Eve of Battle

The generalship of peace is left
to those who can't control it.
On any given day
its forces
are in utter disarray
each captain thinking only of its unit
and communications are usually down.
Even now they are all sleeping
on the eve of one great battle
in the year's campaign.
Who guards these quiet camps?
There are no sentinels,
so certainly now the enemy could rush in.
But they are surrounded by a silent field of stars
and nothing now will wake them
till the sun's rise sounds their reveille.
And will they meet the charge?
Anger, pride, hypocrisy
the adversary flings
to burst among their ranks,
and from the cynical deceiver
no mercy is expected.
And will they meet the charge,
this weak battalion? Will gentle weapons
grasped in honorable hands
suffice to meet the charge?
Wait the morning, let it come;
let all the sleepers rise
and with life's desperate persistence
make ready to defend the hearts
they're sworn to celebrate in love
and let them meet the charge.

December 25 2011

Deer in the Brush

They can't really be that silent.
My dog must have heard them,
though maybe he only scented,
or saw that quick flick of a white tail
grey in the dusk behind the neighbor's house.
One brief impression of body and hock 
and they were gone, but 
the poor dog's hoarse frustration
couldn't erase their lingering quiet, 
so still,
as though they were moving in a dream
(but whether theirs or mine,
I cannot tell).

December 23 2011

To a Younger Daughter

I do not chide the rose
for wearing its heavy scent
and dusky red
so languidly upon its stem.
I do not reprimand volcanoes
for sending tears of lava
down their rocky cheeks,
and tigers of necessity
must hunt.
Why, then, should your honest lamentations
anger me? You are a thorny flower,
eruptive, and hungry as only a cat can be,
but you are truthful in your rage.
You owe a debt to age
which you will pay, no doubt, begrudgingly,
but do not let the manners of maturity
cover quite completely 
all that wildness you possess.
It is something with which you are blessed
and with it you may conquer
fear
or all
or even
a single fortunate heart.

December 20 2011

Another Christmas Pageant

So many hidden tears are wrung
from the simple sight of these few children,
the very Bibles of a faith 
they do not understand, but live. 
Here are your churches and your synagogues;
truly, Allahu Akbar: God is great,
in even the smallest things.

December 11 2011

Wait

It is amazing how things wait.
Soap on a dish
stones
plates in the cupboard of an empty house
the sun in its unimagined immensity
undiscovered oil
and tools in the basement.
All these things I would emulate
to own their limitless calm
if not for the troublesome detail of humanity
that tethers me to restlessness and impatience. 
But oh how that unsought link
conducts the warmth of all those others
calling their message of green and growing life
for the sharing of which with me 
they are prepared 
to wait.

December 9 2011

Sedimeditation

I am in favor of building things slowly
and of things that slowly build.
I admire sedimentary rock, 
though some call it weak
because it cleaves along the plane of deposition.
But the way it gradually accretes
at the riverine pace of geological necessity
speaks to me of patience and accomplishment.
Let others of my kind be igneous;
I will labor on, 
recording and protecting
every layering of life
and building, 
always building
toward the sun.
Only when I am stone and fossilized
may any curious finally pry apart
my ancient strata
to read what they preserve.

December 5-18 2011

I do realize it's an awful title. Feel free to suggest something more dignified.

For Helen

She seemed like a chrysalis
the last time I saw her,
or maybe a nest,
with her paper skin and floating hair
and delicate, twig-like bones;
something, at any rate,
that held a lively Nature's child
in a fragile, temporary shell.
And her voice was a bird's,
which signifies flight;
so I must have known, considering these clues,
that soon she would show the world those feathered limbs
that bore her up, along with those who knew her,
through one hundred delighted years;
and that she would further rise,
with a smiling gentleness that was hers alone,
to who knows where
happy, on brilliant wings.

December 1 2011

Inscription on a Headstone

Born, lived, died,
happy, cried,
kept body and soul together.
Now they're apart;
take heart:
heaven's forever.

Sorry to be morbid; I've just had this jingling around in my head for years as a fun thing to put on a tombstone. (Depends on how you define "fun," of course.)

