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