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

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).