December 1 2011

Fog Relieves the Distance

Fog relieves the distance of its weight.
Only the near has clear significance.

Close things are the total of your morning;
everything else is just the sleep that you were woken from.

The sun alone can burn away your dreams
and leave their inspiration.

November 28 2011

The Bones

Throw down the sack of rattling bones.
Let it tear;
let the mandibles and fibulas,
tarsals, metatarsals, and patellas,
pelvises and sacrums,
carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges
clatter loud across the black stone floor
that paves this quiet night.

My soul is not an ossuary;
no catacomb's niches here,
stuffed with the skulls of forgotten men.
If anything, it should be a basement swept broom-clean,
occupied only by the necessary furnace of my life
and the tools and toys and seasonal items needed
for a house in working order and capable
of something close to joy.

This is my aspiration, which I will not clench
in a miserly fist, but will release to fall,
to break,
and from the wreck of these old bones
a bird of peace will fly.

November 23 2011

You Will Be With Us

You will be with us into Winter;
you will taste the snow.
Spring will find you quickening with us,
dazed by the wind and sun.
Summer will stretch you out across the boards
momentarily, until the hunt resumes,
and Fall again will waken memories
of old paths scented and forgotten.

You do not need to notice this circle;
your nose is tracking the moment.
But you may be surprised at the ease with which
the stealthy seasons send their changes in
and deliver to you a subtle prey:
Unmasked, this formerly alien place 
will wear, if Sirius is willing,
the unmistakable savor, ready to your jaws, of home.

November 16 2011

Cathedral

Along the path
the chorus of birches strains to the sky
praising the blue in which they mingle,
leafless,
shriven for winter,
offering their very bodies to the sun
that lights them with a holy fire,
white
in their secret cathedral.

November 6 2011

Stacking Rocks

Someone is stacking

                 stones
                   on
                 stones
in this field of stones,

possibly simply to perplex,
or maybe they are minor art,
expressing balance
and implying impermanence.

The dog does not know them,
and I am careful only to
not let his leash upend them.
Soon enough the wind or water will displace,
return them to their scattered homes
in the background uniformity of uniquely rounded rocks.
The significance of these stones is small,
whether spread apart or stacked. In fact,
the only thing that matters is whose hand
has placed them where. A person tells us
"I am here," but the world says only
"Here, I am."

October 31 2011

Another New England Wall

Downward deep these rocks would drive
into darkness if the soil would let them;
but this practical New England ground 
knows what it's doing. Walls would be no use below;
stone and stick, trash and clay, 
and sand must all sustain them. They
are needed here above, not only to delineate
but to remind each walker and each driver by
of what the bones of earth personify:
the weight of patience,
the burden of belief in fortitude,
and like the lichen slowly flowering across their faces, 
the irresistible advance of glacial time's
long journey toward redemption.

October 28 2011

One Dog Happy

One dog happy
is worth as much
as many days of quiet introspection.

October 25 2011

Another Dead Animal Poem

He wants to visit the dead fox,
being drawn upwind by the knowledge of it there.
We are both consistently amazed by it,
each in our own way.
Where is this fox, he asks with his nose.
I wonder if there is meaning in that rigid snarl,
or the way the poor remnant of a body folds
so sharply backward on itself.
Is there anything here for him? Anything for me?
Let his senses tell him now; mine may never say.
We move on; time is short,
and there are many further things in life to smell.

October 24 2011

Clean Laundry

The clothes have been lying in these baskets
far too long,
unfolded,
cluttering,
and making it much more difficult to find
what we should wear tomorrow
or today.
I cannot, would not simply stuff it into drawers,
and there are choices to be made--
whose clothes are whose?--
and it takes work.
At least it's clean, but laundry never stops,
so there is in fact some urgency:
Don't let the next load make a mountain
that might fall or overwhelm you.
You do the best you can;
it's not ideal, but I'm afraid
that this must wait here on display,
reminding me to find the time and will
to put it all away, each item in its proper place
and neatly folded.

