Dreaming us into time and space, did it know
we would be lost and need to be found;
that circumstances would shape us into something
so far from home?
He strikes a match and cups his hands – face aglow.
Moon shimmer on the long needles of an ancient pine
– deja vu.
…
Nothing has to be done now. Anything
that is, simply blossoms into the cosmos
between dying stars and infinite wonder
– blooms like a supernova. Or happens
in the kitchen, washing dirty dishes;
or earlier, sitting in a stream of sunlight
the woman I love, cutting my long white hair
laughing about the days of poverty past.
…
It is not within us to stop being,
only to move beyond the known.
In memory; invisible like wind.
In form: like rivers and oceans and rain.
At least this is what I think
standing in the woods pondering
the life of stones. Sunlight sparkling
on spring run-off.
…
Door closed walls white moonlit
halls all shadow and hush. Beneath
a threadbare quilt; the body isolate.
Breath – a tidal chant. Halls all shadow
and hush. Part the curtain. Lightly bang
the drum dream of birdsong and dawn.
Dance me to the day; that play of lips
and fingertips of love and joyous ode.
But please;
– don’t touch me while I am sleeping.
…
This was written for dVerse Poets Pub and had to include at least two Linda Perry song titles from a provided list. The titles I chose were “Bang the Drum” and “Don’t Touch Me While I Am Sleeping”.
This weekend I put up the tree swallow house
and this morning four swallows arrived, early;
just like that – out of nowhere.
I imagine them, after the long journey
high up spotting the house; thinking the same thing.
…
In the past I haven’t recorded tree swallows arriving before early May. These were quite unexpected.
I practice bending, all willow grace
and ease. Or sitting like a lotus
– a little stiff perhaps.
On a day just like this I will die.
Dishevelled distracted slipping
down icy stairs tumbling off some ladder
reaching skyward as I fall.
Nothing glamorous. No wiser or better.
A simple death I hope,
still in love with it all.
It will be like the night I was born.
Just like that – out of nowhere.
…
An old photograph marks the page in Simic’s “The Lunatic”.
Arms akimbo dirty shirtless wearing his father’s old winter boots and mother’s outdated shorts; a frowning young man.
His wife; hand on one hip toddler balanced on the other frowns back. Black and white bear of a dog looks away.
Under the blown out sky a backdrop of low brush and piled logs. A deep hole fills half the frame.
Hidden from view a rivulet of water pools on the bedrock.
…
Edited from the archives.
You don’t see a lot of rusty cars anymore.
At the lights a young woman with thin hair and big
sunglasses, flicks a butt out the open window.
Her boy in the backseat stares me in the eye,
says something that makes her laugh and look over.
She smiles and pulls away, loose muffler rattling.
…
Struggling with a shopping cart full of bottles,
a man about my age. Grey beard, dirty ball cap,
winter parka on a summer day. Cool sunglasses;
the kind with mirrored lenses. He talks earnestly
to himself, shaking his head as though in disbelief.
A crow with a french fry hops out of the way.
…
Another from the archives. Edited for Merril at dVerse. A poem that includes the word window.
…
The Muse wished to host a costume party and appear as the Holy Spirit. The glorious bird. Divine inspiration. Licks of flame. Third among not-quite equals. I want to kick some ass, is what she said, preening blindingly white feathers and lacing up her boots. You my friend (looking in my direction) are boring the shit out of me these days.
I looked up from my fallen log, moonlit moss;
mind wandering the depths of Quarry Brook.
We can be a haibun. I’ll be the prose and you (rolling her eyes) can be the haiku.
Sitting, lotus
beneath the white birch; a dove
– poops on my head.
…
…
Silence falls away. Peace. Snow. Blessings. All that jazz. Polish the firing pin loosen the growl. God watches from the bark of trees. Wonders nothing. Turns away turns away and back again. They cleared the land built a clean place set mousetraps in the basement rat traps by the road dug deep holes topped with twigs and planted sharp stakes. Across the frozen field saints like winter mist with nothing but faith (kind of there kind of not) observe the lunar landscape. A righteous man with a crossbow keeps his eyes peeled just in case. All those shadows laughing, howling like a pack of skinny wolves. God watching from a mason jar half full of dirty gasoline.
…
From the archives, slightly revised.
Dancing on Frozen Beaver Ponds 