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annh Aug 2019
Confessor, I am reborn,
Vain with ash and frankincense;
Absolved of my inverted pleasures,
Reconciled to the morality of suffering.

Confessor, I am returned,
Predestined to gravely offend;
Nimbly contrite in my genuflection,
Gracefully weak-kneed in my resolve.

Confessor, I am reborn,
Although aged by my discretion;
Examined satisfactorily by my conscience,
Blessedly relieved through your encouragement.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
‘A true confession: I believe in a soluble fish.’
- Charles Simic, The Unemployed Fortune-Teller: Essays and Memoirs

Written - somewhat cynically - in response to a situation with an immediate family member, who is seemingly unable to break out of a continual cycle of apology and recidivism. There is no doubt that her ‘sorries’ are meant at the time but within weeks, days, sometimes even hours, she’s at it again.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
called me in for a consultation,

lean in,” he suggested, with nearly closed eyes,

“see the youthful optimistic predecessor,
the conqueror, who could not be defeated,
his thin images within still resides

the man of firm voice who when he spoke
above the rabble, all fell silent, and when he looked,
all could share his visionary insights and did not hesitate,
saying, we will do and we will listen,
but to follow, just did, wrapped
in your confidence

I want that boy back, smooth skinned, fearless,
do not return him till the shadows have dissipated,
the bruised lines of worry have evaporated,
the hands look unscathed, then raise them in
self-supplication, demanding satisfaction,
then in success, born overhead, marking appreciation,

let us adventure forth, straightening tilting windmills,
punishing renegades and dragons fearful,
saving damsels who waited just for our arrival,
shedding courage upon those who watch us,
cheering and being cheerful

here is your mighty pen,
cut sharp the poems out from the within,
read them slow, winding to now crooked old friends,
who remember everything dear, their youth of no fear,
the best of past, dreaming poems, mist born, fog vapor gone,
of black and waiting white, worthy words all revived

return to me in blazes,
sumptuous colors of derring-do,
I need that child brave, for perhaps
you have not noticed my flaking slivering skin,
the expanding cracks that cross my images,
just like you!

I need you to rebirth you,
I need you to rebirth me!

8/16/19 reflections from a blue glacier

— The End —