October 22 2011

About Dog Hills

What is it about hills
that makes you want to climb so fast?
You know that's not my speed, but still
I'm thankful for the leash
that keeps you with me, and that lends
me some of your young energy
to help me climb the hill.

October 22 2011

Family Outing

Up the autumn hillside
sunstruck in the wind
he glows
a rangy pup
whiter than the rushing clouds
or the sandy trail below.
Their voices high discuss
imaginary worlds
while she, behind,
is watchful,
guardian of their happiness
and wellspring deep of mine.

October 15 2011

Before the Clocks Change

Up the road
a fall of yellow leaves
stands in for a streetlight's glow,
momentarily misleading me
into more than actual darkness.
I know it is coming soon,
after one last temporary reprieve;
then the actual streetlight will stand in
for yellow leaves in daylight.

October 13 2011

Dream 3D

Thought I'd try converting this poem to 3D. You need red/green glasses to view it.

Dream

Found this oddity from a while ago and thought I actually still liked it, so here it is.

so bright all we reached for
our hands        up          skyfullsparkling of
balloons and joyful sounds bubbling
              talking changes         and all then
we were running and the sand
                      underfoot and is wet
and shining
                          
                            dew

Bad Day Limerick

There are times when the goal of the day
is to get from point A to point A
(where point A is the bed
where you lay down your head)
without screwing things up on the way.

September 25 2011

The Proving Grounds

God smiled on you in the proving grounds,
an interval of sunlight
in a morning of heavy cloud.
I drove away soon after,
leaving you with the upset dog
while I looked for missing answers up the highway.
Saint Christopher and Saint Anthony went with me,
one to help me on my way
and one to help me find.
Given the forecast, I knew we could not hope to see God again
for at least a day or so,
but while I knew that we were heading into rain
I was happy you had seen Him
once
before the downpours came.

September 23 2011

This Day a Blessing

Let me count this day a blessing. Let me count
these two, this she, and he who barks
as messengers, sent by who
is that he is, to prove the more than is apparent, indeed
a wonderful abundance shot with changing light,
reverberant with echoes of a higher music whose
melody rings and lyrics sing a glad and great recounting
in harmony--whose perfect grace is only faintly glimpsed
in its complexity--of this my life,
my heart, my world,
my blessing.

September 20 2011

Summer Hunting

Swallows, dragonflies,
flock and swarm in blue. Summer
hunting fills the sky.

September 17 2011

A Foregone Green Conclusion

Counter-programming: Found this poem about Spring and Summer, thought the verge of Fall was as good a time as any to post it.

Suddenly I can't see through the trees.
There's a density to Summer 
that this cold Spring day presages:
abundance blocks the view.
Winter's density's a different thing
of snowpack and of blizzards
and deeply layered cold, 
beneath which slowly beats a torpid heart.
This resolution season,
anti to the Fall's slow dissolution,
was slow to yield--its buds were grudging,
stuck in burgeoning--but time, dark master, has arranged
its willy-nilly blossom to profusion,
and from here on out the foliage is just
a foregone green conclusion.

September 17 2011

The Day's Well Left

The day's well left to lie in pieces:
shadows
yellow lines along the road
and trees;
a puzzle needing none of my solutions.
God of evening, 
carry me gently forward into sleep.

September 9 2011

Before Irene

At one time I would have welcomed this rain.
Something about catharsis from the sky
seemed to promise a matching resolution in my soul.
But what is the cost in plywood of a hurricane?
And am I willing to pay the price
of a boy beneath a fallen tree
or a mother swept away, calling,
"Take care of the children,"
to a helpless husband left behind,
for a half dozen ticks of a clock that talk
of a purely temporary peace?
Rain's redemption, where it falls,
is balanced by its damages,
and is for the ground it falls on, not for me.
Shiva, make me ever mindful 
of the meaning of these storms;
grant new life and hope to this weeping world
and lay your destroyer's hand upon
the inner landscape I must renew.
Bring your cleansing force to me here inside,
and let me feel the beauty of your lightning and rainfall
in my heart's interior.

