The practical pianist
played for perfection’s sake
not for pleasure
and that
was her mistake.

I project my heart
out into a universe
that does not reciprocate
said empathy.

Twilight falls, and I can see
stars twinkling in infinity.
Atomic explosions
push out plumes
of nuclear energy
but they don’t give
a **** for me.

The sun that shines
does not mind
if I live or die.
The buds that bloom
from the thin brown branch
will not be bothered
if I fall victim
to some horrible accident.

The massive mountain
with snowcapped tops
will not be moved
or stopped by the loss
of little old me

I am less than a flee
in the monsoon reality

me is you
you are me
for a while it felt  to be

bliss and shine
we were fine
sailing on life‘s endless sea

came some storms
ship got worms
wrecked on islands we can‘t see

you are you
I am me
lonely lovers they shall be

But they are wrong
who praise the virtues
of old age--
who its contentment extol-
the image
of understanding
they hold
as homage--

the story must be retold
the years that had gone before
have festered into rage-
the if and but
the should/would have been-

now standing apart
is the time to dip into
the poison of the heart-
hurt, real or perceived
dreams that had perished
the machination orchestrated
by enemies and even worse
that of once cherished friends--

broken promises
ideals falsely professed
wasted hours
in the sunshine
of youth
lies in the mid-term years
the slime and flattery
the bad-mouthing
the insinuations
the treachery
the self at variance
with the world
hidden anxieties
and fears

in translation
old age is but pain
and regret
a poem unfinished
a book badly written
a song that doesn't sing
a bell that doesn't ring

in his diary
the old person
inscribes:
these are the years
(though the last)
still swallowed
by lonely
and untold tears.

I must say that it got me fooled
The road seemed straight
The scars had cooled
And the obstacles had strained

But the turn eventually came
And now I'm coming back
To the spinning hail
To my self attack

Further self,
I know you will get us there.

Former self,
Forgive me for getting us here.

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you

in our time
we think we know
most animals of the world
from films and videos

yet
seeing
an echidna come out of the underbrush
about to cross the road
but then
    looking at all the cameras
deciding to quietly go back home for a while

watching
a young humpback whale
launch her tons out of the sea
in the sheer joy of breaching
falling back in a white splash
that sends your boat rocking

feeling
the hard back of a wombat
    under its thick coat of hair
the soft fur of a koala
the cool skin of a blue-tongued lizard

feeding
a wallaby whose sharp claws
tenderly hold your hand
so that the food
            does not go away too soon

hearing
the swelling maniacal laughter
     of a flock of kookaburras
a pied butcherbird‘s
     unbelievably melodious call
    
you become aware
they are living beings
     not just images on the screen

and the little hairs
    on the back of your neck
    rise
    in shock and awe
of life‘s beauty

He is an old
cold clod,
clay killer,
a muddy faced foe
of late
who I learned to hate;

Neurally neutered
by a network
of morally bankrupted
rich men
who tell him
what to think,

nervous and jittery,
a solvable mystery
that bothers me
because the enigma
could be easily
adjusted to improve
all of our lives.

Yet, he remains oblivious.
With a silvery shank of
stale ignorance
he stabs the very core of me,
promoting the gory,
and proactive expansion
of humanity’s worse traits.

A sea of sickness spreads
the black bile and poison of
oppression, sexism,
greed, bigotry,
and the intentional
obfuscation
truth.

As we age
we subtract
false fantasies
from scientific facts
and reality becomes
smaller.

As we get wiser,
and acquire
a deeper understanding,
we expand our minds
to incorporate
what is newly unknown
to us.

Then the universe
explodes
with
a multitude
unforeseeable
depths
and dimensions.

Cut her open
and you will find
immeasurable potential
hiding behind
skin and muscle.

Not a casual canal
but a tunnel to life,
brewing ingredients
deep inside;

The chance to grow
a being who will
develop unforeseen
ideas for humanity,

the chance to harbor
a hopeful artist,
soft hearted songwriter,
social worker,
teacher, scientist,
painter, activist.

A man does not wield
that level of power,
that wild wonder
of a body working
to put a new lifeform
together in a womb.

A woman’s body
is a gateway
to all worlds beyond,
it is the center
that pushes our species on.

They yell.

One father figure
far from
being young,
is a tired
diabetic,
with poor circulation,
thinning hair,
with missing
and rotting teeth,
he is a constantly
frustrated human being.

His roommate,
the other
middle aged
just turned
thirty-eight
who works
almost every day,
hair starting
to gray
just a little
teeth following
his father’s lead,
is also tired
and frustrated.

The old man is lonely
not only because
many friends
have passed
but because
his son
has to drive
fifty miles
each way
almost everyday
to work.
So, they only speak
in small spurts.

The middle-aged son
is tired because
his father always wants
to chat at the early a.m.
when he is still sleeping,
and barely even
able to open his eyes.

There are always
other little issues
like ***** dishes,
or some minor
cleaning concern.

But the son is always on the run
and the old man is always snapping
so, there is friction,

and a slight fear
that one day
when he is not here
the old man
with his health problems
will finally succumb to them,
and the son
will come
home to find
his father dead
or dying.

So, even after arguing
the middle aged-man
manages to remind his dad,
that he loves him,
even when
he is seriously considering
strangling him.