Before They Put the Barriers Up

Before they put the barriers up,
let us go down to the beach again.
You will smell something invisible;
I will think indefinite thoughts.
Down the narrow reach of sand
between the wall and sea,
we each will seek.

September 30 2009

Things of Constant Worth

Things of constant worth are these:
parental diligence
kindness in adversity
remembering to fold laundry
rubbing his old ears each morning
being there
knowing that a puzzle may be refused
continuing to look for God
admiring intelligence only just so much
and grasping loosely in one's open hand
the strings and echoes of this green and vibrant world.

With these you may be present in many hardships and take
no lasting injury.

September 25 2009

These Days Prepare Our Minds

These days prepare our minds for sleep.
By the brightness of the brick
or sunlight's fall on tar,
we are not misled into summer.
Indeed, we read it in the quiet streets
and the subtle chill that hides behind
heat's plausible facade:
The longer days are over;
dress your children warmly,
prepare your home and wait
for winter's celebrations in the dark.

September 16 2009

If the Next One's Mine

Now that we're all soldiers
if the next one's mine
I know you'll understand
why it's okay.

When the blood has been collected
and the money all disbursed,
what's left for us to do but take our battle stations,
in traffic jams and kitchens,
cubicles and cabs,
milking sheds and senior homes,
and classrooms for the young?
Front lines all,
and all across the country all
are drafted to this cause.

And some would even say they're glad,
the way the disused sword is glad
when the armorer finally takes it up
to give it a useful edge;
since now our long futility
at least for now is done:
At last we have a goal,
unwanted but worth dying for;
at last we know our mission.

And even if I am not glad,
if I, like you, had other ends in mind,
there's still a consolation I can find
in knowing that the ultimate goal is served,
as each life strengthens my conviction
that we will prove with justice on the enemy
that war is not the way.

Now that we're all soldiers
if the next one's mine
remember this, with me:
No one dies in vain.

October 12 2001

Labor Day

The last of the produce is coming in;
a laughable crop in all,
consistent with our care and not seriously to be regretted.
A laggard half-green tomato here,
a cucumber swollen with forgetfulness
retrieved from beneath a stiffening leaf,
and the hysterical, half-parched basil,
nervously bursting into flower at the thought
that though we say we prize it
still we do not pick or pinch it back.

Today we are out walking,
harvesting the remnants of the summer;
a few weak sheaves of sunlight,
a precious bit of warmth beneath the breeze
to ease old faithful canine bones.
Ahead we see hurrying on the season
flowing over the bending grass,
like the children running into their future and
outpacing loving us.
If we are wise, we will notice the reddening leaves
disregarded in their flight,
and see in them the early springing into life
of life's next yield,
sweet respite till the spring.

September 9 2009

After All the Murders of the Summer

After all the murders of the summer,
both real and contemplated,
the sharp delineation of the trees,
cut by an unexpected chill whose breath
is redolent of uniforms and welcome wool,
fills us brimtop with anticipation.
It is like hearing when you thought yourself alone
the nearby step of some great giant:
Suddenly, so little time left to teach her
how to ride her bicycle.

August 27 2009

There in the Spirit

There in the spirit walks my daughter, she
unconscious as that her hair is brown,
what atmosphere she cleaves. Her eyes
are on her play, no more, and more
would be much less. Her understanding
here surpasses mine: she and life
are so in love
they know and move together,
near as may be one without
a thought of separation.
Let them not observe me standing here,
dull-witted giant, dimly grasping,
fondly hoping, and earnestly trying to believe.

October 16 2009

Out There Where There Ought to Be

Out there where there ought to be an edge,
the sea and sky are one,
and in that ambiguity floats
the lighthouse pulled from service,
now a lonely, blinded I.

Locate the gulls by their pump-handle cry;
the greys are driftwood on an airy tide.
Whether they float or fly:
Is it important to decide?
From the lighthouse comes
no answer. Its days of definition
are now over.

Swimming and swimming an endless water,
we make for land instinctively.
Dry ground and certain answers are
the signposts and the goals we want to touch.
So much we are, but there is more:
When willingly our faces face the waves,
our souls commit to doubt,
our minds permit confusion and
we gladly turn our backs upon the shore.

December 24 2009

Sorry, can't help it

Realized I can't write stuff without posting it here, even if it means not being able to submit it to one journal. For one thing, I want to push it out to the world too much, and I haven't the patience to wait months for stuff to be rejected. For another, I can't follow a rule like "post stuff you don't think will get published"--I have no idea what constitutes publishable poetry, and anyway I wouldn't want to post stuff I think is second-rate; what kind of message does that send to me or you?