August 31 2011

As Though Gibraltar

As though Gibraltar came shouldering roughly up
out of the boisterous sea, making a strait for Hercules
and turning unsuspecting beach to inland Spain,
and I, an ignorant Barbary Macaque, 
went scrambling over that unimagined immensity
still draining ocean from its rocky face,
as though it were already ancient home to me;
this is how we should make our lives' foundation,
so that when our fortunes fail
the ponderous bulk of all that world 
will come roaring up from under, 
thundering loudly of its strength 
and heaving granite cliffs into the sun
for us to groom each others' fur on.

August 17 2011

The Way We Speak To God

The way we speak to God,
in structures built on sand,
in private bedrooms, quiet with no light
and only a yearning lonely ear,
in helpless sorrow, helpless rage,
in contemplation of our age,
in pulling roots and planting seed,
in seeking what we need,
in endless telling and enacting our infirmities;
the way we speak to God,
as when we rescue all the fallen,
regret the left behind,
disdain the claims of others,
undo honor on a screen,
think too late of what is seen
by others, cherish mothers,
show mercy, commit our crimes and hearts,
or practice thoughtlessness:

These acts of ours are loud
but even if they whispered would be heard.
Pray, by all means pray,
if prayer answers well;
but as you stand considering the landscape of each day, 
observe, 
admit, 
embrace 
the way each aspect of us shouts to heaven high, 
and marvel, and remember: most of all,
the way we speak to God 
is accidental.

August 8 2011

Swiss Army Knife

Oh to be
a little while
a Swiss Army knife
folded up
and resting quietly
in someone else's pocket.

August 6 2011

It Is a Constant Letting Go

It is a constant letting go
of sleep
of dawn
of bed
of things that you must do
and what you hope to do.
It is your constant arrival on the scene 
of a world completely new.

It is the constant greeting
of each circumstance
as though you had never known
a circumstance before.
It is the opening of every door
as for the first time
and the passing through that leaves behind
the previous, that wearies you no more.

It is that final reaching home
with night, the vast forgetter,
and the carrying upstairs of only you
and what you choose to keep,
the summary of what you need and hope:
your bed
the dark
and sleep.

July 24 2011

Hygroscopically

Hygroscopically,
the bottoms of the stems of leaves extend
when dewpoints rise
and so the whiteness of the waving trees in summer
as the leaves turn over signifies
the possibility of storms.

Internally, 
a hidden muscle strained to breaking
contemplates this cue 
from vegetative wisdom and inclines
its hope toward following that loosened lead
and turning over its own leaves to breathe
more easily
as inner air builds moisture
for a coming healing storm.

July 21 2011

Turkey Hill

More Windows To Open

Surely there must be more windows to open.
Family room, living room, 
slider in the dining room,
kitchen wrenched from a two-year sleep,
protesting bathroom upper hung crooked,
upstairs bedrooms and the skylight,
mudroom propped with juice box cartons--
still the shore breeze is vagrant,
slipping only in single sips across the sills.
Outside, it's a riot, and the trees are leading the wave;
in here, the fan's not up to it,
and I am suddenly led to believe
that the real resolution, if we can manage it,
is to open new windows in ourselves.

July 12 2011

Inaccurate Memory of a Hillside

Facing the Buddha

The truly interesting question is,
why the museum made his room so gloomy.
The first time, you reached the threshold,
brave girl, but only one step beyond. 

Then as we left the wing you wanted 
one more chance to see him, and in we flew;
and when I saw his face I said to you,
"He was a very good man who gave up his wealth,
and taught people how to live better, like Jesus." 
And then we went with your mother and sister
to laugh at Coca Cola. 

Later you asked me again what he did,
and at home made us spell his name for your book.
Young seeker, you left your fear behind,
but kept his name and message;
and in my mind I see his room
and in it I see him smiling.

July 3 2011

The Rain Submits Its Sibilence

The rain submits its sibilence at the doorstep of the dark,
suggesting quietly that calm can still be given:
the inner stone eroded, its minerals dissolved
in a pool of resolution. 
But something here is adamant, 
and will or cannot ask forgiveness 
or grant forgetfulness, 
or yield to simple water.
And yes, the golden flash seems sometimes near
when a greater plan approaches understanding;
but overarching all, regret,
unceasing yearning,
and tedious repetition of a pointless inquisition
maintain sway: This sourceless sadness
stakes its stubborn claim and will not easily
be reasoned into happiness,
or washed away.

