Remaining

Some things go on forever;
Christmas tree needles,
confetti,
and glitter.
It's  not a bad thing:
They're on the asymptotic curve,
memories of happiness that fade
but never quite reach zero.

December 23 2015

Conversation

I talked to God last night.
He said, "Don't worry. It doesn't matter
if you believe in me. Truthfully?
It isn't as big a deal as some people think.
I just want you to be happy."
But the pain, the suffering, I said. What about that?
"Well, I'm not your babysitter, you know.
Believe me, it hurts, but I'm your parent
and I want you to grow--and yes,
those who die I heal with me."
Okay, I said, but why? I mean,
why all this in the first place?
"Because," he said, "there was nothing before,
and I had to. I am the creator, after all.
Really, I am creation, so..."
And then he said something I didn't understand--
but what do you expect?

December 19 2015

Water Sweep

I used to want to be a water sweeper.
So peaceful
working in some basement with a broom,
pushing shallow flooding toward a drain.
It isn't easy--
water wants to walk back where it was--
so I would savor every sluicing,
but admire the water's tenacity.
You probably have to wear really good boots
to keep your feet dry
and contemplate life's easy flow
like one of the Buddha's followers.

December 2 2015

New England Thanksgiving

The moths are thankful for November,
the clouds are thankful for the sky,
the stars are thankful for the night in which to shine,
and I am thankful you are mine.

November 26 2015

Sympathy

The deer don't come to the apple trees.
The apples never fell
because they never grew this year.
A mystery, like the empty vines
beneath which there's no Concord stain.
Probably it's drought,
but it's right by the house where he now lives alone,
and I agree with the neighbor who walks a dog
that one absence might make other things go missing
in sympathy. I wonder if the lawn and street
miss the company of fruit.

October 28 2015

Grumble

I can't help feeling this
is the ruin of the year.
I'll take a red leaf
or a vine of porcelain berries
with appreciation,
but look,
it's just a consolation prize
for what we'll soon endure,
and once we're past the new year,
it's just a weary slog
to the grudging warmth of houses
and the door to Spring.

October 19 2015

Walk Wind

Still that wind
makes walking to the beach
a thing to flap his ears.
The ocean talks with many rising tongues
and the sun sends glory down
through running clouds.
Summer's given up the ghost
and autumn will do the same,
so bow your head in acquiescence
and against the wind you can't deny.

October 6 2015

Untitled6

Dog Lines

The Wolf Who Cried Boy

Once there was a young wolf who lived with his pack high in the mountains, near a small village. Every day the pack went hunting, each wolf in its own direction.

One day the young wolf, finding no food, grew bored. To amuse himself, he threw back his head and gave the special howl that means, "I have found human prey."

The other wolves came running, but when they found there was nothing to catch, they went away grumbling, and the young wolf had a good laugh at their expense.

The next day the young wolf played the same trick, and again the other wolves came running, only to find nothing to eat. They scolded the young wolf and warned him not to play the same trick again, before stalking away through the trees.

The very next day the young wolf actually did see a boy walking in a field near the forest, and he gave his howl once more, but no wolves came. They were all fed up with his tricks.

So the young wolf leapt on the boy and ate it up all by himself.

Moral: Sometimes practical jokes can pay off in a big way.

September 22 2015
 

Denial

To pick a red leaf from a tree
is to admit the possibility
of fall, which I will never do
however bright the jewel
shines at me.

September 20 2015

Pope Francis

I dreamed about the pope last night.
His unusual car was caught in traffic
on an American highway,
and the roadside was thronged with faithful.
Actually, at one point a fight broke out,
which didn't seem good,
and as another man waved hopefully, the pope turned away,
raising his hand in distracted benediction.
He still smiled, but I thought he looked a little harried.
It seemed like a sudden test of faith,
but I had little fear that he would fail;
even in the middle of the world,
I felt, he could stay a good man.

