Dollhouse

 “The lamp in the window is the house’s eye and, in the kingdom of the imagination, it is never lighted out-of-doors, but is enclosed light, which can only filter to the outside.”–Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

The young girl

noticed,

not only

the one lighted window

in her dollhouse,

but also that its front door

was half-opened.

When she peered

through the glass

of the window

and saw a dark-haired doll,

one she had never seen before,

dancing with the porcelain figure

who was meant to represent her father,

the girl almost screamed

but held it in,

that is until

she reached her bedroom door

and found that the doorknob

was too high to reach.

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Illuminations

“You know of course that slowness is the only illumination I’ve ever had.” — Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer

A writer,

fastening his worth

to the tempo of grass,

to the yellow leaves

separating their grief

from their longing–

immeasurable farewells

and hellos

so slow

to burn.

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Vouchsafe

“Once it had been the other way around: one summer, while daydreaming a winter story, he had reached into the tall grass  for a snowball, wanting to throw it playfully at the cat.” — Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer

In those chanced

moments of supple reverie,

when the seasons blend

and merge

in hybrid fluency,

and you find

the fugitive words

dancing from your pen

to annoint a page

your confidante

and vouchsafe,

then, and only then,

the ceremony

of a slow reckoning

toward most treasured intimacy.

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What Was It You Said?

“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries and yet it is, itself, the greatest of our miseries.” — Blaise Pascal

Oh, distraction,

you paradoxical bastard–

Sky laughs, stays open.

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Morning Ritual

“I’d woken up early, and took a long time getting ready to exist.”– Fernando Pessoa

In the early morning, a yawn

brought tears to his eyes,

and then the agonizing consideration

of his metaphysical wardrobe,

and how he should appear to himself,

or to the mirrors held up

in the back of his skull–

Breakfast,

he crowed loudly

to no one,

yes, some buttered toast

and good strong dark coffee

before attempting anything

to do with the management

of self

along remotely intimate

psychic edges.

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Intimation

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star” – William Wordsworth

Once upon a star,

lyrics mated with the dark–

Memory was born.

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Living Mythology

“Essentially, mythologies are enormous poems that are renditions of insights, giving some sense of the marvel, the miracle and wonder of life.” – Joseph Campbell

Brokering

the truest gold

from the radiant core

of melting mortal want,

your life

is the poem

and metaphor

upon which

a course

is carved

and set

with infinite regard.

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Twice and Then Some

“After all, it is no more surprising to be born twice, than it is to be born once.” – Voltaire

On

the slow

winding

backroads

to heaven,

the soul–

burnished, braided in ash,

given to fits of symmetry,

plunged into plagues,

stuck with knives

in a circus fiasco,

hitching freights–

just keeps on going and going,

cycling through a gateless opera of lives,

herald to its own bask

and choir,

birth and death

but arbitrary checkpoints

in its endless assumption

of wonder.

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Attic

“Gnossienne: A moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you because ultimately neither of you has a map or a master key or any way of knowing exactly where you stand.”–from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

There,

in the unfinished attic,

where books

have gone unread

for god knows how long

and collected the skin of dust,

you wish to discover

the story that will serve as the key,

or perhaps procure a time-bitten

map from beneath a loose floorboard,

something

that will grant you the means

to travel from the attic to the basement

and back

without moving an inch–

You,

unsure as to whom

the attic belongs

(is it hers? is it yours?)

prepare to court

the pregnant dark

in what may amount

to a confession

or tryst

that no one

will ever hear about

not

in the light of day.

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Moonglow on Mercy Street

I am happy to announce that the hardcover edition of my new poetry book, Moonglow on Mercy Street, will be published in early December (CSF Publishing).

Anyone potentially interested in reviewing the book for their blog, or other site/forum, please contact me and I’d be happy to provide a digital PDF of the manuscript. Cheers and blessings!

MOONGLOW ON MERCY STREET

These fifty poems, most of them written in 2020, comprise a kaleidoscopic palette of tones, moods and styles, in crafting living mythology from the world at large and within. Metamorphic bop, scat-alchemy, bare bones blues and gospel, love songs and odes, pagan pop, and cinematic remixes, make of Moonglow on Mercy Street a free-range concert aimed at the imagination and the senses. And, as a lyrical pilgrimage fueled by hope and wonder, it stands as a shining testament to Henry Miller’s claim that “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”

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