July 1 2011

doll resting

doll resting
head by the sill
of the bedroom window open
does she
can she
feel the
summer breeze?

June 21 2011

Bargaining

Found this in my local notepad. Including it now for completeness' sake.

Receding from us at the speed of time 
you are threatening to take with you certain memories 
I would rather have you leave behind in our care.
Take instead this blanket, redolent of your odor,
and this brush, with which I used too rarely to take
handfuls of your unused fur for the benefit of birds.
Here is a bone you never finished, and a ball just given
that would have been a better match for someone younger,
but kindly meant. Exchange for these clear recollection
of an autumn day when you cajoled me into chasing you
fruitlessly around the tall blue spruce to show me
clearly the advantage of four legs over two.
Give me back the memory of sitting at my peril
on the dawn dark kitchen floor with your black shadow
frantic to re-greet me and if necessary
bite my nose to say how much you loved and missed me.
Let me have to keep one summer walk 
along the sandy trail, with you nose-down 
until we reach the open sky and then turn home again.
You are gone no matter what I say,
but if you will permit these memories to stay
and not be lost along with you, I promise to be reconciled
to doing what is proper, and turn away.

April 2011

That She Has Given You Shoes

That she has given you shoes with which to walk upon
a pebbled underwater;
that your new bicycles stand half-mastered,
gears protected by the overhang of our bedroom;
that I can drive back from the store, tired,
along a turning way
that turns the day to evening,
with a young dog still eager in the wayback:
You know that these are currency more sound
than any I could spend,
whose tally tells the richness of my secret bank account,
upon which I will draw, yet never drain,
from day to daunting day
until the end.

June 18 2011

Thunder

Thunder made it all more serious.
The flapping wind,
the way the trees all rushed to lean to me,
but casually, as if to say,
"Yes, I could fall and take you with me,"
the momentary calms into which
the birds dropped calls as usual--
all these were only grace notes,
like the teasing drops of rain
to which the dog danced with panicky bravado.
But when the thunder uttered,
in the calm voice of the omnipotent invisible
in an unseen room next door--
then, yes, I stood,
and then, yes, I heard.

June 12 2011

The Only Constant

Once up the short and rocky beach 
we slipped and scented across the  cold stone field 
to the seal cairn on the grey marsh side.
Someone considered that proper respect,
due an eyeless corpse spray-painted orange
with the date of death or finding.
Contrast this to the southern shores:
The dolphin's momentary arch, liquid in the sun,
the flat moon shells' pale spirals,
and the endless competent patrols of pelicans
up and down the endless reach.
But remember that there too the dolphins and the tortoises
may roll onto the sand, lifeless, 
fit for only sad remark and final tally,
and consider today's fine wash 
of blue and yellow northern surf
in which the young dog bathed, ebullient.
Life and death change places;
places are changed by death and life.
The only constant is the sea.
The only constant is the sea.
The only constant is the sea.

May 31 2011

Driving Through the Rapture

Sadly, it was apparently not.
In fact, against high heaven's wall, 
the contrails all had seemed to be descending,
suggesting a falling trend.
But though we laughed to think of saved ones rising,
we could not help envisioning how the hopeful spent the day
in prayer, in goodbyes,
in anxious countings down,
in the strangest of possible glad anticipations,
to think that this bright day might be the last;
and when the hour had passed
and we were still just driving,
did we not yield one most private sigh to think
the world no more divine than yesterday,
or that we were left behind?

May 22 2011

A Million Hands

A million hands have opened in the yard
along the lines of branches
to show what they were holding as they grew;
opened as if finishing their prayer,
and what they hold is answer
to the same one prayed by you.

May 18 2011

Revisions

1. Today I will not require the spoons to match.

2. It is completely different to be in the bath,
I suddenly see, as opposed to giving it.

3. The mango's tang revives sweet memories
of jacaranda and unusual hotels.

4. As I look at your questioning eyes tonight,
I feel the wrench within
that says the time may finally have arrived
when I should own and guide you.

