He Was Packing His Bags

He was packing his bags all day long,
a quiet, gentle man--
packing and unpacking, in fact--
not exactly worried about
what to take and what to leave behind,
just sorting through,
one eye on the clock--
again, not worried, since this was,
thank God,
one ride he could not miss--
but wondering when it would be time
for him to go.

And he kept on telling me these stories as he packed,
about his life, about hurricanes, about the times he left
his luggage behind on one trip or another. I watched
him hold up each and every memory as if
inspecting it for stains or worthiness,
and then fold it, lay it
neatly
in his bag,
perhaps to be worn on his arrival, or--
more likely--
to be taken out again and laid aside,
one garment judged okay to leave
in favor of another.

Finally he stopped talking and he closed his eyes,
his stories all told and his bags all packed--
though I suspected he was still enumerating the things he had chosen
and the ones he had left
just to be sure.
I knew he was waiting for his ride,
so I waited with him;
and when it finally came, of course I missed the moment,
and he had left,
and I saw without surprise
that he had left his luggage behind.

In fond and respectful memory of Oz Stewart.


January 7, 2009

Art Project: X Foot Circle

This is an idea for an art project. I haven't done it but would like to.

1. Get a number of kids together, anywhere from 5 to 20, depending on the scale of the work.
2. Lay out a large square of art surface on a floor. The surface could be canvas or other equally sturdy material, or sections of some rigid material like drywall. If necessary, prime the surface to hide any brand markings and make it hold pigment. The surface must be large enough for kids to run or walk a circle on it, and should be as large as expenses and the intended display wall will permit. 10' square is probably the absolute minimum; truly grandiose execution would call for a 50' square.
3. With portable stanchions, rope off a circular track on the surface, diameter almost as large as the surface length/width, track width about 3'. Leave multiple exits/entrances on the outer edge of the track.
4. Protect the surface outside the inner and outer track boundaries with dropcloths.
5. Place large flat trays of non-slippery pigment (charcoal powder?) at each track entrance.
6. Have the kids take off their shoes and socks.
7. Have the kids enter the track, stepping in the pigment as they do so, and walk or run around the track clockwise until they stop leaving footprints.
8. Once their footprints stop, have them leave the track and enter by the next entrance, picking up more pigment along the way.
9. Repeat with all kids until the track is covered enough that they can no longer tell whether they are leaving footprints.
10. Prepare the surface for display if necessary (for example, stretch canvas on a light frame) and mount it vertically.
11. Title the piece "X Foot Circle", where 'X' is the number of feet involved (kids x 2).

12/17/2008

Pretend You Saw Me Dancing

This is actually a song in waltz time, suggested by something one of my daughters said while playing.

Pretend you saw me dancing
Alone upon a stage.
Pretend you asked if I would dance with you.
Pretend I was dreaming of
The chance we might fall in love,
And while we danced, my dream came true.

Now take my hand; I'll curtsey,
And you must smile and bow,
And we will dance as we pretended to.
Will our sweet dream romance
Blossom sweet while we dance,
And will you make my dream come true?

Bridge option 1:
How would I know if it happened?
How can I tell if it's real?
Surely if this were just make-believe,
I wouldn't feel what I feel.

Bridge option 2:
Is this a dream? Has it happened?
How can I tell if it's true?
Surely if this were just make-believe,
I wouldn't know I love you.

Bridge option 3:
Are we still only pretending?
Can I believe what I see?
Surely if this were just make-believe,
I wouldn't know you love me.

And here we are together,
Still dancing on this stage,
And now I know there's nothing to pretend.
I know forever we
In love are meant to be,
And that this dance will never end.

Why pretend?

I know forever we
In love will always be,
And that this dance will never end.




December 17 2008 - June 21 2009

In Some Things I See

In some things I see other lives.
The bathtub's ledge owes something to
one who knows we all require
a place to rest
(our soap, if nothing else),
and candy bars of course are made
by men who think the world deserves
some sweetness in sweet recompense
for revenue.
These are two
of many minds and worlds that crowd around me;
probably I see
most my own imagining,
but feeling just that other hands have grasped
the boxes and the bottles I employ
gives me, if not joy,
perhaps connectedness--
it's better, as we spin our private worlds
around our common star,
to know, if not our neighbors well,
at least a reassurance that they are.


