear your good news today.

I don’t want to feel guilty for starting every line of this poem with the words “I don’t want”—today.

I don’t want to be ashamed of feeling like this today.

I don’t want to feel today.

I don’t want to get rained on today.

I don’t want to be so self-absorbed today.

I don’t want to feel like a toxic burden on the universe today.

I don’t want to sign your petition today.

I don’t want to hear about your religion today.

I don’t want to read one of those insipid poems where you read it one way and it’s all depressing but you read it the other way and it’s “uplifting” or “positive” today.

I don’t want to think about what those poems imply about our society, today.

I don’t want to hear you say, “Oh golly, I sure know how that feels,” today.

I don’t want to have anything in common with anybody else today.

I don’t want to come up with some clever picturesque little way to say, “But maybe tomorrow will be better,” today.

Breaking Pane

They glisten in the dying glint of day,

see so many, so many shining shards

all traced in lines of light that point their ways,

all fallen like the scattered house of cards.

And what a crash of breaking from the heights,

and what the moment frozen in its move,

and how the fragments brush the lesser lights,

and how the passing present fickle proves…

Now would I hold a fragment to the moon,

and now reflect an Eye and call it good?

From what I know of glass I’d very soon

taste sharp the scent and savor of my blood.

If I had any wisdom I would sweep

up all these shards and toss them in a heap.

Lights in the Sky

See it rise in the east;

see where it shines!

See how it touches each little thing,

see the flowers follow its path.

Feel its gentle warmth!

I wandered through the darkness long,

and heard the creatures cry.

The deepest aches they turned to song

that echoed ‘round the sky.

Seen without looking,

found without seeking,

known without thinking,

heard without speaking,

shown without showing.

A song that whirls around the dark,

and rises up in dreams,

can leave a passing sort of mark,

like moonlight’s dewy beams.

It shines for all, and one.

It doesn’t refuse the little creatures.

See them run through light-drenched fields,

hear the laughter and the bubbling brook!

None are ever lost.

And if the silent moon should fall,

or drift behind a cloud…

Still yet blue morning shines for all

and still brave hearts are proud.

See it set in the west;

see the blinding light

on reflecting rolling waves!

See the sea and shining sun,

and think of the moon.

Screen

See the bird, bright feathers plumed,

displays itself because it’s doomed.

For if it’s born it needs must die,

but now how pleasing to the eye!

Screen to sift and screen to see

what shows itself and what might be;

a smoky screen or screen to show,

and what’s behind will never know.

With crossing grids and wire stays

the strangest birds are kept away;

in iron cages fine to see,

but not a thing to be let free.

So if it’s meant to be displayed,

it’s never for its own sake made,

but if a bird could have a brain

it may well think against the grain.

You see if birds with wings can fly,

a bird that’s trapped still loves the sky.

The sorry penguin can but walk,

but clever parrots learn to talk.

So show a bird a mirror and

I doubt it could well understand.

And that’s the lesson for today:

the hiddenness of all display.

See the bird, bright feathers plumed,

displays itself because it’s doomed.

For if it’s born it needs must die,

but now how pleasing to the eye!

Game

To make a move and play a game

‘cross straightened rows of black and white...

To open, close, or stay the same

through silent countermoves of night…

The lines of pawns that move one way;

the knights that leap through light of day;

the bishops wind a crooked course;

the rooks with their straightforward force;

the king with short legs on the scene,

surveying all the crumbling rows;

and swift and nimble, keen of nose,

the deadly distant present queen.

The four and sixty squares, they prove

a game’s no game without a move.

But win or losing, lose or win,

it’s better far to never play;

the game you never quite begin,

ever perfect, each passing day.

The pawns will never break their lines.

Imagined purely grand designs

where nothing’s lost, where nothing fails:

forever waiting never stales.

And should the pieces fall to dust

when the hourglass has run…

imagined games are far more fun,

and nothing ever lost, I trust.

And so I think it’s finally proved:

it’s better far to make no move.

Box

For where it’s locked up in a box there’s something would be free,

and every fine enigma has a certain sort of key.

The quiet and the darkness and the distance hide what’s there,

but breezes blow the scents around for those who sniff the air.

And though I’ve kept my secret, though I’ve locked it ‘neath the lid,

there’s an open mouth in secrets that would speak and not be hid.

There’s nothing very much to say, and nothing much to hear,

but where’s the mouth in all the world that wouldn’t find an ear?

But if I were a mirror I might see it turned around,

and if you were a bird with wings you might not touch the ground.

It’s a simple little riddle, but don’t answer it too quick;

it’s only light and shadow play that always does the trick!

Trickle

Tiny trickle through the cracks,

dammed-up flood that daylight lacks,

the way so long, the hope so dim,

the fish without the nerve to swim.

The rising flood would break the wall,

the tiny nothing would be all,

the dying glimmer would be light

and flow reflected through the night.

But how to hope enough to strive,

to stifle doubt and keep alive,

to burst the gates and smooth the stones

when hateful dullness fills the bones?

Hear it calling, calling, calling,

tomorrow’s hope is this day’s crawling.

The deepest night gives way to day,

and quiet light will find its way.

The rosy dawn will burst at last,

this blocking dam will be the past;

remember that you’ve come this far

all guided by a distant star.