Is it wise to trust these reawakenings
or is it wine? Can I make these choices mine?
Be calm; I will let the time decide
and if it will, the night can hide
the sorcery that slides revisions in,
and in the morning I will feel,
or not, them living in my skin.

May 12 2011

Turning Out the Light

Turning out the light
is the beginning of morning
because
sleep is a rushing river
that sweeps you swiftly toward
the next day's ocean
along with the flotsam of dreams.

May 4 2011

Story idea free to good home: The Empathic Bone

This is an idea for the premise of a story. I am not a fiction writer, so will probably not develop it. If you write fiction and are interested by the premise, please feel free to adopt it. Just let me know.

A psychotherapist is in a car accident and suffers some injuries, including broken bones. After recovery, he notices intermittent pain at the fracture sites, and at first attributes it to weather changes, but soon realizes that it seems to correlate with emotional pain experienced by his patients.

From this premise several directions could be taken. A few thoughts: Obviously, there is the question of whether the correlation is real. The pain itself could also be real or psychosomatic. Would this phenomenon be useful, or a burden? Could he treat patients experiencing extreme pain, or would he be forced to drop them? How empathic was the therapist before the accident? Is this pain somehow reflective of his own process of becoming more empathic, or the result of denying connection with his patients? Is this a story of the supernatural, or of psychology?

That's all I have for now. Might add more later if anything occurs to me.

When You Coast In

When you coast in to the calm,
slowing, your momentum gladly checked at last
by shallow water,
you do not regard at all what storms may still
wreak havoc on the shore. No,
you are holding as you stop a memory
of what great tempest drove you, and your heart
is savoring a fragile peace, 
released from turbulence to quiet.
Soon enough you will disembark,
turn up the collar of your coat, and trudge
on to your next goal. For one more minute
as you loose the anchor let your resting place
be here, where no wind is your master.

April 28 2011

Benjamin Franklin, Dissatisfied

No, I can't honestly say I know what this one is about.

In my dream, Benjamin Franklin was dissatisfied.
The colonies were growing well, but there was no room to raise wheat.
All the minor crops--rye, barley, flax--were flourishing in their small plots,
but where were the wide expanses needed to support great waving fields?
Benjamin Franklin knew he wanted to move on,
but what of the colonists' thirst for independence?
He went up to a high place overlooking all the towns
and was amazed to see how quickly the land had been developed,
how houses and roads had filled in all the empty spaces.
In spite of his restlessness, he was pleased 
with what had been accomplished.
He lay down on the green sunny lawn
and pressed his body into the warm grass
and knew a moment of great happiness and fulfilment
before he woke.

April 19 2011

We Must Scrupulously Observe

We must scrupulously observe
this coming growing season
and make the summer full
not least because the lives we lost
deserve our best memorial.
Plant your seedlings from their plastic packs
respectfully, and drain the dregs of your ruby drinks
joyfully, being sure to ride your bicycle 
thoroughly, so that your winter lungs feel to their deepest part
the pang of life returning; and in the firefly evening 
distant weeks from now, listen
so that possibly you may hear the message of the insects
from the dark, saying that your gift has been received 
and found  acceptable.

April 15 2011

The Ocean Cannot Greet You

The ocean cannot greet you more gently
because you have never seen it.
It does not know you come from inland
and are only young.
It is up to you to bite its waves
and test its cold and salt.
Shake its seaweed like your prey
run here and there; defy, deny, ignore it
till you can decide
if you can treat this ocean like your playground
or must bark without effect against
its heedless, ancient roar.

April 14 2011

Let the Day End With the Dishes

Let the day end with the dishes.
Let the night so gently implode
along its usual lines of fracture:
pajamas, lunches, and ironing.
Let the last unraveling of evening be
into familiar threads whose ends can easily 
be gathered for tomorrow's weave
but not tonight, when our only remaining concerns
should be with letting go, a final chapter,
one more child to put to bed,
the turning out of a light, the kiss,
the whispered promise of return,
and last, the possible nearness of a quiet other
in a dark good night.