September 5 2015

Storm and Hound

I had wondered that very day
where all the summer storms were,
so when he leaned his palpitating flank into my chest
and showed me the color of his back teeth in his panting grin,
I was not surprised,
and I could hold him through the thunder and the sudden light
and remind him they are here but soon
the cicada darkness will return,
and you, my friend, will still have nameless prey to chase
through one hot night into another,
and so on till the Fall.

August 31 2015

Second Rain

The trees rain last
into dry shade they cast
while the sky was taking its turn.
You can relive the rain just by walking
through intermittent showers dropping
suddenly from green heaven.

August 24 2015

Wading For Dog, Oh

They are not drowned, the fields
of marsh across the river,
but tide's a surprising thing:
There may be water still in the great track rut
for him to trouble
with his splashing dash and ducking head,
until he stands in rapture grinning
and I call him to come shake it off
head to tail
like Pluto, faithful clown.

August 17 2015

Three Fortune Cookies

If you can't fit in, stand out.

To understand your journey completely, you must go on foot.

What does a mirror look like without its reflection?

-- The Collected Fortune Cookie Sayings of Michael Kei Stewart

August 10 2015

Still White

Three Way Stop

Martha's Vineyard 2015

That wind, that you would swear
 blew straight from heaven's beach,
and the water on the morning grass,
so gracious as to wash my feet,
are not sent by her to bless us, I suppose:
They're just the island's anthem
sung for anyone,
that takes no more than nature to compose.
But if I choose to hear her
talking of her happiness,
and say her tears have dried upon the rose,
who would counter?
Harmless fancy only warms the heart,
and here if anywhere I'd meet her,
and feel there is no need for us to part.

July 9 2015

An Absent God

Sometimes hoping for an absent God
can seem like proof that He is here.
It doesn't always matter if things are real
if they are true,
and having isn't half so much the point--
nor surety--
as wanting, wishing, desperately needing,
and resolving, come doubt or dead derision,
to deserve.

July 6 2015

Blender

If all the words were in a blender
like:
garmarainfinhealtrymusiwashnighpeartremous
or:
rehaupartainserflorwaslaytendosh
I could pour them into a cooling cup
and serve them to you thick to sip
one strawful at a time.

June 12 2015

Basket

Now is the season to water our hanging basket.
All summer long we must tend it.
Poor thing, it depends
on almost daily care;
thank God one of us has a memory.
And every now and then
I will put it on the step
well beyond the eave
so it can drink the rain.

May 24 2015

American Dream

You know,
the first time I thumbtacked
one end of a string
to the map
(Tucson)
and stretched the other end
to a photo
of the last time I saw him
(alive),
I have to admit, I thought,
Oh. My. God.
This
is how it starts.

May 17 2015

To Make Summer

To make summer, empty out your ice cube trays
or ice maker bin.
Let the old refrigerator smell
vanish down the drain with the water you have freed.
Fill the trays with spring water and put them in
or replace the bin
and turn the ice maker on.
Then wait patiently,
as you have
all through the endless,
frozen in the dark,
for summer ice.

May 9 2015

Wheatfield on a Postcard

The Woman and the Cunning Rabbit

This is the second of two Liberian folk tales I found among my mother's papers. It was translated from the Vai by Vaani Gray.

Once there were a woman and her husband. They were living by a big wide rock. They had one daughter. The girl was the most beautiful of all creation. In that country human beings and beasts of the forest inter-married.

As this girl grew to womanhood, many persons brought dowry for her. Those beasts that were rich would sometimes bring a good sum of money, domestic animals and many dresses. Whenever they brought these things to the girl's mother she would say, "I do not want any of these things for my daughter. If any person wants to marry my child he must build a hut on this big rock. When the hut is completely built, then he may take his wife with him."

All the people in the country came to try their chance. They could not build the hut. All the strong animals, baboon, chimpanzee, elephant, lion, all tried, but could not build the hut.

