A dandelion, and a horse, head bowed, nibbling at dried grass. Four decks of cards, and a cloud shaped like a clover. Cuts of meat in a display case, and tired rowers coming up to the quay. Naked shoulders, from the back, and a bicyclist headed up a hill. Teen angst, and a pressure vessel. … Continue reading Equality
[Text of Philip Larkin's poem, "The Trees," here] "Last year is dead," Larkin said, of daffodils and trees, mocking their rebirth as if spring were falsely clothed. And this: "...greenness is a kind of grief." That connection is a trick of the mind, like not seeing the seam between hurt and anger. Was Larkin born … Continue reading Last Year Is Dead
[Inspired by this article on the New Yorker web site.] We grow, not like trees straining for the light, But by finding light within ourselves, and seeking its reflection without. Finding none, or merely few, we fail to resolve as our own person. Shadows, darkness, dreams with empty places: what it feels like is bursting without … Continue reading Reflections
There's more difference between a moving tiger and yielding grass than the eye can see. Is the tiger healthy? Does he limp, does he wince from a torn foot-pad? Is there fresh blood on his lips? What is the sound of bending grass, the path of air wending among cat legs and reeds? In seconds, … Continue reading A Tiger in the Grass
The Death of Spirituality in Politics Politics, on the left or the right, is spiritually dead. It is the bluntest of human forces, a shoving of food from the common table, without regard for the hunger that abounds. It is an abuse of belief, used even when the truth is plain; a choke on dreams, … Continue reading Politics: a Poem
I had no choice then but to evaluate you in the ways I already knew: are you smart, are you pretty, does your smile come from your heart, are you generous with yourself, do tears flow when life dams you up? What I wanted to know, is would I miss you each time, 20 years … Continue reading Finding the future in the past…
f(joy) = risk/life Choices are bricks, made in fire. Life, then, is the edifice whose walls find strength and voice in the tally that survives that kiln. Happiness may drip through the roof and be collected in tins, but joy, and mud for bricks, reside out from under, in the wet and body-beating rain.