We fly away from that initial Bang,
and yet we cling together.  Gravity
pulls even protons into stellar gangs,
pressing them to fuse so brilliantly

they burn and light the sky for many eons,
waiting for their neighbors to explode
and spew abroad their heaviest accretions
to bond into a planetary lode.

And as the comets crash upon those worlds,
on some a sea may form and nurture life
which turns organic gases into swirls
of oxygen and compost – sugars rife –

that sink under the weight of other layers
until their fire is stored in fossil form
to wait until discovered by surveyors
who dig it up and burn it, trading harm

for profit, thus dispersing to the air
the carbon that our ancestors accreted,
now threatening to bake our planet bare.
At least H. sap. is soon to be deleted!

11 March 2023

Walking this trail beside the stream
among the ferns and evergreens
I smell the skunky stink of bog
and spice of rotting cedar log.
Familiarity’s embrace
makes this path a soothing place
but longing for discovery
of unknown vistas tugs at me.

There’s only so far I can hike,
so now I ride upon my bike
along this little winding strip
of broken asphalt to the ship
that waits to carry me away
to other shores and other days.
But still I yearn for greater scale,
impatient with the speed of sail.

And so I wait to board a plane
and fly above the clouds so fast
and far and high that I can gain
no knowledge of what trickles past
below me, or of how the place
I go connects to where I’ve been.
Will those who live there know my face
if someday I should come again?

(7 March 2023)

I can’t see you down there
living your life with all its
delicious triumphs and tragedies.
I am too high and moving too fast
and there are so many of you.
Next time maybe I’ll bike.

2023

To be in new places
with new people, new sights, new delights
is the only way to learn some things
that we need to know.
But to be there you have to go there
and eventually come back.
From this the lessons are never new.

2023

He
smells
sea
shells,
shrimp,
fish.
Imp
wish:
vault
harsh
salt
marsh:
turf→
surf!

2022

Native blackberry vines advance
like Putin’s army, fast!
Reaching out a foot a day,
Leaving behind long green feeders,
vulnerable to my gauntleted hands.
HA! I pull you up.
I am more than a match for you every time,
but there will always be a next time
and every time you draw some blood.
You will be here long after I’m gone
unless I resort to Roundup.

2022

Sea
smells
from
afar
bring
memories:
mangroved
mud,
salt
marsh,
crabs,
shrimp,
flashing
fins.

Sea
grapes,
cabbage
palms,
phlox,
morning
glories,
spider
lilies,
hot
sand:
this
is
home.

Sea
shells:
like
life,
most
beautiful
in
pieces.
Here,
have
a
piece
of
me!

Sea
breezes
waft
salty
caresses
across
my
face.
But
dark
clouds
promise
rougher
weather.

2022

Miles up the crumbling asphalt
I smell the mangroved mud perfume
whispering of mullet, crabs and shrimp
and fish – lord, the fish!
Agile snapper, snook and reds;
Cat- and ladyfish galore.
My fingers tighten on remembered reels.

The boat trip to the Island
wets my face with saline spray.
It dries in the scents of sea grape and palm,
floating in atop a zest of salt
from ever-restless surf shouting
over and over “I am here!”
So am I.
Never so much elsewhere.

2022

Atop a jetty rock I stand,
fragile flyrod in my hand,
trying to ignore the surge
that breaks to spray me on the verge.

I need to climb still further out
to cast, but I am filled with doubt:
I hesitate in fear — I freeze
and tremble in the ocean breeze.

Am I too old, my balance lost? 
And if I fall, how great the cost? 
Is this how I will kick the bucket? 
What the hell, I’m fishing!  Fuck it! 

3 March 2020 originally

You always thought you would die and then
be resurrected to live again.

Or you lost someone you loved so much
you invented Heaven to stay in touch.

Or you simply refused to believe your soul
could just disappear down some black hole.

Or maybe you chose to believe that spark
would go with your body into the dark.

Or that all your joyous exhilaration
was only part of a simulation.

All wrong.  All right.  All misconceived.
It matters not what you believed.
It matters not which part you played
in the personal universe you made
from which to learn, with which to touch
the other gods you missed so much.

28 March 2021