So I hope to publish more here soon; I'll figure out some other way to get to that journal later on.

All the Day

All the day, all the day;
that orange line of shore
beneath the distant, dusted hills;
the airplane clatters over swimming
sideways through the blue.
The hydrant's white, geranium's red,
the angled lines of rooftops, each
float distinct,
brilliant in the summer air as boats
that shimmer on the sea.

August 13 2009

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

Is It That I Asked Too Much?

Is it that I asked too much?
One question more, one plea--
was this what made my case implausible,
forced your hand to make me fall,
away from you and toward the bitter center
of a darkened place?

Why am I here; did you leave me?
Or was it I who led me here
and are you near behind,
wanting me to turn around,
just turn
to see the help you hold
in strong hands?

Be guide to me, I pray. In this a fearful time,
remain. Be my turning post, deep rooted in the ground
for me to turn around
and start back toward the day.

June 19 2009

What Is It That We Know -- FRAGMENT

What is it that we know?
Bedazzled by perceptions I am
caught up in,
still I must remember they are
only guesses:
the man I see in this child's face
may never be.

July 7 2009

On a Sippy Cup Still In Use

Oh in the rush to leave behind
we know we guarantee some loss
that could forever haunt us;
but it is God's most gentle dispensation
to render us new joys,
so that as we speed along,
determined to outpace each aggravation,
our thoughtless feet may always find firm ground,
and happily we careless are
by hidden hands protected.

June 26 2009

It Is a Coming Home With Tears

It is a coming home with tears to see
the broad gladness of the spreading maple leaves,
and down summer's long prospective sidewalk
listen for each memory of warmth and dusty lassitude.

To argue once again the merits of grape lollipops
while propping against our thighs balloon-tired bicycles,
feeling, like the strength of home's foundation,
the pitted shine of handlebars,
or trail like an anxious dog your brother in his competent pursuit
of airplanes wound to double tightness for their flight
or practice golfballs, light like mushrooms
blooming in the morning grass,
or even--thunderous event--
to roll without restraint down the tipping hill
through wild and fragrant grasses till you rest,
upgazing at the vastness of the cloudy, boiling sky so far above--
and suddenly feel reversal,
when you are pinned to the meadow ceiling looking down
at grey immensity all those miles below;

this, this, and all this would be sweet, no doubt.
But they are where we were back then,
and now it's for a different generation to create these memories
and enrich their driving busy days beyond
with sudden, unexpected recollection of
the murmurous intensity
of distant summer afternoons.

May 15 2009

So That When We Were Found

So that when we were found
all blazing in our particular human glory,
it was not after all a tangent to our foretold end
but its unexpected fulfillment,
and we gave thanks
understanding that in this instance as in others
we had lived by grace,
and were on sufferance heaven-bound.

Is it not an old refrain
to see how those like us are saved
without our knowing,
even wanting?
How like a human it always is
to be in spite of everything endowed
with God's dear favor; surely even He is torn
between great laughter and great tears.

May 5 2009

Pebbles on My Desk

Stones that pile, one on another,
and do not move. All their weight potential,
they sit contained,
content in their long lives to wait
for gravity's directive.

Listen to their silence.

April 23 2009

How Careless is the Rain?

How careless is the rain?
Consider the number of perfect circles it expends
on puddles in locations
where no one's eyes will see.
See them with your other eyes;
watch them
quietly,
ceaselessly
expanding.

Give thanks to the reckless rain.

April 26 2009

There is Another Language

There is another language
than the ones we speak. In fact,
it speaks us. We think
we are pronouncing on the world
in should and must and shall and want and wish,
and things we say and do hold sway,
when in fact--and only in the rarest circumstance
do we poor parts of speech glimpse this--
there is another, subtle speaker whose sentences
comprise us
and tell the true, surprising story of our lives.

What word are you in the language of the world?

April 21 2009

Cat's Cradle

And if there were no other time than this,
when strings of disappointing days give way
to nothing but fatigue,
and all our hands' slow rearrangements yield alone
a tiny share of rest in this our cradle,
still
I would follow these half-forgotten steps with you,
all my days
pinching, pulling taut, and trading,
giving, each to the other in return,
this endless, silken pattern of our lives.

April 15 2009