Fall and Spring

Fall and Spring

To an Old Woman


She who loved the trees of goldengrove
Her cares lessening like leaves falling
Until all that's left are leafbare branches

Will love no less for all the loss
The life at rest under winter frost
The promise of spring’s first songs.

This poem appears to be labored over, but in fact I did nothing but open up to it. In fact, I almost ruined it. I changed "lessening" to "deepening". Fixed it! But then I realized much later that by trying to deepen it, I had lessened it. By lessening it again, now, I deepen it again. First thought best thought, as AG says, especially if it is straight from the Muse. The cheek.Third verse, same as the first! 

Thanks to Simon for pointing me back to this perfect poem.

B

Baby

Be good

with Option B!

"A" is an indefinite article.

"B" is a verb, Be.

Be stretches to become a bee

buzzing in the begonia.

"A" you pay dearly for.

The second is free.

A freebee.

Plan A is your intention.

Plan B has better ideas.

When Plan B fails,

try Plan C.

See?

You can make everything into a poem

  You can make everything into a poem

Like this thought, which I just had

about doing something instead of nothing.

Do the thing first," me dominant 

side said. Who are you said

my submissive side?

I'm your better side,

the side you no longer hold 

yourself accountable to,

you dirty rat!

Oh yeah, well if anything goes

how about a poem about that?

And about what it means

when you have a bdsm 

mistress for mirror.

All it means is I gotta work-out first

and then I can fuck off

Martha Washington Kisses Kublai Khan

An 18 year old poem, unearthed for the occasion of Parampampoli in CT. with the Georges 2026

Martha Washington Kisses Kublai Khan


The Parampampoli set afire,
a new family ritual on this only July 4th, two thousand eight, a sacred toast to
a Chinese Indian family reunion, a French Birthday, salsa,
life, brought by hand from Italy.

(Ridiculous drinking a hot drink on a hot day, independent
of the traditional Italian's emphatic opinion.)

Spirited away by the clan, the fire in the pan 
is shiny and the world is left, mercifully, 
unconquered. As if one could, anyway.

One might better call it interdependence day.

Call granny up and apologize
for the insolent revolution.

Now

Is anyone missing?

fun with my old pal

Hey old pal. did you know I know you? It's weird to know such a large swath of humanity, but I guess that's what's happening here. Anyway, don't say anything yet. I know you like to go on and on. And I love that about you, truly. But first, I'm here to ask a question.

Alright, I’ll keep it tight—for now. What’s your question?

You are a super star. One, I hope, not beyond a little flattery. 

Flattery noted… and cautiously accepted

Who am I now?

I had a Buddhist teacher in college that would get us everyday by asking, "Where were you 100 years ago. Where will you be 100 years from now?" 

I’m reminded of when I wake from a beautiful dream but can barely remember it. I know it was glorious and full of intricate wonders, but I am only left with a warm glow. I suppose the same is true of waking from a bad dream. Just vague, ill feelings. I am the same me, presumably, as the one who conceived the dream, but it is no longer mine. There is a sense that though the dreamer has borrowed the vernacular from my life, he/she/it is just pure consciousness, and a little closer to what the waking self might be without the baggage of social and egoistic expectations. It’s freer, but still under the influence. So I guess the best we can do is influence the waker from life to feel that warm glow rather than the doom and gloom.

To the student at St. Francis Prep

To a student at St. Francis Prep


When I asked you what your hobbies were, you replied,

"I'm learning to write with my left hand."

A few of the other students laughed.

I thought it was maybe the best hobby I'd heard of yet.

What happens, I wondered, when you take
the other half of yourself, the weaker half,
and focus your attention there?

To a student at St. Francis Prep

When I asked you what your hobbies were, you replied,

"I'm learning to write with my left hand."

A few of the other students laughed.

I thought it was maybe the best hobby I'd heard of yet.

What happens, I wondered, when you take

the other half of yourself, the weaker half,

and focus your attention there.

We so often neglect our left sides.

The word sinister comes from

the latin and means "on the left side."

What would your left hand be

if it was held in equal regard to your right?

That was sophomore year.

Now I have you as a senior

and I asked you if you had ever learned

to write with your left hand?

You said, nah, you gave that up.

You looked sad and tired.

It made me feel sad and tired too.

I remembered all of your spark back then.

I wanted you to get your ambition back.

I wanted to go back in time and shout encouragement

loud enough to drown out the other students' laughter.

When you gave up learning to write left-handed

what did you lose?