OF FINAL NIGHTS

July 16, 2017

 

 

 

The taste of  spray,

Back splayed against the lighthouse wall,

Is saltier/ The roar of  final nights

Saddled on sea wall gusts

Is Fiercer/ When strength one requires

To withstand and understand  such threats

Is steadier/ The beacon’s cliff path

Is grounds for  light/

.

.

.

.

.

(from 2011)

 

Advertisements

OK  I hate that “soulmate” is a fowl cultural cliche’

But it likely could be lifeblood, & have a saving Grace,

But  a  burndon

when things go wrong

And one  one can barely live with

A burndon  one can hardly lay with,

Stay with   when things go wrong

When a soulmate might come  to separate some

Then a burndon  might act up some

might oh might

Just combust some

 

 

BREATHING EXERCISES

June 29, 2017

 

 

I.

She won’t roll away & not watch me.

Y’see, I won’t  seem to take,

When I dream (or I wake).

to take  another breath  before

The scene fades, before

lights go up

then down  to more of a zoom.

She waits in our bedroom for me to resume.

II.

We went to go to a yoga class.

Where a barefooted, hairpleated group leader;

beautiful, and calmer than a

merciful last coma,

She insisted that our deep breath is

the gist of all of it  (within, & out).

We rearrange the short & tall of it.

The Gist to change the depth, see,

of our sea of possibillity.

When we inhale

we rememorize  our own gods.

We exhale our hell.  barefoot.  on a mat.

Whew. To all that.

III.

When I get to go to the Gulf of Mexico

I’ll try out  into the drink,  1st thing.

I’ll try not to think when I try to let go

&  sink when I deadman’s float all day,

into what I think of as a spiritual drift, in a way.

I’ll hold onto my breath,

face down,

head down.

 

Muscles Quip

June 26, 2017

I confess

My prowess is

To wait & to watch &

To wit  if fate slips me a quip

Take a sip & reassess then readdress

The matter  no later than  now

 

Fragments On Lofty

June 23, 2017

 

 

It’s not been my story  to take inventory/

It’s  I can’t even   scare up  scant worry

About what I have, About what I would want/

I suppose  I could pose  but I can’t/

It’s  said/

“An  unexamined  life

Is  good  as  dead.”/

I said/

I’m a body afloat, solid thoughts go float too, y’know/

Lofty thoughts  not  caught  can ride

On both tides  High and low/

I’d deny having lied, but replied.

.

.

.

.

.

.                                                                                                           (years & years back)

STILL FOR NOW

June 20, 2017

I imagine one magpie, done with one sky,

Still for now   might start right off balancing  on a line or a limb.

Not addled  by unfair air current.  Past  its  bends.

More fast..characteristically,

Intrinsically, instinctually…

Beating,  feet & hands down,

The land’s own  teetering friends.

.

.

.

“I’m a bird, not an ornithologist”  Barnett Newman, painter

 

 

from Dark

June 14, 2017

I’ll start.  It’s so dark you’ll know

Your thefts of thoughts

There  left to grow

Then grabbed!

Black  blossoms

Profuse

Still proceeding from its seeds  plus

Silence, from its silence.

.

.

Upon  a  pond

Where big calm mists meet surfaces

Water bug clouds  dance down aways

And I stand to see through tree trances

This moon is broken enough to lend to substance

For  near and far bearings,  distances,

And  at first. existences.

.

I swear here’s where the strings swell in

 

OUTFITTINGS

June 8, 2017

Some beers and some whiskeys for chores, and morning correspondence.

Soon, off for driver’s licence and all the taxes they’ve attached to it.

I want my immigrant outfittings,

Rosewater holds my hair.

Legal photos are important these days.

Though no great grandchild will glimpse at me and try to recall all

I’ve maybe wondered.

 

IF I MINDED

June 7, 2017

I’ve been biding my live time

My trivial “real”-life trials

All the challanges this chuff can ignore

All the more he might’ve  imagined

If i minded any more

For somehow here  and not

For somewhere not

PRE-POETRY

May 31, 2017

Foraging is one way we fauna

Have found purpose in all this breathing

We’ll search, and trust that sustenance

Will surface to topsoil in time for reverence

.

.

.

 

 

(unfinished)