December 9, 2008

By a Pebble

Another old one that I thought was actually pretty good. A reader recently told me that it was not obvious that the poem describes the experience of a beach pebble from the pebble's perspective. It does.

Drawn to the shore
from where the dark lies
blanketing;
no sound has permeated yet,
but when the water's roof grows peaked
and breaks,
and hunched among our brethren we roll
up the hurrying slope of ancient bones
to unfamiliar light,

then!

Stupefying thunder breaks
the world upon us and the sound
cascades and which way we
are we do not know,
over-ended and upset
until such time

as home leaves us behind
blinded, and we lie,
listening to our disappearing comfort
and the silence.


11/16/2000

We Live by Water

We live by water
drop by drop
by moisture are we quickened.
What is by water thickened
forms our clay,
and each of us is sprung to life
like flowers by the rain.


1/14/2003

The Pond is Bluer

Struggling through a cold; creativity on blink. Here's an old one (thanks to my father for the starting point):


The pond is bluer than the sky;
I wonder why.
Perhaps the color of God's eye
is echoed in the low
more than the high.


12/2/1999


BTW, do you think you can guess my race? Sorry for the unconscious racism; this bit wouldn't have been possible otherwise, but that doesn't necessarily make it right. A bit torn about this one.

Now I Will Listen to the Rain

Now I will listen to the rain.
In the quiet dark,
sometimes peace is born,
and all my thousand ruminations may,
contemplative for once,
receptive, not reactive,
stop
(and if only for this moment, that's enough),
each to listen for
its own
redemptive
drop.

January 30, 2009

Posting policy change

I've decided to experiment for a while with posting poems that I'm still working on. I'll indicate their "In Progress" status, and you are welcome to comment on them freely. If you like or don't like something about a piece, say so, and it may help me get to the finish line. Thanks.

Their Haven

I want to always be their haven
(though I am currently their clown).
If they ever need one
they should find in me
a harbor, where the water calms.


11/24/2008

Many Things are Fragments

Many things are fragments
that still contribute to a whole.
Not all broken things need mending.
Often, continuity persists
although the middle and the start
have traded places with each other
or the ending.
The trick is in re-blending,
but this time of fractured vision
calls for all our will and skill
if we're to aggregate a meaning
from the shiny, scattered pieces of our lives.


11/17/2008

We Live in Humble Houses - IN PROGRESS

We live in humble houses.
Our streets are patched and cracked.
But we are glad recipients of
each others' kindness and well-meaning gestures.

We Are On The Curve - IN PROGRESS

We are on the curve,
make no mistake,
and not its endpoint.
This graph won't fit the slide.
Resize it how you will,
the line goes on,
and all we are
at this or any other meeting
is the story of our race so far.


11/7/2008

The Leaves Are Etched

The leaves are etched into the street
in tesselations Escher might have sketched.
Printed there by rain,
and when the wind has pulled its proof
their negatives remain.


11/7/2008

The Gold in Rings

The gold in rings
is, in a sense, forgiving:
Daily wear leaves little sign,
and damage that looks permanent
may be absorbed in time,
seeming almost to be healed--
though by what strange, redeeming force,
it does no good to guess.

Possibly it's buffed away,
or maybe human eyes
just learn to overlook the obvious;
to see the scratch as part of the design--
whatever, it is comforting
to feel the ring is whole
and know that even grievous injuries
can, given long--and love--enough,
take on the dignity at least
of scars.

Every contact wears each ring a little thinner, true;
no one here's unscathed by life,
not you or I,
and even love is bruising.
But we are faithful to the gold that has forgiven us;
we know this metal has the strength to link us
to the future from our past.
We know that if we simply wear them well,
these rings will last.


1/30/2003

Absent-Minded Winter

Absent-minded winter finally snowed.
The early birds rued Nature's bad advice.
But left with little choice,
they sang us down the road on which
our unused boots broke unaccustomed ice.


