The Love My Body Never Got

i’m

ashamed

a fat guy

wondering what

if for one minute

i just pretended to

love my body how it is

that’s not how a man’s supposed to look

try to read not eat a health food book

my

brothers’

ludicrous

epithets still

echo in my mind

lard-ass lazy cow or

fatty-fatty-two-by-four

couldn’t fit through the bathroom door

lean mean scrappy guys tough guys are cool

in movies fat guys are funny 

why aren’t you

all 

day long

every day

the same abuse

but so ingrained now

no siblings are required

the shame keeps me locked inside

i hate the thought of being seen

hey fatty hop on a treadmill

shouts some kid in a passing car

but

what if

i have the

gall to say i

love my jiggling ass

my thick runner’s thighs now

soft but no less powerful

my swollen stomach like a hill

found beautiful in some cultures just

not ours which would also shame me for these

tits that i try so hard to hide but laughing

hold and shake mirthfully in the mirror this once

like a holy holiday of self-acceptance and

love my body never got though it’s all i’ll ever have

Scary Personal Writing

Hi everybody.

Since I usually write a poem a day, my poems tend to be a bit shorter as a result of the time constraint, but today I started one that I want to work into something longer. I am about halfway through it now.

The poem I'm working on is intensely personal, and airs some things about myself I struggle with daily as an overweight, atypical man. It's my body. I'm working to change it, but I'm stuck with what I've got while I take the long journey toward making it something I can more comfortably inhabit. Accepting it for what it is in the face of fear of judgment is one thing I haven't allowed myself to do, and that's been the source of a lot of self-loathing and isolation.

I also know I'm not the only with these struggles.

It's partly due to my work with the book The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron that I'm finding the courage to write this poem at all. I don't want to dwell on it and drag it out, but it's something more than just one day of writing can satisfy. You'll have it tomorrow night.

Thanks so very much for reading.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Untitled 11.28.23

at your approach even the mirror bows

coolly you disdain the command to rise

fate’s quill intervenes 

the joy you send through my veins 

apprehends and compels my pen

each hour with you is a new song

let’s not play at being demure

and i will sing softly

and we can dance face to face

in eternity i’ll swim in your lashes

our lips meet before the point is past

nothing less than a new song every hour

and all yours to keep or send away

but let’s not be demure

this love comes on, retreats, returns as the tide

when we meet again a crashing kiss intense

a trembling inhale of breath then again

both adrift in passion’s surging violence

and these new songs each hour

there’s no sense in being demure

i am patient through hours without you

repelling all other temptations

remaining our love’s ravenous revenant

until you arrive and our bodies are the feast

and still new songs every hour

and no call to be demure

Winter's Arrow

formed of ice and ancient bone

benumbing missile of winter’s letting

propelled with no taut bowstring strummed

no archer with boots firm in frost

follows that point piercing through autumn

swallowed by darkening skies and lost

in snow’s soft silent forgetting

Be Fearless

you need never fear

even standing at death’s door

becoming’s threshold

The Cutting Share

my love’s serrated intent

a simple dance

and eyes weaving enchantments

though daily the song is more pensive

questions live low in vows 

high in the cadence of moments 

my love hears the spell of my song

is irritated by the deranged prattle of the muse

frustrated by my contentment she paces

assimilating late the massive quandary of my preoccupation

an anguished life is no way to live

my solitude is sacred to me

you pose my desire as a tireless love

what now seems immortal only postpones the changes

it’s only in this sundering seclusion that what we share 

could infinitely endure

Thanksgiving Travels 3: The Final Chapter

Hi everybody.

Today was our last day upstate for a while. We brought sushi to my mother for lunch, had a really nice visit with my friends, and ended the night with a fish fry dinner from an excellent little sports bar that we brought back up the hill to mom's.

We're all looking forward to spending the rest of the weekend at home on Long Island. We're getting up early enough to try to get on the road by 8am. Fingers crossed that the drive won't be completely awful.

No poem tonight. Going to get some rest now.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Thanksgiving Travels Part 2: Thanksgiving Boogaloo

Hello everybody.

Today started off with my "morning pages" for The Artist's Way at quarter after five this morning. When I finished, I did some other creative writing, and then couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I woke again a little after 8:30am and watched the parade with my wife and our four-year-old. My teenager slept in for a while longer.

