EXCERPT FROM MICHAEL MAIELLO'S PATHS AND APPROACHES

Amen Again

We have Navajo death (beer)
and Apache death (scotch and beer).
we have dead seas, rights and reckonings.
we have the smell of leaf bonfires
and the bourbon smell of men
(and all the ice we need).
we have the inheritance to which
we’ll all return.
There are birds that circle overhead
from beyond when we remember.
And still it seems the saddest thing
is lacking.

Solos

The wind speaks
to itself, exulting
in the company
it keeps.
I’m playing air
guitar on FM
radio.

Big Bang, Small Beach

Given a universe emerging
from cold quiet, submerging
Into quiet cold,
it’s easy to befriend
this sand,
embrace this heat
and dream the sounds
of sleep.

Gamboling

I don’t believe in fate
but certainly there is chance,
so lets recuperate from being born,
lets stay alive, lets make it possible
to possibly be lucky,
for a while.

Cold War

Wake from a dream
in which promises
are broken:
Black capped chickadees
in new night snow
by the shocked
and frozen
pond.

Wintering

The frost and coming snow
will lock the earth.
Beside this hearthfire,
sea-pale visions, garnet
tales and plans.
The luxury of food.
The gem of warmth that generates
an unmolested sleep.

Find a drop of the ocean
in the drops of frozen,
falling rain.

Carry it safely home.

Valentine’s Night

The distances between galaxies
and between each of us,
pronounced by being perceived.
Again, we realize lovers
are strangers too.
I retire to count the spare
change I’ve saved.

The Price of Exploration

They say it’s cold from coast to coast
but colder in the heartland.
It’s not the permanent permafrost
promised by nuclear winter,
but bitter enough to make
meditating memorable.
No great insights tonight, no satori
experiences, but a realization
of all I’ve lost and all
that’s lost to me.
At dawn, I consider abiding mysteries:
arctic isolation and empathy
for the setting moon.
Perhaps things were better
before both of us were landed on.

Zen Flyby

Walking alone, autumn evenings, I’m tempted to recall all that’s lost to me.
A nighthawk strafes the footpath home,
uncaptured, purely mine.

This Morning

It’s not that I didn’t know all things must pass.
It’s just that I’ve remembered I’m just passing.
This morning, I need a cup of black coffee
and no conversation to go with it.
A toast to old existentialists who took time
to take time seriously and consider
the mysteries that have befallen us.
A toast to anyone who wonders what’s happened
to Bob Dylan?

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