Song of the Ephemeral

August 19, 2016

Over the verdant hillock,

starry with daffodils:

empty cerulean skies

if not for a cloud,

Northerly lining aglow–



The brush caught fire too

beneath the sinking daylight

as it grew red-hot,

Heavens and Earth both consumed.


Indeed, that burning edge still flickers

while all the world around me withers.



June 29, 2016

This is the same harsh angle of the sun,
this is the same so deadly humid heat
I felt that week your ending had begun,
reflecting from the glass along the street,
the shattered bits of accidents or trash,
the careless cost of greed obsessed with speed,
the same damned world that made your system crash
and sprout that cancer like a roadside weed.
I walked those mornings to the hospital,
eyes downcast, sweating, breathing in the fumes
of fast Columbus traffic, senses dull,
or so I thought, but now this heat exhumes
the body of that grief. I saw, I heard,
and I remember, Mother. Every word.

 –Thomas Kinder
(found through this article; otherwise can’t find anything else by the poet:

The Uncertain Hour

May 27, 2016

The burning twilight
Blunted by the weight of heaven,
Condensed — a curtain

Now turned sepia
Dragging itself across the globe;
Fate so indistinct.

The angel of death
Hangs around these streets corners,
A poisonous gas.

Under a sun-dial
I haven’t seen its visage,
Features indistinct.


Overlooking an Expanse

April 25, 2016

A dying vermilion sky
caught in a face

Windblown, her hair
as the fingers of that
delicate tree

In a moment
transcribed on your forehead
the sense of parting

As I sift the twilight,
finding nothing.


Looking out a window

April 16, 2016

The soul has been pushed

to the earth’s four corners,

a windmill like Leibniz’s

slowly disassembled.

Some of us have called it redemption.


In dreams, lost.

And in the morning I awake

not wanting to remember the day.


March 15, 2016

Surfacing from the dream
With a break
I sat awhile to contemplate
Nothing, surveying my room
In pallid shades.

The room became
Some place I’ve been before
And I gradually accepted it.


September 19, 2015

Somewhere in the formless,
I would that we met again.
I want to be wrapped in your nothingness.

And somewhere in the music–

Somewhere in the dissolution
found I the Mother,
The Lover, the God
Who comes to destroy me in her

I wish to forget, and furthermore to remember.


March 9, 2015

I am but a child.

When the angel of death takes me to

her breast, I will recall like a cassette

an all-consuming void at the heart of the memory

And this is what I wanted to touch:

the burgeoning tendrils erupting from my stomach

And I will know forgiveness

Without a God

Without an image

Nothing but the recognition, conceived

In shimmering  tapestry.

A Layman’s Thought on Death

September 5, 2014

Death is a baffling phenomenon, like a doorway people enter and never come out of. In their otherworldly imaginings, ancient mythologies and spiritualists of all stripes have tried to make sense of it with their unearthly explanations for what happens when a person ‘goes away’–explanations of where they went to. But perhaps the most haunting conclusion to the mystery of death is that one has gone nowhere at all. That there is nothing true or false to be said about a person at that time, because all propositions are meaningless in reference to nonexistent individuals.


March 11, 2014

At a table of burnished wood;
The lifeless flesh of an organism
Beneath my paper
Held for a slower decay.

And at the moment she, to catch an eye
Lifts a smoothed ash arm,
Leaning to catch the light to
Capture an eye
In the bend of her side
I feel justified for my solipsism.

In her being–prior to sensation
And herself without desire–:
A great agency
Has grown somehow self-cognizant.
Its motive is pure.
It knows that it

Must never reach finality.
In every form assumed it diminishes
And halts.
In every form assumed.
But the agency is realized in the form of an  imperative
To carry forth and transfer its momentum.
Rolling through organisms, it spreads.

So the body hangs its weight on a burnished shoulder
As she leans,
A mannequin.

And I have also felt it at work in me.