Thursday, January 4, 2018

Flying


Flying, flying, flying,
over those fields, those familiar fields,
the clouds, the well-known clouds,
and those mountains everyone has seen from above;
they are dreams lived repeatedly,
and nothing new is known about them here.
But still, flying, flying, flying
is as welcome as home, dear home,
till waking takes us from the air
to a darkened room,
and leaves the dreams still flying.

December 4 2018

Thursday, December 14, 2017

West Wind


Now is the time to discover the wind,
on the way back.
If you can't feel it blowing,
it's behind you,
which is where we left home.
Sometimes it's difficult to go,
and sometimes it's hard to return.

December 14 2017

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Journey


Beginning a heartsick journey by pulling
undulating grasslands from the pool of memory and love
where we stood once, taller. Things made sense
but as you might expect, that's gone today
and a restaurant laid out its parking lot like a menu
to tempt all comers in.
What pain? Few medications would do the job I'd like.
Have you stood on the edge of unremembered plains?

It is morning.
Darkness stands at the bedside, waiting. God
spoke to you last night but you were asleep,
and now you're on your own. Face up to the shower, let it wash
if nothing more, at least you.
What broadens in the dawn is thinking, but
not thinking is the consummate.

The musculature of humanity is intimately connective,
tendons entangled and fleshed in indelicacy.
but pangs are instantaneous and gone,
happiness grokked in the moment of a glimpse:
brown overcoat at the other end of an afternoon street
shot by slanting sunlight. The terror of an absolutely
comprehended moment. It's a distraction,
but one I'd rather have than to see my all in longing sameness.

Once you liked brass. let it play, full face on to the horns in heat
and sunlight. What a blast; could you be any nearer to the heart
and beat of all of that? No; walk on, satisfied, even thrilled,
to the next adventure, full of happiness and cash. Later we'll eat
in an odd place where divers entertain. Last night I thought about
what you said, and I agree: Airplanes are desirable in a tedious place.

They were hijacking phone numbers all over the place last night.
I thought you were my friend, repeatedly.

You have not been here before; I understand it now.
But you have. If you are the one, tell the others, please.

December 13 2017

The Mills


Grinding. The power of Intel
twin core processors lets you redefine reality. Meanwhile,
where the unelectable giants don't see, enormous patience
regards the war with just a hint,
just a hint,
just a hint,
just a hint
of irritation. There are almost never words.
It was a roaring: Jeep owners told you
you wouldn’t understand, and you believed,
so you are not present in a subtle place.
There's the placeholder at the table
where you should have sat, but because you found the perfect escape
from monotony, you are behind the screen
when the show comes on again.
So many people, so many joys,
but hardly any are foam in the dazzling brook
where the water pours into itself and there is no thought
of any other way to be. It is the animal eyes, whose true message
is lack of understanding and present concern for food and safety.
I need a lifeline too. Can you share this worry?
It's a challenge, especially when the carnage dogs come back again
with empty faces when they lunge. All too often,
you stare: Much longer? Je ne sais pas. God, to be French again.
I remember William the Conqueror, and how he laughed
when his job was done. What a lark, to set foot on new soil.
As if no one would ever know--but think about the people who will
see you in their past. Too late, the chance is gone.

I am thrilled as a peach to send you this news from Patagonia:
There is no war here, only wind, and the nearness of world's end.
Wish you were here. Can this be anything but the truth?
Nothing bolder holds the candle up
to a lying mirror for the see-through revelation.
Try not to flinch.
This is nothing you could have known about
except that you are complicit.

We are simply running away from freedom before it runs away from us.

December 13 2017

Monday, December 11, 2017

About 1978


The slow ballet of glasses in the air
was at New Year's,
over some too many.
That's a college night, if ever,
but the friendship's my remember,
dancing as if nothing,
before it all said sad good night.

December 11 2017

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Sluices


The roads are sluices for the East wind
draining uphill off the ocean.
We are backs to the flood,
having faced it minutes ago,
but it's still a frigid swim.
He doesn't seem to notice, but I suspect
he's doing that animal thing
about forging on not knowing
there's another way to be.

November 7 2017

Fake Quotes 11/7/17


"I have always felt that poems are truly finished only when you die."
-- Leonie Tesman

"Life is a wild animal. You can't leash it or contain it, and you certainly can't tame it."
-- Retief Johnson

November 7 2017

Monday, October 30, 2017

Gaia (tm)


It was so nice of my network provider to ask
if it could enrich my spiritual life.
I'm not sure if I should click Allow.
I have noticed that many of the apps I thought were one thing
have started to flow, like the river in the Hundred Acre Wood.
Eagerly, they spread out to seek
new opportunities to serve, and my bank may soon serve coffee.
I am making plans to escape to a branch
with all my pots of honey.

October 30 2017

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Morning Prey


I saw the crescent moon with earthshine,
lying on its back and Venus pendant a handspan below.
My dog caught a ridiculous scent that pulled him
scrabbling for the neighbor's yard
straight toward the moon and planet.
I spun a story about coyotes running into the sky.
On the way home there were only streetlights,
but now I'm listening for sounds of trouble.
Thank God, when I run out of my office
he's only caught a ball.

