Cave Drawings in the Dark

He thinks he's exciting and wants to frame his life
to hang on a wall for others to enjoy.

He believes a cubist perspective is necessary
to cram his adventures onto a single canvas,

but wonders if a chiaroscuro rendering
might benefit viewers struggling to understand
the many shadows of his past, drawing him to muse

that an impressionistic moment is more
than most folks can absorb, even from a distance,
whereupon, he concludes that they'll probably pass

right by the picture unless he provides one of those
cozy cottage scenes in the woods with wisps
of smoking funneling up from the chimney,

which would force their gasp at what a charmed life
he's lived, if he actually chooses to frame his story
around an unreal theme, which makes him decide

to pass on the idea, because he hopes he's more than
just a couple dabs of paint jabbed onto a reproduction
that's been authenticated with a scribbled signature.

Meshuggenah

Meshuggenah
(Clue: Yiddish)

A single stone, ground
smooth in a slow flowing stream,
searching for its edge.

Dasein

Dasein
(Being-in-the-World)

While dying men search
for a final breath, poets
grope for words to live.

Why I Don't Play Tournament Chess Anymore

At times the empty squares beg me to cover their
nakedness with a piece or expose their center. The king
looks up and frowns because he is unprotected in the
middle and wants to be castled.

The pawn at the bottom of the chain cries that he's
backward and lost. The rook argues that he needs an
open file to fill while the knights complain that they're
useless at the board's edge.

The the bishops pray to be fianchettoed into the long
diagonal and glare at the queen who weeps that she is
tired of endless forays toward an unimpressed enemy and
thinks she is about to be forked by an opposing knight.

Then they break into a chorus of catcalls, labeling
me fish, putz, patzer, and wood-pusher because I should
have spent more time studying Nimzowitsch's system
instead of dawdling over five-minute chess in the park.

And while I'm facing this cacophonous squabble of
dissent, seeing zugzwang in every position, my opponent
watches the clock run down until my red flag falls.
So, you see, it's really a coup d'etat that has forced
my abdication.

Voice Imprint

Voice Imprint

If you remember the sound of my voice,
I'll always be near. You'll see me
in your mind's eye as you walk along
the beach, the sand between your toes,
the surf rinsing your skin. You'll taste
my kiss in sips of Chianti and smell the sweat
of our play,
like the heavy scent of jasmine in bloom.

And when you lie awake at night,
alone between cool cotton sheets,
reach out to touch the empty space
I once occupied, and know that
the soft whisper you hear
is more than just a summer breeze
pushing through the branches of a dead tree.

Molting at Piedras Blancas

Molting at Piedras Blancas

Elephant seals bask on the beach,
each casually flipping sand over its
skin as the sun passes across the sky.
They've been at it for three weeks now,
sloughing off old coats to reveal
fresh, brown velvet beneath
while they crowd together like punks
on a street corner. And that's
what these adolescent males are,
belching and preening, banging their chests
to prove a manhood that hasn't yet
arrived, eyeing the solitary bulls
down the strand. Maybe next year
the heavy-set teen in the middle will
take his hanging proboscis out of the
huddle and find a quiet place to molt.
But for now, he's happy showing off
his new coat and tossing sand
in the smaller seal's eyes.

Exposures

Exposures

I have spent the afternoon in the backyard
measuring light, setting apertures,
searching shutter speeds,
in a vain attempt to catch my six-year-old
at the apex of her swing.

I wish to trace the outlines of her youth
against the backdrop of the sky
and place her amongst the clouds
in my documentary of her life journey.

But every effort is thwarted
by my clumsy pans, which I know
will result in nothing but frozen action,
or indistinct blurs across the photograph.

I am about to quit, when her giggle
makes me glance up and see
a bounce of blond curls following the curve
of her laughter, like a comet's tail,
and I sense the startled astronomer's awe
of glimpsing a celestial event
that will never be captured on film.

Crayons

Crayons

After giving my four-year-old a box
of crayons in sixty-four brilliant hues,
I ask her what colors she prefers.
She tells me she likes blue and green.
These are the colors of the sky and trees.

I point out the periwinkle, turquoise,
aquamarine, and cadet-blue as alternatives.
I lift up the forest, olive, spring, and sea greens
to compete with the green she's drawn,
but she overrules me.

Later, she shows me a blue-green stick-figure
standing in a field beside a tree
that looks like it's about to topple.
"That's you, Daddy!" she yells.

And I gaze at her hazel eyes wanting to trap
her innocent enthusiasm in my hug.
All too soon she'll be choosing drab shades
of sepia, salmon, raw umber, and maize,
without any guidance from me.