Saturday, March 26, 2011


The more I box up, the more I wish to throw away. I'm a pack rat. Not an incorrigible one, but a pack rat, nonetheless. I have, in my house, the collected detritus of a decade, and I'm only now beginning to realize that I need very, very little of it. A good rule of thumb: if it hasn't been used in the last five years, it is probably expendable.


The clutter of a spartan life is clutter, still,
and cursing never cured a messy room,
so open all the drawers and let the garbage fill,
condemn the sullied tiles to the broom,

as, box on box, the stacks ascend in even shoots,
a camel cardboard forest from the floor;
I'll keep no more than needed when I'm pulling roots
and carrying my chattels out the door;
a dwelling and a heart; no less, no more.

Saturday, March 19, 2011


Tomorrow, I begin packing for the move, and this long-suffering man watches as his belongings are divided between the necessary and the disposable. Not that I mind; I could certainly suffer a sparser existence. And besides, I'm far too happy to object to the diminution of my worldly goods.


My heart was light and lithe the day I left
and longing for a home; these spartan walls
are spare and I no longer love the theft
of time, since silence settled on the squalls

that thrust me, like a ship, upon the shoal;
this castaway has caught a friendly breeze
to bear me to a harbor and a soul;
if one and one could ever make a whole,
then here am I to offer at your ease.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


Of course, it's raining today, but I could have sworn I saw the sun on Friday. Crocuses are blooming, trees are budding, and May is coming faster than I could have imagined.


Old, grey-eyed winter gives a final gasp
and clutches at the bony-fingered trees,
bewildered and bedeviled by the grasp
of blossoms bearing upwards to the bees;

high overhead, the clouds dispense a spell,
a curtain call of keen and seething snow,
but feebly, for they notice, all too well,
the shoots and runners readying to grow.

And how the weathermen will groan and gripe
and warn us of the ever-coming chill,
as arctic winds diminish, over-ripe
and withered. Let the weather as it will,

but, as for me, a warble on the wing
assures me of the certainty of spring.

Saturday, March 5, 2011


How many rich men count themselves happy? It is not money, but people, that we ought to consider wealth. When every last penny has been spent, the worth of those who love us will not have been depleted by one whit.


I am not rich, but neither am I poor;
my coffers ebb and flow abreast the tide,
to satisfy me from an ample store.
It is a simple duty to provide

for everyday demands. A modest heart,
obliging both in appetite and mode,
impels a similarly modest art
to satisfy its unabating load,

and gladly, for a dollar never bought
a single speck of happiness. I must
rely upon another, as I ought,
and rest my merriment upon the trust

that you will love me even when my stock
of worldly relief has run its clock.