October 17 2017

Friday, September 29, 2017

Bed Time


Don't tell Summer,
but I actually don't mind all these waving trees.
They sound a lot like sleep
who is my friend,
and when the river floods out flat
I can lie on that,
and my bed will show the reflection
of my dreams till Spring.

September 29 2017
 

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Rift Valley


Thunderclap moments are common in Africa.
Consider standing where you can see down into the Rift Valley,
and remember that the giraffes look up incuriously 
as they pursue their serious business of demonstrating God 
before they die. 
The clouds pull rain across the endless grass;
somewhere a boy is always tasting 

his first orange soda in a strange land.
Life constantly begins and confronts, like a lion eyeing you.

September 26 2017
 

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Episode


It wasn't a thing you could have known
would blindside you.
It wasn't something you could understand well enough
to see it coming and dodge. It all rushed at you.
It all flooded; you walked,
in leaves slapped on the street by rain
and in leaves ruffled into something animate by wind.
You thought too much.

It isn't ever the plan to abandon the good,
but to find it tiresome cuts things at the knees:
no point in saying what's been said before,
or is there? Unclear; no data: the precipice is found
under the toes of your sneakers.

This is where the boxed construction must be juggled, judged,
felt, and held. It would be a monster to unpack;
look at the way you're dancing around right now.
Wouldn’t it be great, wouldn’t it be happier, to just once
be on a street alone? Too bad it’s not an option.
Back to work. Pick a cyclone; let it hurl you through the air.

September 12 2017

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Feather


I'm holding a hawk feather as we walk,
and it's a lively thing,
kiting upward each time I swing my hand,
and becoming a divining rod with every breeze,
twisting and pulled to the upper air.
The dog doesn't care,
but clearly flight is in my grasp.

August 10 2017

Brokedown Palace


It isn't that the thunder lets her in,
but while I'm puttering inside,
waiting till the storm decides
to mutter off to sea,
I find a farewell song she loved
and don't press next. I let it play,
so that as I put the plates away
I can remember.

August 10 2017

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Intent


Low tide makes it
a long walk to water,
and the bottom's unfamiliar,
so it's easy for him to wade
a little deeper than he meant--
though that's a funny question,
a dog's intent. Some can scheme, I hear,
but he is usually content
to take each step as plan enough,
and if he finds that he can swim,
well, that's a bonus.

July 18 2017

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Never Mind


I don't think poems
should start with "I".


Damn.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Sufficient


He shows me black pads as we leave the marsh.
I hope he'll walk the mud off.
The weather's gray. Colors are careful,
sticking strictly to their surfaces:
leaves, trail, and boulder--
except one extravagant patch of green
algae on the slumping shoulder of the river bank.
This is how it goes:
We walk far enough.
We return soon enough.
We eat enough lunch at home,
and if the sun comes, it will,
because it has to,
be enough.

May 31 2017

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Walker


Yoga pants, yoga pants, yoga pants, yoga pants.
Yoga pants, yoga pants, yoga pants, baseball cap.
Yoga pants, yoga pants, baseball cap, cell phone.
Yoga pants, baseball cap, cell phone, water bottle.
Yoga pants.

May 27 2017

Friday, March 24, 2017

Evening News


The river has frozen,
the wolves have crossed over,
and they're loose in the fold and the vine.
Master and mistress are both laid low,
and there's none but the children
to guard all the kine.

March 24 2017

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Two Fake Quotes


"Darker sky, brighter stars." -- Calech proverb

"Ask yourself: Is the elevator falling, or have you learned to fly?"
-- de Reis Paul, 'Observations on the Apocalypse'

February 20 2017

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Snow Day


The trees are humming,
a giant hive of winter bees.
But there isn't any snow.
Not yet.

February 9 2017

The Fault of Memory


Having to kind of carefully construct the day;
old age is on its way.
Make certain of the order of things:
when kiss; when take out the milk.
So much hangs on habit.
Strike a surprise,
jump the track;
you'll flounder in the snow,
a whiteout that could lose you,
so turn, regain the rails,
and follow them back home.

February 9 2017

Monday, January 23, 2017

Approaching


Several blocks away, the ocean speaks.
Do you remember me?
Are you ready to hear me again?
The wind agrees.
For too long you have listened to a man
and asked familiar faces to comfort you with truth.
Says the darkness,
clearly you are blinded by your windows
and have let their light consume you.
Make yourself our mirror now,
to reclaim your native chaos
and work transfiguration on the dormant land,
for we are the one true storm.

January 23 2017

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Bells


I heard the bells play Gloria
this morning as we walked our usual road.
Yesterday my daughter was suddenly unsure
whether bells could run out of rings. We laughed,
but I know what it is to lose your certainty,
as if home isn't where you thought it was.
Now the year is running down to darkness,
and the promise of renewal is for a distant time.
I should remember to tell her that the tower says
bells don't run out of chime.

December 6 2016

Friday, December 2, 2016

Purple Cars


Purple cars
are so painfully like grape candy
that my mouth feels the shape
and tastes the sudden memory
of childhood.

December 2 2016