Speak; Tell Me

Speak; tell me
first to whom I am speaking and next
what you are trying to say. Speak;
clarify first these raindrops and this cluttered pool
of light in which I listen and you
speak. Tell me
in which of these particulars you most clearly
speak, and I will listen.

July 25 2009

In case you're wondering

I just discovered that one journal to which I might like to submit poems has a "no prior publication" rule that includes publication in blogs. I'm currently trying to decide whether to cross that publication off my list so that I can continue posting here. Until I figure that out, I'm drafting stuff but not posting it. I may post pieces that I don't intend to submit, but I haven't worked out what the criterion would be for that. Stay tuned.

I Am Listening for God in the Night Wind

I am listening for God in the night wind
as I have listened in the rain.
I am listening to the spaces in between
for a quiet voice like thought to speak,
calmly in my ear,
chiding me with palpable love for doubt,
suggesting in the silent sureness of each word
the fearful power He commands.
Oh, what a conversation that would be, to revel,
in my tiny pride, in the sunlight of His favor,
rocked in solace and heart's ease.
But no apparent answer's in the air,
and I am left to ask myself instead
if He is absent
or I am simply not to know
or if perhaps He speaks the wind and rain.

August 5 2009

We Are Very Far from Magic

We are very far from magic here it seems,
in this neighborhood of asphalt drives
and family dogs, of massive cars
and fear of narrow definitions;
it's unlikely that the spells we thought
were all around us formerly survive.

But some magic that we thought was true was not,
the conceit of youth concerned to turn
the world to its advantage,
and other unsuspected holds--so that, for example,
the mother fox can still trot quickstep down
Turner to her den and waiting kits,
or even drop her possums on a handy lawn
and rest, careless of the owner's gaze;
and lawns themselves can bring forth life,
like the rabbits that we found
before the mower had a chance to pass,
trilling loudly in their nest to keep
intact the gentle tremor of their living charm.

And now I hear the wind
and watch the trees shake out their leaves
in sunlit preparation for the storm,
and remember that I may still tonight
see, past the blackness that engulfs
and joins our separate yards,
two shadows dancing,
empowered by a greater love than sickness can subdue,
briefly, past a window.

August 8 2009

Three Parts Of A Summer Day

Suddenly it is summer,
though not with perfect certainty.
The hurrying winds run up the hill,
ruffle the marsh's uncut fur,
and shingle the slate blue roof of the river.
My dog is grateful for the gifts they bring:
Hail, long-absent rotting scent!

In the yard the children play, creating
incidents we fail to see are memories.
Spinning, they spin the present as it passes
into threads of recollection,
woven as they weave into strong cloth
that they will wear but not wear out.

On such a day, the world appears a puzzle,
and these anxious hands can't put it down.
I could speak of this forever
and never say it more than mildly right.
I'm beginning to think that God is clear understanding,
or perhaps a letting go,
and surely His quiet prompting
by this meaningful day is just
to help me understand that He has told me so.

July 9 2009

When I Told Them Then About You

When I told them then about you
I said the time had finally come
to braid with silk the rough cloth of unhappiness.
How little did I understand the truth of what I said;
but how could I have known the strength
of this great cable that unites us now?

This should be a sculpture, not these words,
for me to show the power in this tensioned line
stretched between our hearts and minds,
alive with strain and snapping strands
but fashioned of such fabric and such steel,
the tendons and the ligatures of daily life
and our twin souls' foundations,
that though calamity can shake
no power known to me
can break this bond.

July 9 2009