Rumpelstiltskin's Return

This morning I am the last
line of defense. A whole
household of restless people
has revolved around one
restless firstborn infant's rest,

but now everyone is resting,
even the restless infant,
everyone save me, who
rocks her back and forth,
back and forth, back and forth,

watching the slow spinning sun
weave us a golden illustration of
unknowing on the broken loom
of one dead decorative tree branch
propped among these gilded cobwebs.

Meanwhile on the Sea of Forever Arriving

And yet, and yet, never far
from that pathetic lifeboat
and its motley shipwrecked crew

for whom each day is their ship
leaking and slowly sinking,
each night their wreck a bonfire,

and every morning flotsam
from dreams of fire and water
scattered on the vacant waves,

a quiet bird is floating,
a bird without reflection
a pure nothing of a bird,

the connoisseur of current
who cons the waves on the sea
of forever arriving--

Grace, Joy, Clarity, Deep Peace,
Ease and Lightness of Being,
prettily appropriate

labels all, although labels
never stick to waves for long
but ride or slip beneath them--

a halcyon sort of bird
already beyond the pale
melodramas of wrecked lives,

content in every moment
to rise and fall in silence
and forgive the lifeboat's gang

who lust to consume its peace
always just beyond their reach
on the sea of arriving.

A Parable that Holds No Water

Together in the lifeboat of the body,
marooned at sea, crowd a bedraggled gang
of common characters, a vaporous angel

of ephemeral better self squeezed in beside
a hibernating bear of pain, a barking dog
of ego, a whining infant of desire,

and the chattering monkey of the mind,
and they annoy and comfort each other
as best they know how for as long as the boat

floats.

Monday Night Love Letter

Far away and awake,
I hope that you're asleep
and that you won't read this
until sunrise proper
stirs you from sweeter dreams
than you've had in a week.

Far from you and from sleep,
I think of you under
the covers of darkness
by the windows of stars,
eyes closed, breathing softly,
floating curled on the waves.

Far along and alone,
I hold the dark magic
dear of the memory
of your head by my neck,
your hair under my hand,
our thoughts close and tangled.

Ethereal Demography of the Superstitious Atheist

Last night the high stars,
predictably mute,
decorated life
above the dark side
of a small planet.

Today the weather
turned wet and windy,
soaking the desert,
churning ochre flows,
running red rivers

of undignified,
impassable mud
and dangerous rocks
that yesterday were
sides of sunny hills.

The dull human mind
starts habitual
evaluation
of what this change means:
Good day for a storm,

a good day for me;
I don't have to drive;
it could have been worse,
could have come later,
made problems for me.

The furies themselves
may have arranged it;
Some Others may care
what happens to me,
mine, and my schedule.

What are these structures
in our little minds
that crave characters
with invisible
desires on our fates?

We people the world,
and then populate
each interior
with exterior
agents of meaning.

For every billion
individuals,
a hundred billion
supernatural
forces activate.

The superstitious
atheist, even,
feels tugged by meaning,
purpose, control, feels
haunted by patterns,

counts random angels
constellating from
minuscule details,
appalling designs,
winged with intentions.

Tapping My Inner Platypus

When I'm underwater, eyes closed
or squinted against the blur, blind
or near, hearing dimmed to murmur,

squirming, paddling, feeling my way,
a bottom feeder in the muck,
of a lake or pond or bathtub,

the image of a platypus
tends leisurely to come to mind,
and I smile when no one can see,

through a murky, amusing truth,
no more meaningful than symbol
and no less meaningless than myth.

Ha Ha Very Funny

The glowering bedside clock had not
changed numerals past midnight before
the foolery was already upon us.

After weeks of baby waking
umpteen times a night, accelerating
toward morning, baby bird slept

beautifully, peacefully
almost all of the long starry night,
while her mother was

wide staring awake
with insomnia maxima
horribila dusk to dawn.

By first light my own mudgreen
eyes opened over luggage lids
swollen to bulging carpetbags,

sagging with whole possums
curled up feigning
death inside them,

and I wondered how tired
is too tired for poetastery?
But even a fool's day can

be fine. The morning shone,
the warm noon passed through town
and here I am still somewhat

aware I'm alive, sitting out
in a late afternoon light
with a thumping plump infant

and my somehow-lovelier
than-ever-bone-tired wife,
playing tennis with the net

down as someone once called
this sort of lazy excuse for verse,
damn sure too tired to rhyme.