365/365

the sky
the color
of whales and elephants
heavy and thick, slow moving-
envelops the intermittent grumbling
of thunder like bullets igniting
in an ashen bag of wool.

wet and bored.
resting lethargy-
in a book
on the phone
in and out of sleep.
drooping cat’s eyes
don’t feel guilty
from lack of productivity.

they invite us to destigmatize
so much of our shame,
but another year is about to expire,
your left holding
a year’s worth of poems
worth little more than
a sack of magic beans.

mix a drink
play a record
let’s gets ready
to celebrate.

349/365

left another pound of flesh
at the temple door.
don’t confuse this poet
with a martyr. it’s not
a sacrifice- when you beg to do it.

the fever pitch has us spinning.
the nights are long and still
draining old fashions,  
writing holiday cards,
ballads from the
nineteen seventies,
a soothing salve.

we’re certain love and devotion
are meant to be exhausting.
the question is whether we’ll survive.

341/365

when you love it
all you can do
is commit to it
for its own sake.
no amount of
ambition or praise
titles or roles
are needed to justify
your love of it.

339/365

you can be anything you want
if you just work hard.
winners never quit
and quitters never win.
everything will be okay in the end.
if it's not okay, it's not the end.

buried by cliches
in an empty room sits a loser
packing up unused confetti
and deflating balloons.
a bottle of champagne
rotting in the fridge for four years.
the announcement never uttered.
the words dead on his lips.

ambition is overrated.

337/365

deep breathes
be here now
non-attachment
controlled emotions
what is meant to be will be.
trapped in a cage of platitudes
a litany of buddhist banality.
sadness or displeasure
caused by the non-fulfilment
of one's hopes or expectations:
how many ways can one
learn about disappointment?

336/365

the hummingbirds have been gone for months

and the bougainvillea plant that was their home

is on life support. the clay has molded and most of the leaves

gone or dead. the few remaining leaves have yellowed.

time to throw away the weeds and pots and revert to

an empty porch. the ambition of raising plants

with love and passion is too tedious.

312/365

quiet monday night tacos
for dinner yogurt instead
of sour cream watched our
show why am i always almost
crying they work out weak from
her booster the other one in
her room reading about the holocaust
strumming a guitar whispering soft
songs too tired to do any work woke
up at four am to watch my team lose
a close game we needed to win all this doubt
making it hard to love myself ambition
taking its toll out here beyond the comfort zone
will be early to bed to catch up on reading hoping
there will be no dreams tonight we all
need a bit of silent darkness in between days.

256/365

feeling like a well oiled machine
pushing the limit of what
this old procrastinating slacker can do.
they said that ambition needs experience
and experience feeds off time and tasks
and leadership apparently is doing it all.
the masters course has begun with a low
hum behind the screech of the lesson
planning and the emails and the portfolio
work and launching the diversity, equity and inclusion
pod and the course on critical race theory
and the weekend workshop on justice and still with
the daily guitar and the twenty pages of attica,
and the push ups and the running and the parenting
and the husbanding and the raider game tomorrow
and the social on friday and the band practice next week
and the and the and the and the deep breaths.
feeling like a well oiled machine,
tonight after getting a lot done.

242/365

i could only wait
so long before taking
a deep measured breath
and this first step.
never one to visit fortune tellers,
with their tarot cards and starsigns,
superstitious relics in a museum
of memories and faded ambition.

getting into trouble, for falling behind
unawares the journey had begun long ago,
who’ll be the arbiter of justice
when there is no map or compass.

lost in an empty factory-
the machines long gone quiet,
the labor fled,
commodities left to rot
in an invented country without borders,
it’s flag an old soothsayers robe soaked
in lavender and rosemary.

it was the longest minute of my life,
choosing to act, instead of
watching and waiting.

we all have happy childhoods
if we squint and pretend.

i could only wait
so long before taking
a deep measured breath
and this first step.

199/365

it’s a world of in-between
            hurry up. take your time.  
don’t rush the things you claim to value.
rolling out dough listening to the cramps,
wasn’t meant to be a chore.
take deep breaths. knead in love.
make them matter.

it’s a world of in-between
            one more. that’s enough.
the gravity of moderation
holding it all in orbit. the edge
never far away.

it’s a world of in-between
            this matters. you’re not enough.
mediocre first draft poems.
the self talk too loud. too persistent.
still learning to how to handle disappointment.  
where there is ambition there is failure.

mindful bagels.
middle path.
median poem.

it’s a world of in-between.
find a way to lean.

170/365

maybe the best indicator of success
is not knowing the indicators of success.

was he jealous—
brushing his teeth
on this gloomy first day of summer,
—of his friend, whose draft novel
he was reading and blown away by,
the friend who also owned two houses,
and judging by the prose knows
many things about many things.

he, the friend, probably
also has extensive knowledge
about investing,
and retirement accounts,
and nest eggs,
and cryptocurrencies.

he, this protagonist,
has been chewing
on the concept of ambition
lately and not sure he can
identify the taste.

maybe the best indicator of success
is not knowing the indicators of success.