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.

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

 

 

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C L U B R O O M

February 15, 2017

 

 

Wanda wanted a room

To tend to her wounds,

A room right

Door open to noirnight

Open enough not to catch her kite.

Her wounds would not be

Upon her face  facile to see.

Bruising blows  drubbing freedom

Inside, inside some

Clubroom.

..

 

 

 

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{to the rest of us that must  rest, too)

SKETCHY SANCTUARY

November 5, 2016

 

 

 

Some seem to see the floor of the sea

as a sketchy, yet effective sanctuary.

They’re thinking, I think, that it’s tucked away

good. &  Could be quite quiet.

Sure would be  you’d dream good there.

Sure, it goes that you must breathe much slower.

Sure,  bluegreen cracks for surface lightening.

But, You’ll see  that jeweled fishes,

Stilled  with  witness,

Flee at the softest flourish.

And bets are..sandbeds are busy with movement.

How can my dreams take when I’m floating awake?

FROM PROVIDENCE TO HALIFAX

August 11, 2016

When it’s come to

Coming to in a ditch  without bruises from a beating

& the new thorns are actual thorns

& not all metaphorical ones

All I knew then   I once was thinking

I’d drink my way from Providence to Halifax

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An  “attendant” was sure hell bent

On adjusting my posture

The arms that aimed to secure mine;

They’re hardly hair-free like hers was, were soft. freckled and warm.

Sacristies.

July 2, 2016

 

 

 

Toe heel  toe heel towards

Light in the woods

Right around  leaves, debris. Eyes downward.

I mean to  indianwalk  to the sacristy.

There,  Icon art  & artifice

May not or may marshall  my resources

To  may not or may dispel my discordance.

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I  just  could  crest  over  woods

O’er horizons

BREATHING EXERCISES

June 12, 2016

 

 

She won’t roll away & not watch me.

Y’see, I won’t  seem to take,

When I dream (or 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 that.

III.

When I get to go to the Gulf of Mexico

This one will disrobe & run so,

I’ll try out 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.

–   –   –   –   –

 

 

S P L A S H

May 15, 2016

 

flying things instinctively know

to dry out their wings, first,

to try out their wings, & go.

 

surfacing a splendid splash,

surviving a fearful fall and crash,

take time off  to dry off &

shake off the surprise of failure.

wake up  and walk off what,

and where you are

before  you forget to prepare for it

all  to dare

the first time,  again.

 

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.                                             (FROM 2009)

ANNUAL RENEWAL/ANCIENT PORCH

January 15, 2016

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Winter winds could

only find us cold

on our old

and ancient porch

perched high here in our new air

searching here through our new words

The latest launch on,

off this roof porch in

an old haunt,

this chilly sleepy village,

Off this nest

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(FROM A WAZE /& TODAZE/ ON HOLIDAZE/ G’ON GETAWAZE)

GETTING OFF ON HOLIDAY

September 2, 2015

Settling  into  some  rest

I’m sitting on my brother’s back deck

The setting is the Great Northwest

I’m betting I’d best be getting a call in

For the Jaws of Life to  rework   this wreck