'Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple
and learn how to handle them,
and pretty soon you have a dozen.'

- Steinbeck

mutable..... .... ... .. . .  .   .    .

It's easy to write rhyming verse. The rhymes don't even have to be perfect; as long as there's a little asonance, our mind's ear smooths it over for us. It's the meter that really makes or breaks a poem. If it's good, the stressed syllables crest like cats' paws and carry us gently over the waves. If it's bad, the irregular iambs drag us over the reefs and smack us against the rocks until we're too busy fighting for the shore to see the sea around us.

You're going to need your life preserver for this one.


The next is a birthday poem that actually gets it right.


I had a hard time deciding whether or not to include this last poem. It's not the fact that it's so deeply personal that it bares something private and not to be shared (in fact i think she would rather i did share it), it's the effect that it might have on anyone else that might read it. Some might question the timing. Others might question my honesty. And probably damn near everyone will get the same lightning shock from the last line of the second-to-last stanza. I still get it, too.

I've had an internal debate raging over the nature of faithfulness, adultery, love, and the attachment disorder. It started in November of 1999; for me, y2k really did bring a kind of Judgement Day. The argument has evolved tremendously over the years, not solely by contemplation but also through experience. It's reached a point that I know now where I stand, amazingly aided by Catholic sanctimony, but I really need to write it all down to give it some finality and permanence. Maybe now that I have something so public that needs some kind of rationalization and elaboration, I'll have the motivation to actually do it. After I finish the story that started it all, of course.


sessile..... .... ... .. . .  .   .    .

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