Nothing I Write

Nothing I write
appears to be
something.

I wonder if,
so transformed,
memory reaches
for a time

when the nothing
that matters
speaks.

Dragonfly Muse Blues

The good knight returns
while dragonfly a-muses
herself in absence.

Fellow Traveler

I have watched you
romp
with flaming fury
for long enough to ponder
how the knight leaves
the chessboard well
and gently turns
to the dragonfly
at dawn.

(... and in that gilded backlight,
new life begins.)

Through Still Life Shadows

There’s nothing here
so I move on
to something else
outside my grasp

where nothing matters
through closed expectations
and sedimentations
already there.

Strange body I live
mediating reflections
of still life shadows
in the open field of perception.

Nothing Matters

I have not,
or so I thought,
as it slipped through my fingers
onto the field.

Nothing to Write Home About

I have nothing to write,
not here, not now
as something slips my mind,
trading souvenirs of time
for fruitful things forgotten.

Graduating Textures

You were a child once
playing with your hands
in the classroom,
tormenting teachers
who thought you should
be focused
on more serious subjects.

You were a teenager not long ago
seeking some wild place
and identity to call your own
while you bent words and rules
and turned your sail
toward bursting colors
of curious exploration.

Now a young man
with graduating textures,
you work your vision
of art and life
through the craft that calls
beyond this dazzling threshold
to the self you will become.