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

The Ground is Rough Where She Goes

The ground is rough where she goes,
but she goes lightly.
Indeed, it is impossible to see her proceeding
other than at a skip. Surely she is a firefly whose light
enchants me. Each blink shows what looping run
of fancy she's essayed,
and at each dark I wonder in what unexpected place
I'll see her spark again.
Climb the summer night, my own;
never will there be a jar for you.

April 3 2009

Parade -- FRAGMENTS

Notes for a piece on the St. Patrick's Day parade

a horse showing off
the quick, bright flashes
of its street-polished shoes

The parade is a needle,
drawing the community's thread
through the fabric of the street.

motorcyclists,
trying to say something serious with their hogs

Seasons Rhyme

Spring, the baby, cries
and tries to rock its wooden cradle.
Summer and her love, alone,
lie heedless on the hill.
Autumn keeps the kitchen warm,
baking apple pies,
till Winter comes in stamping snow
off his leather boots.

Not sure how old this one is; very, is all I can say.

Things Worth Not Pursuing

Things worth not pursuing include
sleep, inspiration, perfection, and faith--
oh, and dogs and cats.

All these things we want are fugitive
like names, like thoughts, like memories--
like Bo Peep's sheep
they come back home
only when we let them stray.

What else do these things have in common?
Are they all children of our other mind?
(You know the one I mean,
the one that doesn't know about what time it is,
or when you have to get there.
So useless in our waking lives,
so crucial to our dreams.)

Of course, dogs and cats aren't children of
either of our minds,
but fairly clearly they possess
just the one that counts in this discussion.
Perhaps we should ask their opinion.
Maybe they can let us know the secret,
how to chase without pursuing
so that when we let them be,
these things that flee when sought
may come and nose our arms--
moist assurance of devotion--
or place one paw,
so delicately,
a touch at which our hearts leap up,
just briefly on our shoulders.

March 20 2009

Ooh! Ooh! Another one!

Just thought of another item for the list of things you cannot successfully pursue: Faith (religious faith certainly, and presumably all faith).

OK, sleep, inspiration, perfection, faith. What do these things have in common? Possibility: all are in some way non-rational (not irrational, just not in the domain of things influenced by reason). Perfection is a bit of an oddball there, but perhaps still fits if you think of it as a state that is pretty much beyond the ability of reason to produce.

All these things go away if you seek them; if you don't, they may come and tap you on the shoulder. Interesting (assuming this is a valid line of thought).

A Drum in Your Heart

If you have pierced ears,
do you have a drum in your heart?
When you asked me that,
how could I say anything but yes?
Freshly hysterical from your bath,
you probably meant something I was just
too old to understand,
but honestly, I'll miss it more than I can say
the day you stop making
such perfectly reasonable nonsense.

(And yes,
though it's been years since my last earring,
I would venture to say that I still do have
a drum in my heart. It beats for you,
in case you didn't know.)


March 5 2009

Turn Out the Light

Turn out the light;
entrust your soul to God
and wait for night's black caravan
to carry you away.
Who knows what sands you will cross?
The road is long, and always new,
between tonight and morning.

February 26 2009

Poetry and Perfection (and Sleep)

Returning to a theme I brought up briefly a couple of weeks ago, it occurs to me that poetic (or any) inspiration is similar to perfection, in that both are commonly the objects of pursuit. It also occurs to me that pursuit is the wrong approach.

Neither poetry nor perfection is impossible, but going after them is commonly fruitless. In my experience, both are things that come and find you, when you are thinking about or doing something else.

Add another item to this list of things that can only be attained by not reaching for them: Sleep.

However, note that refraining from pursuit is like not thinking about the word rhinoceros for ten seconds. Also, it is valid to pursue excellence, which is something short of perfection.

Sleep, poetry, perfection. Do these things have anything else in common? If so, why? What are some effective techniques for refraining from pursuit, without abandoning one's goal entirely? Discuss.

The Speed of Dark

The speed of light is equaled by
the speed of dark.
Every time you throw a switch
or strike a spark
the night flies out
pursued but never caught
by radiance.

