Remnants of My Father

Once standing tall
The mast of an invincible ship
Reliable as sturdy timber
How have you rotted!

Your brain had changed,
but your thoughts had not
History had changed,
but you had not

Sinking beneath
the dust of history
You wander in a daze
Panicked and confused

Sailing on a sinking ship to oblivion
Mistaking gulls for the angel of death
Blind to the sharp rocks ahead

Demons of your own making
Must they torture us as well?
The ghosts that haunt you are not yet dead
Leave them alone well enough

Traveling rudderless
through a sea of madness
Towards an uncertain twilight


Touch of Spring

I stand beneath a shower of blossoms
White as the wooly clouds of spring
In the spell of a fragrance wholesome
Refreshed in the vital wind she brings

Devoting her life to ceaseless toil
Touching with magic at earth’s service
Through the branches, into the soil
Waking life in every crevice

Buds and blooms rise to the sky
Flurries of petals fill the air
Birds ascend to the blue and high
Showing beauty without a care

Dust of Perfection

I stand by the shore of an aurora pool
Gazing at my everlasting reflection
Reaching the dimension of perfection

My demure mind explodes like a fool
in a million iridescent fragments
scattered in a field of liquid color

In a hall of mirrors I stare at remnants
of my soul torn like heroes of valor

Dust of my mind forms a cloud of stars
A glittering smudge that mars
the constellations with brilliance
And there I remain a beacon for billions

The Conceit of Time

Time is the great deceiver
Dividing the same from the same
My body is old but my mind is young
And only death can cleave the two

We float along its tidal flow
Backwards when we remember
Forwards when we use foresight
Wandering as a curious child

What use is time for a universe
that sees forever in a blink?

The cosmic pattern holds for eternity
Even as the universe ceaselessly moves
Night and day flicker back and forth
Yet both happen at the same time

Nothing ever stops moving
Not even mountains
Only the speed of light is immovable
This is the ultimate mystery

Roots of History

We think the thoughts of our
mothers and fathers
and their mothers and fathers
and so on ’til the apes

The words of ancestors
still resonate in our throats
Letters from Ancient Rome
still emblazon our pages

We all trace our lineage
to fish climbing out of the sea
We still see with their eyes
and hear with their ears

The invisible roots of history
Weave us with the origin of everything


Sleeping ladybug, still as the peaceful night
Garbed in a crimson coat out in plain sight

Remaking its body for the sight of spring
From a worm was born a beauty with wings

Climbing out on feisty legs, ready to dance
Taking to the air, looking for ladybug romance

My Hand

My hand is an primordial organ
An appendage gloved in Jurassic skin
Filled with bones of an untamed beast
Yet hold the world with a gentle touch

I was made in the hands of my mother
when she caressed my infant body;
I wriggled away from her embrace
to make the world with my own hands

I grasp a pen with sensuous grip,
glide on the page with civilized grace
with the same five fingers
the primordial man used to launch spears

The world of silicon and steel
The world of swords and shields
Yet the hand made them both

Are my hands alien tools
Temporal anomalies floating freely in time
Are our imaginations
Inadequate for using these marvelous tools?