Just before we left the hotel, I sent a "happy Thanksgiving" message to a dear friend of mine, only to discover we are in town at the same time. We made arrangements to see each other for a bit tomorrow afternoon.

Thanksgiving dinner is always more like Thanksgiving lunch with my family. We ate between noon and one, and everything was fantastic. My mother is a hell of a cook.

I'm including some random photos here from the day.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

My mom and my wife taking care of last night's dishes.

I got my mom's woodfire going again.

I liked the interplay of the light, colors, patterns, and textures.

Back to the hotel for naps and quiet time to recharge.

Remains of Home

what a great gift to return 

to your childhood home

to see what has changed

and what fossils remain

to roam the land and mounds

of memories trapped in loam

perhaps with worms turning

and what a great relief

duties done curiosity sated 

to again be free to leave

Thanksgiving Travels

Hi everybody. 

We've gone upstate for the holiday to see my aging and isolated mother. We brought the turkey, and a few odds and ends. We were going to help her prepare the meal, but she had already baked the pies and taken care of almost all the prep before we even arrived.

The traveling has taken it out of me. I slept a bit in the car before I took over driving. Then when we checked into the hotel I crashed for another hour and a half. We took dinner to my mom, and came back to the hotel with coffee, but even after that, my eyes are still closing. So I'm writing this before bed with the hope that tomorrow will find me rested and ready to write poetry, but also to do some painting. 

After dinner tomorrow (weather permitting), my four-year-old son and I will wander out into the woods and gather some materials to take home and make a terrarium. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time and now he's very excited by the idea as well - mostly, I suspect, by having bugs inside as pets (woodlice and springtails that eat mold and fungus and help to keep the terrarium fresh).

I'll post some pictures, more writing, and maybe a poem (or two) tomorrow. For now, good night.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

NYC

i read the stories

some saw you bottom up 

some top down

some idolized you

some still do

i never saw how

your black gum filth 

crawled under my skin

summered in my sweat

strangers standing breathing

too close on the A train

into Queens poverty

on the street in the subway

the bestowed anonymity

was a kind of faceless grace

i prepared to force myself to fit

but felt like the only one 

who knew it was a dream

and couldn’t wake up

A Heart That Opens With Age

perhaps the cold will sway 

old heart growing weary though 

melts on the mountainside snow

rivers fill but slow as warmth gives

filling the stone with death

and radiating back like breath

until the dry air drips with tears

at last before goodbye a red crocus

the heart again blooms and hears

First Impression

meaning means reins

regard me as a blank page 

no expectations

Sojourners

even those who travel the globe

taken whole tread but one small arc

and at dark that track must be enough

for as many souls as one self contains

this legged stalk is a sole fruit of earth

Suburban Transcendentalism

after work some strange woman

follows me around asking questions

as i walk downtown

about i don’t know what

i’m not interested

she gets sad and mopes off

in the bar i say hi to my friends

and drink a nice cold beer

staring at the tv blaring out 

some ad for a martial arts course

guy in a white gi leaps and sails 

one foot outstretched

across the long gravel field

the master sitting on the other end

meditation pose

with eyes closed holds up one hand 

for the foot to strike

words on the screen and announcer like

the full-length professional kick

but slow goes awry

the camera veers right

to the trees beyond the field

where rising from the ground

a disoriented man in a penguin suit

dusts himself off and looks around

the announcer says

a god falls

Giving Myself The Night To Rest

Hi everybody.

No poem tonight. I'm getting over being sick with some upper respiratory hell, and unable to concentrate on something as demanding as poetry. I spent some time with my family, and then the rest of the night on some nerdy hobbies (sorting Magic The Gathering cards).

I hope you and those dear to you are all well.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Limestone