1/30/2003

How Can I Be Like the Gull?

He does not, cannot apologize
for his opportunistic ways.
His calm, expectant eye
is outward, to the chance of gain,
not inward to regret,
self-doubt, or shame.
All his days are one;
he does not hesitate
to seize the life he finds and gulp it down.


1/30/2003

I Was Watching the Crows

I was watching the crows call to each other,
how they bobbed on the swinging wires,
flirted their feathers,
ducked their heads,
and cawed;
four times did one
that I thought might be their leader,
over and over
as the rest flew in.

I heard their different voices, saw
how one plucked at his breast with his bill,
and wondered what it was like
to live in a murder.

The sun was once again coming up
in the intervening silence.


10/27/2008

Part of What We Believe

Part of what we believe
is that the good outweighs the bad.
That is not all that we believe,
but we try to believe it most.


10/26/2008

A History Thus Far Untitled

This was hardly the first time I had been so roughly used--or should I say abused?--yet was I perhaps the more keenly sensible of its impropriety for being so well acquainted with similar hardships in times past. Nothing overwhelms the senses (not to mention the intellect) so much as simple novelty; nothing sharpens them to a fine discrimination like long-standing familiarity.

Recourse had I none, which was perhaps as well, for if the chance for revenge had presented itself I should probably have taken it, and been undone thereby. As it was, I had but one choice to make, whether to stay or go, and this decision was taken within ten minutes of the event.

It was a moment's work to ready my horse--though I confess it felt more like an hour, as every motion, I was convinced, was scrutinized by hostile eyes. Fully conscious of the danger in which I stood, I was hard pressed to walk the beast calmly from the stable to the mounting block and there, with my accustomed assumed clumsiness, haul myself into the saddle.

Head well down, I urged my horse into a shambling walk toward the courtyard gates. As I lolled sideways in the saddle, I searched the windows that stared down from every wall, hoping to see one particular face and fearing to see those of my enemies. But no face appeared, either dear or despised, and it was with a peculiar mixture of relief and regret contending in my heart that I passed the gates and emerged onto the well-remembered road--whose surface, it seemed, I must have traveled a year or more since at least, so slowly had the days of my voluntary incarceration stumbled by.

At first I dared nothing but to continue, at the same slow, steady pace with which I had begun. Certainly there was no immediate reason for me to be missed; none looked for me to appear, and indeed most might expect me to remain hidden some time, licking my wounds as it were, in some dark corner of the house. Yet happenstance is cruel, and any chance glance out of doors might yet discover me, so long as I remained in sight.

But the moments passed, and no alarm was given, and gradually I relaxed, and so soon as I had passed into the welcome shelter of the wood that bordered the road a mile north of the gate, I straightened in the saddle, stretching cramped muscles and giving a heartfelt groan of relief. Once I was a little comforted and feeling like my old self again, however, it next came to me that I must consider what to do, and that quickly. Plainly, my plan of subterfuge must now be abandoned, for once having left the villains' lair, I could not return in the character I had assumed without facing the keenest suspicion as to the reasons for my absence. Equally, loitering in the neighborhood in hopes of collecting some further intelligence seemed a futile endeavour. No; plainly, my only course was to return to London, report what had occurred, and formulate a plan with my compatriots.

A plan: Easy to say, but hard indeed, it then appeared, to create. Yet created it must be, and of such a nature that it would encompass both the ruin of my enemies and the safe return of she whom I held most dear.

A plan! For such a plan as this, my brain would fever willingly, for without it all my life would be sham, a broken thing, a ruin. There and then I resolved, by all I was capable of conjuring, not to rest until I had seen both the plan's creation and its successful execution. Then, and only then, would I rest satisfied, with the accomplishment of my heart's desire and the safety of my nation assured.


To be continued...


2/8/2008

Morning Walk

A roughly tumbled, scumbled sky;
a field the color of sleep.
Around, the houses dream.
And overhead the stream
of cormorants commuting to the harbor
signals day.
My dog and I will go back home.


10/20/2008