April 5 2011

Valedictory

I saw a conflagration.
I saw how every animate thing might be a flame
and in the general fire find its place.
I dreamed that all of us are falling upward
toward a vast and strong embrace
in a region unimaginable, yet undeniably home
where our candles rise to meet the greatest light;
and I am glad to think of you falling so high
so far above me waving you goodbye
not wishing to ever stop this conversation but
comforted to see you rise
and keep on rising
just flying 
till your cherished, reborn glow is out of sight.

March 30 2011

Another Spring Time

One step shows the earth's begun to give again.
The poet taught us to distrust that yield
and yes, the season's one for suicides;
it even kills itself, or tries.
But something always rolls that rock away
again, and when we look inside,
trembling to think of losing our precious doubt
nothing's there, and we are left to decide only
how long we will hesitate 
before we turn to face
what waits for us outside.

March 28 2011

It May Take a Little While

It may take a little while.
The habit of you is in everything;
ivy in my walls,
and you know how hard that is to kill.
It's hard to tolerate the weight of things I no longer have to do.
You're always waiting for me in the other room;
and it isn't just a matter of throwing out your unused food.
It's also about walking past the spot
where I used to have to stop to stroke your face.
You just don't need that anymore;
and it wouldn't be so damnable
except that I still do.

March 27 2011

She's Been Throwing Snow

She's been throwing snow at us
all day long. It's the kind of behavior you'd expect
from an infant season, and speaking as a parent, really,
there isn't a lot you can do; it's hardwired at this point:
Newborn, she has no settled paths; they
just aren't there yet. This is an exercise in patience;
clean up the mess and don't be angry:
Soon enough you'll be wishing she
hadn't grown up quite so fast and moved away.

March 21 2011

You're Everywhere These Days

You're everywhere these days. I can't
turn the TV on without seeing your face,
or being reminded of your spectacular life as a dog.
How did you get into the sky?
The next time I go into the yard
I expect I will see you there,
looking out at me from under last year's leaves.

Last night, I dreamed I saw you charging around the yard
like a mad dog. The way you planted your feet 
like a bull, then ran, tongue out, ears wild,
like fourteen years ago; it was so good at the end
to see you clear the fence with ease. In my dream
I figured out how to get you back, but you were so
scratched up, I think now the best thing would have been,
and yes, still is, just to let you keep on running away
until you can't see me and I can't see you anymore.

March 18 2011

I Felt the Palest Yellow Glow

I felt the palest yellow glow
come in at evening when the sun pried off
the cloud lid from the sky
with its final exhalation
and while it lightened me
I also feared a change had come to you
silent
while I cleaned the dishes in the kitchen.
That is why I came to look at you
no food in my hands, 
just to see your liquid eyes
look back at me
again 
again 
again.

March 11 2011

Today My Wish for You

Today my wish for you is that
a warmer time will see you end.
Not in cold despair, but in a comforting sun
would I see you lie down at last,
feeling heat release the grasp of pain upon your bones
and small breeze stir your greying fur
and sleep, a friend, 
nuzzle close, sniff you softly,
and curl around you with a familiar dream
of open air, your owners,
and the happiness of the endless chase.

March 3 2011

At the End You May Find

Sorry this one's kind of a downer. It doesn't reflect any recent tragedy; it's just something I've been trying to write for a while.

At the end you may find
the path is longer than expected.
You delve the wood
and with each turn expect to see 
a termination: something final to untether you
from him or her with grace. But the way winds on,
and though that cord is also precious, 
more than you can bear to simply sever or unlace,
these old trees have held you both 
too long on a narrow trail,
no turning back, no stopping place,
and only God is limitless,
and He will not retrace.
It is not your fault if you secretly long
for a clearing or the sea to tell you
here you stop, no more to this race;
and when the end surprises you
as it may, in a hard and unsuspected space,
you will measure the depth of your loss and love
by the clangor of your solitude
and the bitter loneliness of freedom
burning on your face.

