every once in a while

every once in a while
a moment of clarity

world gone mad
stumbles on parity

seeing through rose-colored blinders,
duality

all come one in wake
of frugality

The Joy of Crying

“In trying to hold myself together…

I often want to cry, but I feel I can’t”

-- Sam Littlefair



I don’t even think about crying

It’s not an option

Either I feel shame

That I’m actively participating

In the world’s ills

Or I fancy that I have risen above emotion entirely,

Transcendent, free



Cry over the suffering of this finite population

Ever growing, dying out, feeding the ground

Feeding on the fruits of its poorest?

Frankly, I don’t feel worthy



Tonight I am reading “The Joy of Crying”,

An article by one Sam Littlefair

He reflects on what I too seldom do,

What I don’t often enough connect to –

This Whole Catastrophe we are living in



But Sam gives the green light, the thumbs up

The secret handshake



My playlist kicks up, “I Don’t Know” by Sir Paul

Perhaps the superficial Beatle’s first sonic foray

Into soul-searching



A heat and a fullness behind my eyes

With the magnificent opening chords

The feeling blooms, one half tear

Leaks from each parched orb

what still calls

I witnessed this once with my family
suburban sightseers in Florida, snowbirds

a Seminole wrestling an alligator

if you can get them upside down, he told us
rub the white underbelly
they become groggy
defenseless

it’s not so easy, I imagine
making cheap money
and not a lot of it
on tricks your grandfather taught you
when you were a kid

wondering how the fullness in your heart
at hearing the sounds, smelling the sulfur
of the Everglades
could translate into anything substantial
beyond a youth spent
playing with a Caucasian Ken doll
shooting
shooting himself repeatedly
in the foot

gravitate

how a layer of slick
rises up after cars pass
tire grooves lifting rain from the road
how the mind gravitates toward
what it abhors

embrace your dead and doldrums
they believe in you
will fertilize evergreens
of solstice and childhood dreams
made real

winter comes

leaves fall from trees
burdened by our noise
it is not of their world

ours stands apart
does not participate
in the great unfolding

our parents, our elders
those let go before ripened
likewise, fall into the ground

we do not see
do not acknowledge
that winter comes

simple science

all you perceive
is in your eye
watch yourself
see everything else
what you do
others construe
lesser than
or stellar friend
while all you are
is conscious star

upper hand

inside is false warmth
the heat of humankind
the whir of refrigeration
the sounds of the marketplace

outside is human footprint as well
paved road, cars, parking lot
a string of low buildings
quaint shops
a black metal arch,
"Old River"

still, she has the upper hand
trees, leaves, flagellated by breeze
leaning or standing tall against
our Election Day
our inner struggle
unwarranted war

a small black bird alights on a wire
clouds move ominous, unstoppable
the sky, everywhere, watches