And when you douse a flame,
darkness races to reclaim dominion over space,
exploding from the source to chase
the fast retreating, yet still loyal,
bright and royal lances of the light.

February 26 2009

Clues

This branch says
"I grow straight because
I am strong and clean and true, and here
I split apart because
there was in me a need to be
more and more and more
and more."

This lamppost says
"Do you remember in my arching neck
the horses at the battle of Bouvines and all
the smoke and dust and tumult of the flashing swords?
Or is it just
the dancing lower of a nodding bloom
in springtime I evoke?"

Watch the world and wait
for memory's bell to sound and draw
the shade up on resemblance.
Each brick's a road;
each hue a history.
Every turn of line and angle speaks
of other lives and worlds and spare
necessities. So they teach
and so we learn if with a quiet mind
we feel the bridge's red upon our eyes.

December 9 1999

Office Day

A summer poem.

Amazingly,
it rained.
When oh the floods came down and washed
the landscape of the streets into the river, then
oh then it rained
amazingly.

With what buckets did the sky prepare
to drench the weary wars below?
How laughingly did heaven send
its moist and melting messengers
like armies from the high,
to pacify the low?

While in here we,
so dry it seemed a crime to look outside,
kept working, still
we stole a sideways glance
just now and then
to out there where
the war was all but won.

June 30 1998

Rain

This is a sentimental favorite from MANY years ago. It is "translated" from a string of nonsense words that I pretended were in a real language. I can't remember all of the original, but it began, "San/o we/das remmelt yan..." (a little German creeping in there).

Rain
the flowers
in hair made of water.

Love!
As many as the fingers of my hands
has my heart caressed in vain.

Date unknown

The Year of Mending Things

Is this the year of mending things?
First there was the top,
though that was last year, before Christmas;
but remember how proud I was to give it back its voice?
Since then I've fixed a few more things:
some floors, the world in miniature spinning on a stand,
and portions of a mountain;
and also me--at least in part.

And then of course your foot is on the mend;
though I can't claim credit for that, any more than for
recovery from real catastrophe you watched in disbelief--
but look: even there, at least the wreck is gone,
the hole's filled in,
and lasting hurt is bandaged by the quiet snow.

What else can we fix this year?
Our door, of course--
but hearts undone by loss,
shaky souls
(a nation?),
and all our silent fears?
Too much to hope perhaps,
that now so much has broken we have reached a temporary peace,
where glue and love and energy and care
can now repair the damage of a brutal year--
but we can hope; and that, or so it's said,
is where we start.

February 4, 2009

Holiday

I'm going to take a break from new writing for a while. After some recent focus on poetry, the prey ("poetry" anagram: "to prey") has been kind of reticent--basically, I've been trying to write a "good" poem, which is almost never a good idea--so I need to focus on other things until it comes out of hiding. I might post an old poem or two, just for fun, but don't look for anything new for a while. (I know, that really ruins your day.)

Snow Ghosts--IN PROGRESS

Snow ghosts
sifting down from warming boughs
in powder shrouds,
small echoes of the storm that passed
this way.

This seems somewhat weak on its own; wondering if it might be combined with the "Snow Days" piece from a few days earlier, or some other piece.

Early Spring

A slightly different version of this poem appeared in The Morpo Review in 1995. (I have to admit, this particular view of spring is not the best one to present right now, when you may, depending on your location, have had just about enough of winter.)

Blue sky's an intrusion
when the cloudy dims
and branches softly wave
their welcome to the rain.

Then the sun's a stranger,
and the yellow light
is hard upon the poor old snow
that waits for water cold
to wash it down the drain.

Rain turns all to smoky day;
the grey clouds close my eyes
and turn me
back in memory
to moors unvisited, and that grey rock:
green lichen on the craggy rough.

These tired beginnings
are like sleep:
When seasons change
we want just five more minutes to remain
ourselves
before becoming something new.

July 27, 1995 - January 20, 2009