February 24 2010

First Earrings

Another minor milestone passed.
She clenched her teeth and saw it through.
You cried; you held your breath;
I gave you quarters in the mall
to turn your thoughts to plastic pigs
and bubblegum, which conquer all,
and then we stopped for cookies.

The shock is sharp, but fast.
For all of us, it lingers;
but this strong wisdom I have learned from her: 
Fear no future earrings, for in the aftermath,
though you are taken farther from your birth
and me, a person even more like you is born 
with greater grace, to walk a greater path.

February 24 2010

In a Dream of Family

In a dream of family made real
we passed the woods and streams reblanketed
beyond the windshield wall.
Slowly as we turned
the song rejoined us all
and the children in the back seat 
sang sweet hallelujah.

February 22 2011

After Last Christmas

That might have been the last time you believed
and if it was
about the only thing that I can say
through tears that you will never see I hope
is welcome 
to the life for which your life till now
was practice,
and may you find your new belief
sooner than I who had to wait
for you.

February 16 2011

It Is Possible to See

It is possible to see
in the sunlight on this yellow grass
a miniature of Spring.
The sight of sodden earth revives
an old anticipation.
Remembering Eliot and the date
we keep our expectations low,
but neither can nor will suppress
the thought that somehow sometime soon
something green may grow.

February 12 2010

The World Is Drawn on Paper

The world is drawn on paper;
things are the exception, not the rule.
Those few that remain are skeletal,
the hidden framework of the world revealed.
It is a flattened field in grey and black and white
stretched and speaking silent only of necessity.
Then from this second-story vantage point
I hear a silver bell redemption
see the clarity of its perfect note
filtered through the leafless trees across the street
carried swiftly on the crystal air past
the last few snowflakes made dimensional by
and dancing slowly down
the sudden yellow light from a sudden blinding sun.

February 4 2011

Straightening the Trees

We are straightening the trees
in a snowed-in wood.
It isn't hard to free
the burdened branches bowed:
A single touch will do
to let the needles leap.
But do they whisper thank you as they rise,
or would they sooner sleep?

January 29 2010

Summer Canned

Summer canned is winter, never doubt:
ardor must be eaten when it's picked;
abandon never lived inside a jar.

January 24 2010

Anniversary

We have made our home by a shifting shore
where tides and moons and seasons all revisit,
fractal nested, one inside another,
but every wave that washes leaves an altered strand
and every storm is different from the ones before.
Change in constancy, constancy in change:
Our lives turn on a spiral, not a ring,
and hard as it may be to see the difference,
every round we've made has found us farther up the spring.
You and I could walk this sand forever, 
always finding something new--and should;
which seems in some way fastened to the fact
that though we've walked so far, so long,
we still can somehow always see
where we began, and know that it is good.

January 21 2010

Your Four Old Limbs

In the complication of your four old limbs
you find sufficient challenge for an average day.
The simple art of rising's almost lost to you,
and stairs are flat impossible without my aid.
When we walk, I listen to your hesitance,
and we turn around, no matter where,
when you want home. This works for me:

Age is no detractor from a friendship;
friendship values friendship, not mobility.
Years add only comfort to your company;
I ask nothing of you but to be.

And I will take your snoring presence on the floor
as long as you can stay.

January 18 2011

Against

The snowstorm left
one side of that tree painted
white
against its black
against the darkened
rose
of the nighttime clouds pushing
close
against the houses
as I let the dog in 
black
against the white
and lock the door
warm
against the night.

January 14 2011

Solo Crow

Solo 
crow so low
lights on the seawall
dances down to the sand.
His black makes him a harbinger
but he is surely caught up in this cold
with all of us. At least his black is definite
against all this weathered ambiguity,
but when the white strikes out the world tonight,
guaranteed, he'll be gone 
like all the rest.

January 14 2011

How Could I Possibly Not Take Your Hand

How could I possibly not take your hand
when you placed it in mine at supper?
You should have been eating but
your small still-perfect fingers were
so cool in mine
a casual gift from thoughtless youth;
you must have wondered 
at my ancient wonder because
you could not see the place your fingers touched
inside me.

January 6 2011