A vase can be beautiful,
And can be filled with the ephemeral or the immortal.
If I think of you as a vase;
I think art nouveau,
Willowy, beautiful, in a languorous setting,
Among a cast of Greek characters
Staged around a classic reflecting pool,
It’s water stirred slightly by everlasting
Considerations of life.
The vase, tall, green, sinewy,
Can halt anarchy in nature,
As it sits resplendent, monarchical;

That may be enough.
But sleek ceramic fails to define.
Oh, filled with garden beauty, that vase
May win the contest of the day,
But nature vigorously corrodes
And the vase declines.

Yet it can become more radiant, as its soul,
Alive and growing, shows through.
May you, best philosopher for you,
Deny custom that leaves only emptiness.
Let muscle ache from the pull of the oar,
Feel the dog bite,
Taste the chocolate that tightens the throat.

Remember: the leaves of summer will be still;
The undulant song of the cicadas
Will rises and fall, rise and fall,
As swarms of blackbirds wheel to that sound.
These things, and the vase,
Are all we know of life, and are all of life.

Life came,
It’s own purpose a mystery,
But I saw green leaves
And I felt the magic of soft days;
I shouted my song of happiness,
And in a sentimental movie,
I discovered my meaning.
I charged the earthquake,
Flattened the riot, plugged the volcano.
Life hung back, just out of sight,
Not caring whether my effort
Was indolent or right.

Then life confessed itself,
Dragging me through the muddy streets,
And just as I found it too much to bear,
Just as I came to know life, the predator,
And began to grieve my sentence,
Life showed me more sentimental theater
And I cried for myself,
And imagined truth and independence.
But life, incognizant, came again to the gate;
It mired me in the doorway of my opportunity,
It starved my children
And ignored my dire straits.
I was a prisoner in it.

Then I discovered life thriving
In burrowing beetles and worms,
As happy there as in me.
But I had lived out my screenplay;
I praised the author, and died earnestly.

What trope is this,
That the old, wizened, simply submit,
Shedding skin and shutting out the sight
Of the melting candle lit.

Contraire! They still feel that whine
of seductive life blowing by,
Promising kisses and smooth skin.
In the mind, the memory of bare feet
In the sand retains its grittiness;
But life, pitiless, creates the mind's body,
A boardinghouse always in decline,
Leaving lips bereft.

Does the old heart believe
That the memory of that electric touch
Will still change the movie
From documentary to romance?
The young play; the old grieve.

Is it life to sit on a bench,
Next to the stench of old men
And laugh politely at yesterday's stories,
While powdered old ladies lean in
Singing hymns of past glories?

Restless desire inspires man's mortal heart
To resist this predestination, unchosen.
I long to dance, to sweat,
To feel, under the sun, the ripeness start.

birthdays,

like hooligan dogs,
racing back and forth
in the alley,

can be distractions
from life lived as
thoughtful poetry.

but unlike those hooligan dogs,
we can recognize days,
nights, as parts,
not broken pieces,  
summing into this annual rite,

thus the moment can be yanked back
from those rowdies in the alley.

we can be subservient to the
pleasure of the moment.
food and wine, those rightful,
ritual signifiers
of “time after time,”
add poetry back to life,

leaving the crazed dogs unaware,
delinquents behind the fence.