Contemplation’s Limitations

Pig at night


The tubes and sticks and stretchy bits

That fix my entity into this realm

May not justify existence to eternity

But never the less nor more

Whatever else may be in store

To sweep through all the ticks and tocks

That pour from clicking clocks can approximate

The actions of a life of satisfaction.


That bees may sneeze, that birds in trees

May chirp degrees of elemental melodies

Can only add to things that please

Like mozzarella pizza cheese

Or poetry’s simplicities and magic keys

To tidy bits of thought that fits to memory’s complexities.


To wonder over thunder can blunder to confusion,

Can elucidate the dizzy state of perceptual illusion.

For lightning’s stroke may evoke an electrical condition

That sends one head over heels tumbling to perdition.

But none of this strange hit or miss can kiss or totally demolish

A life’s demise or pleasant surprise to distinguish shit from shoe polish.

At end to spend examination over daily dumb damnation

Of hope’s scope to barely cope for some neat explanation

Of who and where and what should care within our speck of time.

Our senseless gropes just flail and fail to attain the ultimate sublime.








Then and Now

Moon footprint


Four thousand million years or so ago

On, perhaps, a sunny day, maybe in June,

Or beneath the silver disk of Moon,

An odd molecule or two caught an idea

To make the slightest touch of life appear.


Molecules are thoughtless bits that tag

Each other in surprise or someways otherwise.

Events that day, anyway, no one can say.

Molecules can link and split, twirl and branch,

Twist in ways that can’t be missed, or just drift away.


But that most significant connection initiated events

Out of the iron rule of circumstance, without intents,

To demand that this Wednesday morning, eggs and toast,

A cup of coffee, microwaved, as preferred by most

Or, at least, by me, would provide sustenance

To initiate the imaginings of where and how I might be.


These things, of course, are never independent,

Unlinked in time to long chains of previouses,

Unlike radioactive decay which may, without intent,

In furious, spurious, energetic eruption fusses

Of speeding, subatomic flights of reconstruction

Twist succeeding fates in ways that no one susses.


Thus infringes pasts and pasts of pasts into currency,

A stone imprint of the foot of Tyrannosaurus Rex

Reflects a step of history towards some vague destination,

The spring of delight in Balanchine assault on gravity,

Wilder still, that human Lunar print to step onto a dusty satellite.


So then and now progress to when in steps beyond concepts

Into futurity where sweet and horrifying possibilities lie and lurk.

We walk across the ages blind, unknowing of what we find.

The architect of time erects, connects and razes with bare hints

Of what stays, what fades or what bridges into possibilities.

We each are hints to blow like mist to leave, perhaps, a scent

Of what may be meant.








Touching Finality


The faint scent of death pervades

Latter days.

There are ways to wave away that trace.

Present time strikes one

Full in the face

With bouquets of touch and sound,

Surroundings bright with colors, light,

And even in a quiet night

The Moon can sooth to peaceful sleep.

But sleep itself can raise the care

That something threatens deep out there,

Barely discernible, it stirs,

A rip in time,

Discontinuity, and then,

And then, who knows what?

What squat frog of fate awaits?

What totality now lurks?

And so, awake, to watch

The ceiling lights of passing cars.

The marching troops of what had beens,

The avatars of what could be.

Until the weariness of empty sleep

Envelopes all concern

To swiftly endow

The yellow sun of morning now.

Another Day


Morning photo

Time calculates

With the smallest particles of moments.

My clock spits minutes

In its assault on my life.

They dust my floor with memories

That sparkle and whirl away

In the wind of necessities.


Each morning must I reassemble

This odd similarity

I recognize as myself.

Not quite the same fabrication

That flopped to bed

The night before.

The underwear, the socks and pants

The shirt and shoes

Complete the structure

Topped by the aging head, white hair

Smeared with a grin of completion

To sign the victory for another day

Of questionable enterprise.


Sperm and egg

I breathe, I smile, I walk a mile,

I cook, I look, I sit a while.

Lots of things that can be done,

Can be a nuisance, can be fun,

But, professional, these are none.

Many ways there are to fuss

But always serendipitous

I watch the sky, I do fish fry,

I read the news and wonder why

People do what people do –

That puzzles me without clue.

Sometimes it’s habitual,

A funny kind of ritual.

Mostly for due recompense

For lots of time and little sense.

There is, of course the money thing

The chime of cash register’s ring.

Without cash all life would crash.

One must keep an eye on stash.

You’ve got to eat and sleep and fart

Plus, of course, there’s sex and art.

Some keep dogs, perhaps more,

Rarely, there’s a dinosaur.

Some sons-of-bitches like to kill,

Many settle for a pill,

But always there’s a way, a will

To have a say for time to spill.

But time just comes in discrete ways.

We’ve all got limits on our days.

A hundred years  – we most go poof.

It’s a short life on the hoof.

Towards the end, we start to wonder

Where the Hell has been our thunder?

Einstein and Napoleon

Thought little of simoleon.

What the hell, what the fuck!

When you’re dead what good’s a buck?

But then again, reputation frays.

Are there better ways to spend our days?

No need to stomp and scream and shout

If life gives franks and sour kraut.

Not many sperm make birth to Earth

To figure out what life is worth.

It’s quite a prize to get a peek

At a universe that’s quite unique.



To argue with eternity,

Conceive that patches of locality

Can be extended end to end

To accrue to infinity

Misplaces values of precision

Blurs the qualities of vision

Contemplates with metaphor

To lose befores and afters

And sacrifices preciousness

Of less to more.

Einstein’s time and space petrified

Cannot capture laminations of the instants

That grow to manufacture our existence.

The glowing crash of a lightning stroke

And the angry after shout of thunder

To confirm it failed to claim extinction

Donates life and joy that we persist.

The evanescent scent of salt and sea

That suffuses dancing foams and waves

Weaves moments of unforgettable delight

Captured forever in memory’s enclaves.

To be active and alive is special.

No less a miracle than the universe itself.

Each moment is a glory quite unique

Time crystallized in jewelries of instants

That can endow only wonder and silence

In impossibilities to speak.

Fall, Helsinki


The first cool hint of winter

Came this Sunday morning

From a pale blue sky

To shine

With lemon light on yellow leaves

And fire up maple reds.

It jostled stiff brown stems

To rustle in the flower beds.

So frail and shy a creature

With the slightest touch

Transmutes the summer’s feature

By not much

In such a gentle evil way

One does not even quail

To feel the softest brush

Of faint death’s tail.

Has this ghost pupa hatched

From out the extra hour

Set to sleep through summer

From the Spring?

Or merely tipped and spilled

From Time itself

Which wobbles

With the planet’s bobbles

In its sunswept swing?

No matter.


It glitters in the weakened sun

To stiffen out its membranes

With their needle spines.

Cooling breezes tease away

The heat of summer

Shed like a sunburned skin

To sweep like flying silken scarves

Far down to Africa.

It needs three months

To gnaw away the green to brown

And brown to black,

To fill its lungs with poison cold and ice

And crack the shell of life,

To spill the snow with frozen birds

And mice

And etch its black-white artistry

On dead gray clouds.

A moon-white sun

Awaits for when

The Earth slides down its path

To certain rendezvous with life

Begun again.