Winter Night

Christmas is almost upon us, and today the Commonwealth celebrates with the first annual Ugly Christmas Sweater Party. And though Winter itself may not yet have sprung upon the city with full force, it is most definitely in the air. Fires are warmer, nights are darker, and the clouds are swelled with the hint of snow.


Winter Night

It is quiet tonight,
all in cotton cold gown,
for the trees, they are silent;
they let their tongues down,

and the prodigal birds
winged their way for the sun.
It is quiet, and I?
I’m the quietest one.

Ode to the Unsure Philosopher: A Sophism in Several Parts

Here's a light take on the principles of philosophy, a staple of those far more intelligent than ourselves. Just because you don't write it, though, doesn't mean you can't dive on in. The true triumph here? Working that beast of a word, 'phenomenological,' into a poem.


Ode to the Unsure Philosopher: A Sophism in Several Parts

The philosopher’s life is a difficult one;
there are so many choices to make,
and it is an arduous task to discern
the truly wise man from the flake.

Do you choose Plato, in all of his forms,
to lead you out into the sun?
Or does intuition prove Aristotle
to be the most rational one.

You could always empirically end with Hume
when searching your senses to find
if Descartes’ cogito was right all along:
to know, you must start in the mind.

Perhaps, still unsure, you may feel, with Kant,
the phenomenological call,
or, in despair, give a tug at your hair
and declare you know nothing at all.

But whatever the state of the truth you can know,
just keep this one thought in your head:
the philosopher’s life is a difficult one;
that’s why all the greatest are dead.

Fever Night

It just snowed for the first time today, and in true holiday spirit, the flu has taken to the streets. So it is that I post this in sympathy with those currently laid out on sickbeds, but most especially Margaret, who is apparently in the slow and painful process of dying of the plague, and Sophie, who would be quite content with just the plague.


Fever Night

Glimpsed in crack, the door ajar,
a fair light filters through,
while from a haze of pressing ill
and artificial blue,
the dance of sparks on firewood
is seen by fevered eye,
and on the deadened ear descends
soft laughter and a sigh.
Oh, why must mortal parts be brought
so low upon a whim,
that happiness of mind is bound
by happiness of limb?

The Girl and the Fan

I wrote this poem for a very dear friend who spent a futile afternoon attempting to turn on a fan. Her apartment had flooded one muggy summer day and the cleaning company left the fan to help dry out the floor. In her defense, it was a massive, industrial beast of a fan, but a fan nonetheless. As a fitting post script, her husband had it going within five minutes of arriving home.


The Girl and the Fan

Upon a satin stool she sits
and sheds a single tear,
for though the heat bears down about,
no remedy is near,

while in the corner, ever close,
looks on the cyclops eye,
with shoulders hunched on blocky bulk
and toothy grin so sly.

Forever will she sit in heat,
as if enwrapped in furs,
for though she seeks to turn his brow,
it is but he turns hers.

Little

Repetition is the theme of the day. The placement of 'little' as the second word of each line was meant to lend the poem a certain flowing cadence and unity. Whether it works or not is up to the reader to decide.


Little

A little blade of grass upon
a little hill was crushed,
by little foot in little boot
on little path that rushed,
and little thought was given it,
while little death it died,
its little stature lowered still
by little motions tried.
Then little corpse was laid upon
a little rocky grave,
its little self to recompense
the little ground that gave.
But little life will spring again
from little grains of earth;
a little blade of grass begot
in little, wondrous birth.

Words and Minds

It's about time for a sonnet. This was written as a self-imposed exercise, and so tends more towards form than content. But then I never said I was Shakespeare.


Words and Minds

Our lips were made to marry intellects,
in common thought and reason rightly shared;
our ears to usher in such sonant lects
as found their inlets open and prepared.

So syllables between the two have flown
for ages past and ages yet begun,
to link our souls that, silent, stand alone;
the lover and beloved, bound as one.

This is the native course of old design
that dignifies our rough society
and serves, with stoic duty, to align
our separate hearts in simple unity.

But hope of consonance is mere facade
when prejudice corrupts the passage trod.

Summer Song

Well, I have tried to post once a week, and yet, somehow, even in this small goal I have failed. I have an excuse, however - I was at a wedding in California. So, in the spirit of marriage and sunny California and the fading memories of Summer days, I thought it time to post this poem.


Summer Song

Evening falls upon the timber
from the golden harvest moon.
Sing your song that I remember
Summer laid to rest too soon.

Sing a song of gold and silver,
sing the blessings of the sun,
sing beside the gentle river,
where the waters twist and run.

Make this promise as a lover,
keep this promise as a friend:
if we live to see the summer,
sing your song until the end.