Einstein Made Me Do It

In pondering the unimaginable,

Einstein gave us the greatest of

all answers; that there are more

questions that need to be asked.

Satisfaction is only derived from

the truest stripping down of all

the unnecessary details of a thing

and analyzing its essence unencumbered.

In that bare bones exposure, we can see

the mechanisms which drive our quests

for a clearer understanding of the universe,

and of ourselves.

It is singular in us to want to know

what it is about us that makes us.

We want to be stardust and something

more, simultaneously.

Each beat of our heart’s echoes subtly

through the incomprehensible vastness

of infinity, through the curvature of Space

Time, and through each other.

The science of the universe is

the science of our hearts,

our hearts quicken with each new

discovery that brings us all closer together.

It is in the asking, “What if?” or,

“Why not?”, that we can begin to

unravel theories laid out for us by

some singular genius.

I want to know your heart just as

deeply as I want to know why light

bends and time literally skips a beat

in weaker gravitational fields.

I have more questions than answers,

I am uncomfortable in the unknowing

but excited by the prospects of learning

something I never knew.

A Unified Theory of why I love,

why we lose, why two people can

create something from nothing,

why we sing the blues.

We’re all just stardust,

forced together through electrical

attraction, made to ponder the infinite

and the end, with so many questions left.   

  

Memorials

I keep the cross my grandfather

wore around his neck on his

dog tag chain from WWII in my wallet.

I have transferred it to each new

wallet to keep it safe and close

to me at all times.

It is a talisman of sorts for me.

I often attribute my survival through

the various dangers of youthful life,

stupid adventures and poor choices,

to this simple cross once worn through

the terrors of war.

It is the most personal of Memorials

I can have. It is a treasure to me and

I do not know what I would do if I

foolishly lost it or had it taken from

me. To not have it, this Memorial,

I would be demolished.

I also keep the obituary of my other

grandfather in my wallet. He too was

a WWII Vet. It is tattered and worn

from all the transitions from wallet

to wallet. It too is a Memorial I hope

keeps me safe from harm.

I’m okay with giant statues and

chiseled facades depicting the heroism

of all those men and women that have

stood up for their beliefs, who took it

upon themselves to sacrifice their lives

for the betterment of those that come after.

Those statuesque Memorials are for the collective

consciousness to remember, and while

important, they lack the visceral intensity

of holding a sacred item in your hands,

you cannot turn a plaque or statue over through your

fingers and feel the weight it is burdened with.

You cannot run your fingers across the small

details of a special trinket without the fires of

memory igniting in your mind,

flashing to scenes of those times,

now so long gone. A precious item

of innumerable value to inspire and comfort.  

Personal Memorials, the weathered photo, the broken locket,

the knick-knack on a shelf, the item that means

absolutely nothing to a stranger

yet means everything to you.

These are the Memorials I value

more than any other.

Lamentations

Perhaps I’m overloaded,

perhaps I’m tired of it,

perhaps the act of caring,

has all become a bit much.

Stunned into stoicism,

through the sheer multitude

of grief and inconceivable acts

performed daily and globally.

The meter broke,

the scale snapped,

the weights and measures

are rusting in the back.

A standard state of mourning,

that’s the simple fact,

black arm bands and half mast

tributes too often in sight.

Perhaps it’s a funk,

perhaps it’s a fugue,

perhaps it’s just how it is,

perhaps it’s always been.

Personal and public,

they both sing dirges

by choirs of the spent,

the worn and weary.

A threadbare soul,

worn thin through

wringing of hands and

furrowed brows.

Perhaps I’m just annoyed,

perhaps I’m just irritated,

perhaps I’m just exhausted,

Perhaps this is the end.

It’s just how I worry,

And I worry a lot.

The poet’s burden,

I guess…

Fire Dancers

When I was a child I once

saw fire dancers,

twirling and spinning flaming torches

around their heads and bodies,

the flames spun around the

dancers, but they never got

burned.

I thought, “I wish I could try

that, that looks amazing”,

but I was discouraged from doing

so. My mother told me those

fire dancers, they practiced for

a lifetime to master their skill.

She told me it would be dumb

to assume that I, as a child, knew

anything about fire dancing, or fire

for that matter. I didn’t have the

experience, know-how or insight

into the life of a fire dancer.

