Monthly Archives: August 2017

Diary: El Cajón de Grecia, July 2017

One new poem for July, but it’s an important one. I think it will be the next to the last poem in the book I’m currently working on, The Book of Noah.


In the middle of the night
in form inchoate
God appears
whispers to the poet

I need you.

The poet startles.
What? Who’s that?

It’s time.
I need you.

needs me?
Noah questions
in his mind not to wake
sleeping Naama beside him.
Surely you can’t
be calling on me
for God would know me
far from just
afar from vision
of what perfect might be
so far from the man
I once thought I was
and now grayed
seed long estranged
future barren
living in exile
on the side of the vulcán
no builder of boats
mere thought of task
the shoulders sag.

spoken gently.
Enough of your prattle.
It’s enough that I need you.
The deluge to come.

To come?
Did You not pledge
a time long ago
to never again
send waters to douse out
the evils of man
and creatures innocent
no longer fancied?
You swept Your hand
prism arcking the clouds
to serve seal everlasting
of covenant to man
to all life on Earth.

God lets out a sigh.
This time alas
the doing is yours
man flooding Earth
in pillage and plunder
smothering all
in steaming excrement.
The bones have been cast.
Man to be cleansed
with the flowing blood
of a billion species.
Earth to arise
in purging fever
all life to pass through
the eye of a needle
of thread to emerge
cannot be foreseen.

You so calmly
consider calamity?
the poet wonders.
How is it that You
are not enraged
as were before?

I was young then
hot of temper.
What gained to fume
at the way of the world?
The nature of life
to sow seed and suckle
every nook and cranny
straining all bounds.
Life is fire.
Fire that would not blaze
soon dims and dies out.

The bones cast
the poet asks
naught to be done
what charge then for me?

The sands of time
for gods and man
run together.
For you at this season
it is given to sing
of rapture and torment
the birthing of mountains
of wandering heavens
wind through the trees
rain on green earth
the dawning each day
the darkness of loss.
Such would please me.
The rush of sweet flesh
better left for another.
All things pass
stars of the cosmos
the being of being
gods too
with mind of man.
No cause for lament.
Of the ephemeral
now if you please
present me a poem.

On the spot I am
the poet protests
middle of night
nothing prepared
for such an audition.
A little something
that’s been working
perhaps will suit.

Dog duty, around midnight

A full moon.
Bleached the black.
Flare Venus and Mars.

A star falling
streaks and dies.

Taste of sulfur
on the cool night air
breath acerbic of vulcán Poás.

Peak the rose glow
of rising magma.

The poet
the dream