Traffic

This poem was written before we moved into a much simpler life here in Bakersfield, CA. It was inspired by an all too common occurrence in our overcrowded harried lives when we lived in the big city. The "serpent" reference is significant because the devil is described as the great deceiver.

Traffic
Hollow faces turn their passionless gaze
Toward the crowded horizon…

Long ago, a liars voice beckoned and somewhere someone responded, the
rest herded after.

Generations following this path have cut a groove into our humanity.
we all spill into it, pressing upon
each other, competing for progress toward prosperity,
all energy of resistance to the voice
dissipated.
Sheer momentum has taken over.

No one questions the migration of this mob,
each assuming his place in the endless line,
each child of the scientific age mechanically clinging to his place, only
questioning relative position and not the destination.

It does not feel the sublime, this serpentine demigod.
Its poisonous breath stifles sensation.
It assimilates individuality, expanding its mass through augmentation.
It grows while the people shrink.
It converts the autonomous into automation.

Each looks to the other only for help in their movements toward
The unnamed, unknown and unworthy goal.

No one pauses.
No one thinks.
Individuality is swallowed up
as vermin before The Serpent…

But the traffic grows.



May, 2006

En Memoriam

A common refrain at funerals is that the grieved will "live on in our memories." For an atheist, this must be the only sense in which a person can live on. But is it true? This poem suggests that if we do not live on in reality, we do not live on at all.

En Memoriam

She slips from my grasp,
her image slowly
enveloped in darkness,
distorted by distance,
fading into the fathoms
of sinking separation.

She will not live
En Memoriam.
Her vibrant individuality
will also succumb to the strength of the abyss.
All our efforts to keep her alive in mind are futile,
for her image too will be subsumed into the vanishing depths
of human forgetfulness.


March, 2007

A Vision

Here is a poem written during the days after our daughters were born 13 weeks prematurely. At the time, the question of their survival was very much an open question. I wrote this to express my personal struggle with the fragility and scarcity of the good in this dangerous world.

A Vision

Stumbling toward the empty horizon over vast
tracks of scorched and bitter earth,
I could faintly see a single rose ascending
boldly among acres of twisted thorns.

Vain ambition
and futile hope
compelled me to press through
the dense forest of cruel thorns;
to approach the solitary remains of the good.

Drawn powerfully onward by the
the irresistible call of fragile fading beauty,
that I might
with extinguishing eyes behold,
and with trembling hands embrace,
the single glory,
the single justification,
for all my sublime suffering.

Pressing on,
thorns ripping my flesh,
blood mingling with the parched earth,
so that in the instant my sinful blood met
the thirsty sand,
out sprung new, more vigorous vines,
entangling me motionless in the piercing truth.

At last, and from a distance,
imprisoned within myself,
all vain energy and vain hope
dissipated,

It was mine
merely to
catch the diluted fragrance of that solitary rose
as it wafted by on a vanishing breeze,

and then to expire.


May, 2008