when i think of deep time 

limestone comes to mind first

ancient beds of sediment high

sea cliffs rising out of the surf

the uncountable dead

Time's Courses

even the lagging hour eats the rock

sips the moisture into its airy throat

slowly it eats the radiant day alive

in silence patiently chews

the dragging day too sculpts the mountain

loosens roots and rolls rubble

its whistling breath blows the grit

into the valley and washes it down

what hope then has a man in a year

digestion begins at the mouth

each month is a tooth testing the flesh

then begins the grinding

Leftover Pizza

healthy as anything else in the house

that last mushroom slice

very nice cold from the fridge

not old just from last night

surely no one will mind this

just i alone biting into 

a delicious balanced breakfast

Untitled 11.12.23

these invented quandaries 

don’t see my position

those algorithms

with eyes closed

put you only parallel 

to the truth

and tomorrow the sadness

will be too gentle

Penumbra

summer Saturday morning of a more hopeful time

with sunlight beaming across the clear expanse

up high out of reach

walking down to work along blue-shadowed streets

among those sagging rows of aging paint-faded homes 

eyes brimming bright all mirrors to the sky  

but inside dark and sleeping off a drunk

olfactory ghosts of stale cigarette smoke

overflowing ashtrays and carpet crumb rubble

sad sunken eyed stares of kids at the screen

spilling their milk and waiting for trouble

Day Job Blocks, The Artist's Way, and Camille Pissarro

Wrote a few lines of poetry today, but thoughts and frustrations over my day job have been taking up too much mental space. It's the block that won't go away as long as I need it to pay the bills. It's a relief when I manage to break through, but tonight won't be one of those nights.

Regarding the book The Artist's Way, I did not realize going in that it was actually meant to be a 12-week course. So, I'm doing it. I'll finish up my first week with tomorrow's "morning pages" and then get out for a walk. When I'm done with it, I'll do a write-up here about my experience, but I doubt I'll be able to keep from mentioning it on nights like this when I just write for the sake of writing here.

I went to the library with my 4-year-old on Tuesday and left with a stack of books. The one I got for me was on 19th century impressionist painter Camille Pissarro. It contains pages of his sketches and full-color reproductions of his paintings. It's beautiful and I'm excited to do some Pissarro inspired watercolor sketches and possibly oil painting experiments in the near future.

I hope you're all well. Keep warm and be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Home

do you remember home best while sleeping

snoozing in the stillness with dreams all lies

denial is memory doubling running until so full

one where it’s bliss and one fraught with torment

all of it peppered with strange whispers and lust

abandon those now that you know

come be home in my heart

Singing You Awake

in time's last echo

three faces sing in the mist

wake from illusion

Absolution

to do what you ignore

what weighs heaviest now

free it and say that is all

clapping your hands clean of dust

these weights are all words

we say i endure my sorrow

for i know one day soon 

i’ll have love and happiness

pressed against a wet stone wall

peering through an aperture awestruck

by an impossibly beautiful blue sky

the same as that over your head

instead

find a blossoming tree

climb high in its branches

grab fistfuls of joy

It Is A Miracle To Walk A Mile

it is a miracle to walk a mile

    along a leaf littered country lane

slow with no destination dire

    only to breathe with senses free

while the high green field giving way to gold 

    sways in the crisp cold kinetic air

and with no need to hide there

    as though some bully in pursuit

        from your home now mute desolate

        combed the dew gleaming countryside

        to grasp and drag you screaming back

Flight Feathers

sheltered in a bower arrogance won’t do

when is it safe to send you 

from the nest swirling around

fledgling in the wind unwound and wild

where you will find the solid ground

uncovering a sense of self undefended

will you find humility there and then

learning at last to bend with the storm

soften your rigid form on the current

freely make and accept mistakes

and sensing the cold at last wing south

or stubbornly impliable implacable

under the weight of your hubris break

into fate the yawning cat’s mouth

November Calling

steam floating from the soup pot

mellow morning light

gleams within the window glass

glows soft upon the kitchen floor

still warm mid-autumn air bears

a dry leafy earthen spice

when it whispers i oblige

open the door

Absolute

absolutes tremble 

and transform as power deems 

proper to prop them

A Night to Read and Write

Today, my copy of the The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron arrived in the mail. I've wanted to read this book for quite a while, so now that it's here, I'm going to spend some time reading it and journaling, and recharging my battery for more poems to come.

When I'm done, I'll do a review here, but feel free to check it out yourselves in the meantime. I'm certain you can find this at your local library (it was originally published in 1992 and there have been several editions), but if you want to buy it, the Kindle and paperback versions are very reasonably priced.

Have a good night, get good rest, and be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Breaking Ice

land and air and sea on earth

        it’s maybe not something to break

specific targets not discussed

        the ice with a stranger on the train

qualitative aspects disrespecting

         in the months leading up to the holidays

but still it does exist

        the end of our species being perhaps

the greatest chance to prevent extinction

        what’s best for the preservation

multiple square brackets

        of the natural world

ensures their inclusion

                        but here goes nothing