The Task Remains
The task remains to do our task so well
that we, the doers, gradually disappear
as we shake off our shape habitual
and weave with fire and words new character,
in which insistent selfishness can find
no place to force its fist, or work its whim
in which the machinations of the mind
must run in silence, wordless as the wind.
The task remains, though watchers walk away,
though our contentment wilts into despair —
though fabrics of our world begin to fray,
and we are left alone in empty air.
Look straight into the heart at any time —
the task remains to do the task sublime.
There is a Profundity of Sorrow
There is s profundity of Sorrow
that is outside of Sanity’s ability
to contain or express. It is fenced
off and posted “Dangerous to Drink”
as if it were a Poisoned Well, and all
men of prudence avoid it as they
would avoid standing unclothed in
the Rain.
There is a Spirit in the Air I Breathe
There is a spirit in the air I breathe
That enters me anew each breath I take:
An aether, cool, invisible, which wreathes
My heavy soul in lightness, for your sake.
It is your kind and loving friendliness
That gives this fresh air to my gasping heart,
A wondrous miracle of openness
That draws the cold, steel doors of doubt apart,
Displaying for this doubter to perceive
A warm, extr’ordinary countenance,
Clear of design to smile and deceive.
My heart, so long unable to conceive
The truth of love given in innocence,
Now knows, through you, its peace, and will believe.
Todd Moeller In Memoriam
We scanned your story by a flaring light
that burned the very page we raced to read;
We rushed from word to word as they’d ignite
consumed forever, at a blinding speed.
Fumbling along, we strained to comprehend
your meaning, and enjoy your story’s pleasure;
The time it took to learn you were our friend
left little time to savor or to measure.
But how we longed, and long to linger still
upon each disappearing syllable;
The page was short, and soon the fire was out.
We sift our fragile memories in the dark,
recall with grief and gratitude the spark
that showed us what your story was about.
Tragic Muse
In days long gone
when men declared themselves gods
and no one laughed,
were we ridiculous even then?
These days when my mortal genius plods
and stumbles and falls among the race of men,
the tragedy is — it’s no tragedy.
To and from work,
the road I travel travels through
a golf course.
In a big elm tree by hole fourteen I see
an eagle. His powerful wings stir a memory
of a great claim, nothing less than immortality.
The eagle has his own concerns,
destroying squirrels
and chipmunks,
tearing them and eating them raw
with his great eagle beak and claw.
The tragedy is — this is no tragic flaw,
no tragic fall,
no tragedy at all.
Tristesse
The amateur goddesses
who unconsciously
pressed their faces to my heart
when I was younger than I knew
have not lost the lost quality
of their edges,
the dreamed edges of their lips
and eyes, the gentle cloud, the gentle glass,
But they have colored
their hair in streaks of insincerity
and now smother with
the backsides of their hands
the laughter that once
twisted and once filled my heart
as the low sun thrills
and tortures the transfixed eye.