“I’ll show her”, I thought. I’ll light

this torch on fire and dance with

the greatest of ease, it has to be easy,

they made it look so graceful and

simple. I’m sure I know as much as

they do.

Several minor burns later I knew

my mother was right. I had no

business meddling within the

realms of fire dancers. I did not

have the knowledge, know-how,

or skills to ever understand the

fire dancer’s life.

I was just a child playing with fire,

a child too ignorant and proud to

admit that I was attempting a skill,

a life-style choice that I knew absolutely

nothing about. I learned that I would

have to know more about fire dancers.

I learned that just because I

know about fire-dancers doesn’t

give me the skills to become one.

It doesn’t even give me a platform

to discuss their trials and tribulations.

Lifetimes of burns and scars.

I still know next to nothing about

fire dancers, as a grown man, and

it would be foolish to pretend that

I knew what was best for the fire

dancing community.

Let the fire dancers dance,

let them twirl and spin,

wildly in the night,

without the non-fire dancers

telling them how to do it.

Eventually, they’ll burn you.

And you probably asked for it.

Bullied Thoughts

The stanza below is the only

portion of a poem I was working

on that I have kept.

“I am the grown-up version

of a bullied child.

I felt the barbs and brutality

of childhood and at times,

I still feel the sting, even

this far removed from

childhood. It is a sore spot,

a white-hot scar on adulthood.”

The rest of the poem, I hated.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t saying

what needed to be said. I couldn’t

find the right sort of words to

really explain what that stanza meant.

Three long, overwrought, incarnations of the poem

went across this page and all of them

failed to clearly imbue the reader with

the right sense of the trap of being

bullied as a child can be.

I’m still not sure about it.

I still don’t think I can get it right.

All I know is that at times,

the inner bullied child still

whispers in my ear as I face

the challenges of being a grown up.

It whispers, “You can make it.”  

But I’m not sure.

I’m not sure which of us is braver.

The one that survived, or the one

still persevering.

Maybe I’ll keep this one.

Maybe it’s just right for him.

Annoyingly Necessary

The most extremely complicated

simplest thing ever cooked up in

the human mind must be love.

It’s entirely irrational and annoyingly

necessary.

I have been looking for that sort of

relationship love for what seems like

an inordinate amount of time now and

it is really starting to get to me in ways

I didn’t know it could.

I get jealous of couples, even unhappy

couples, who seem to have found each

other through the barriers and obstacles

life gleefully dumps into our paths, it’s

maddening to be on the outside of that.

I have been writing about romantic love,

partnership love, love-love and all other

kinds of love for an excruciating long

time and it amazes me that I still haven’t

met someone who inspires my heart.

I’ve been told my expectations are too high,

that I’m a romantic and real life is just about

getting along, settling and just doing what you

got to do to live. Happiness is an illusion sold

by Hollywood and life really is boredom mixed with pain.   

Life is indeed boring without getting

outside oneself and into the mind of another

person, someone who so completely cares about

you, almost as much as they do about themselves,

and you, reflect that admiration unequivocally.

Who does that? Is that really a thing?

Am I fooling myself with my fantasies of love,

of children, of a life broader than where it’s been,

is that sort of uncompromising and genuine love

real? Is it just a myth?

Maybe I just don’t know what it is

that I’m supposed to be trying to find.

Perhaps I’m putting too much

pressure on myself to find that

right sort of person who compliments me

as much as I compliment them,

perhaps I’ll just keep writing this

long sentence until she does come

along and taps me on the shoulder,

asks me if I’m okay and looks at me

with gentle open eyes and I stammer,

probably say something completely stupid

and out of context and maybe she’ll

laugh and the next thing you know she’ll

be reading this poem and kindly laughing at

me for being so foolish, she’ll lean over and kiss

my cheek and go back to being someone

amazing.

Yeah, it is complicated and amazing

and I want it. In the most annoying way.

A Little Self Promotion for May

Hello dear readers,

 I thought I would do a little shameless self promotion of my most recent book of poetry, Saying Too Much. It is the follow up to my first book, Never Said Enough.

Please see the attached link for more information. Thank you for all the years of readership.

https://www.amazon.com/Saying-Too-Much-Second-Poetry/dp/1727135490/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1536762783&sr=1-1&keywords=saying+too+much