At last Cunning Rabbit came. The woman showed him the surface of the big rock where he had to build the hut. Before Rabbit could do anything, he built a fence across the little creek at the side of the big rock. Then he went to look for sticks. He spent the whole day in the bush, and at evening he brought a tiny small stick. He went to look in his fence for fish. He caught two small fishes and one big crab. He threw the fishes back into the creek and carried the crab to the woman and said, "Please, my mother, cook my crab for me. I want pepper soup."

The woman agreed. Rabbit went back to his work. Not very long after, the woman called him to his soup. Rabbit came. He drank a little bit of the soup, and then took one limb of the crab and bit it. Then he shouted, "Oh, mother! the crab is not properly cooked and you set it before me to eat. Please cook it again."

And the woman boiled the crab and boiled it and boiled it. Then she called Cunning Rabbit. He came, and took one of the limbs again, and as soon as he set his teeth on it he pulled it from his mouth as quickly as he could. Then he said to the woman, "The crab is not done at all. As soon as one tries to bite it, it wants to break one's teeth out of one's mouth."

Then the woman answered and said, "Whomever have you seen in this world that could cook crab as soft as fish?"

Then Cunning Rabbit also answered and said, "Now you have decided in favor of the impossibility of building a hut on a big stone like this. Wherever have you seen a man building on a big rock like this before?"

It was upon this point that the woman gave her daughter to Cunning Rabbit to be his wife.

"When a rascal dies, a rascal buries him." As the Frenchman would say, "To a rascal, a rascal and a half."

Untitled 4/23/15

She died;
and at the viewing the backs of his hands
showed that bruising that is purely age as he declared
that there was no one else for him.
I thought he might not know us,
but mine, good heart, invited him to supper.
Yesterday I met him on his lawn
where he walked with careful steps among the beds,
asked after my daughters,
and scattered white fertilizer beads among his flowers,
envy of the neighborhood.

April 23 2015

The Spider and the Firefly

This is a folktale from Liberia, translated from the Vai language by a family friend, Vaani Gray. My family lived in Liberia during the 1950s, and my mother became deeply involved in the study of Vai. I recently found this story and one other among her papers.

Long, long ago, there was a great famine. Food matter was a real problem all over the world. Leopard decided to build a fence across the water to catch fish. Now it was from this fence that Spider and Firefly used to steal fish every night. Whenever it was time for them to go, Firefly would give light in order that they might not miss the way.

Leopard was confused. Every morning when he came to the fence he found fish scales on the bank. But when he looked in the fence he could see nothing.

One evening Spider and Firefly came and stole some fish from the fence. Then they started dividing the fish. Spider took all the big fish and gave all the small ones to Firefly. He did this all the time, cheating Firefly. Now Firefly was fed up, and planned how he could pay Spider back. He said, "I will pay Spider for what he is doing."

When they went to the fence the next night they caught plenty fish as usual. Spider did the same trick, swindling Firefly. They tied up their kinjas and started home. As they were nearing the place where the road branched out to Leopard's, Firefly put out the light. Spider missed his way and took the path to Leopard's in the very dark night. Soon he reached Leopard's house. He went right up and knocked on the door. He thought it was his house. He called to his wife and said, "Ngekuchu, Ngekuchu, open the door."

Leopard got up gently and opened the door. Spider entered and threw down the kinja of fish. Leopard was lying on the bed and he covered himself. Spider thought Leopard was his wife. As he touched him a little, Leopard sprang up and took hold of Spider's hands and said, "Spider, you have been going to my fence and stealing my fish. It is God that hands you over to me. I will kill you."

And Spider said, "My uncle, I did not go to steal fish from your fence. I do not want you to have the trouble of going to the fence every morning. Therefore I went and brought your fish to you."

Leopard said, "All right, wait until tomorrow."

Morning broke, but they never saw Spider again.

Dogtown

Dogtown,
and the surfers are out,
awaiting inferior waves.
Up the beach an assembly
in summer colors mixed with winter black is plunging
for a late Saint Patrick's Day:
Those screams are not the wind.
His long leash makes the sound of pigeons cooing
because the wind is so strong that it thrums.
It really isn't warm enough for this jacket,
but we're rushing spring, taking it on and over,
and Hell's payment is for now
just the last of the rotten snow.

April 13 2015

Narrators and Stories

"Have you never considered how strange, how hard a thing it is for a narrator to outlive his story? The incidents it was his sole purpose to record, all finished; the actors all gone, doing other things, or dead; all the apostrophes and periods in place; even the book itself, perhaps, neatly on a shelf--what then? 'Move on,' his friends may say. Well; but to what? What else can equal? And more: Can he ever feel himself the equal of what he was before, when he was in the story?"

Conversations with Myself, by Michael Kei Stewart

April 8 2015

Dripping

I am in love with melting,
enamored of thaw,
and besotted with storm drains that sound
like toilets endlessly running.
No matter how cruel, I long to see
the ancient snow undone,
the gutters rinsed by rills and rivulets,
and the slow creep of a quiet seep
across the market parking lot.
Dripping is the Spring.

March 30 2014

Ruination

A ruined world's all right to start with.
You can build with trash, you know?
Or on it, anyway,
and under all that wreckage
there may still be seeds that grow.

March 26 2015

Winter Locks

Winter locks up more than water, locks
people behind their doors,
locks laughter in your throat,
locks boats to shore.
Locks patience, leisure;
more:
locks eyes on frozen paths for pitfalls,
locks hearts on getting by,
and locks outside the sweetness that we seek,
the rest, the ease, the open space
where hearts can sing and minds can speak
the Spring.

March 18 2015

Not Seeking

The solution lies in not seeking it.
How many times must I be told?
As often as the day tells me otherwise.
It is an empty toll, a clangor of nothing,
but, oh, how it promises,
and oh, how loud.
I  can almost not hear
the silence underlying.

March 15 2015

Road Work

This road let go.
A thing of crumbs and fragments:
The frost that heaved it melted so
the cavity beneath lay vacant so
the next damn car could crush it so
goes springtime in New England.

March 12 2015

Drawing Lesson

Why does the sun have wheels,
I heard him ask. No, she said,
it's a taxi. Wait, I thought,
does she mean Apollo's chariot?
No, of course not; look,
they're just getting their snacks.
But still, I thought,
they might know more than they know.

March 3 2015

Life at Sea

Outside, a dorsal ridge is sounding
a swale beyond the mudroom window.
The swells that swell the yard are white,
not merely capped,
and the tides are astronomical.
Yesterday was a perfect storm, so now
this snow day is so no day
to set sail.

February 16 2015

No Need to Rest

For my aunt.

She looked up suddenly from her work
to find him standing by her.
How long have you been there,
she asked. Not long, he said.
Well, a while. Can't you take a break?
You've been working hard.
You should rest.
Pshaw, she said, as she rose,
dusting her hands
once, twice,
on her trousers. I don't need to rest
if I'm with you.

January 29 2015

Silk from the Ceiling

How does a spider know
when
to
stop
dropping?
Is it just that it senses
its silk sacs depleted?
Or does it have the feeling:
I have reached the point
of no return. No choice:
up
back
climb
must
I
and eat my progress on the way.

January 28 2015

Working At Home II

To find myself almost at home is a warming thing.

Soon I will drop the leash and he will lollop

into the yard to stand,

reading the morning news.

Coffee expects me, and I will not disappoint.

In the pool of halogen light 

we will commune

before the whitening glow 

of our waking master. 

January 24 2015

Returning

I have been on a long journey, he said,
and his accent sounded different.
I considered him odd, and was not sure if he deserved
my pity or my contempt.
I have been away because I had to be,
he continued seriously. There were things
I had to do, demons to struggle with,
conclusions to reach.
And have you reached them, I asked
with utmost kindness and civility. Yes,
he said, yes, I believe I have,
and he showed me his hand,
and shamed me to silence
with the ugliness of his wound.

January 9 2015