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

 

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

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(unfinished)

B U R D E N S

May 18, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PETITIONS

“The blind man loves you with his eyes, the deaf man with his music.  The hospital, the battlefield, the torture room, serve you with numberless petitions. On this most ordinary night, so bearable, so plentiful in grave distractions, touch this worthless ink, this work of shame. Inform me from the great height of your beauty.”

-Leonard Cohen, “Petitions”, from Death Of A Ladies Man

 

 

 

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U N B U R D E N E D

One  way  to  be  unburdened

Might be   small talk, not hearsay,

A  Big-hearted  acumen,

Bare  arms,  &  mercy

F O R G E S

May 1, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with sea horn
where a night light works without warning
It forces & forges  the blackest  fog & forests
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
.
(from 2010)
.
.
.
.
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.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges

 

 

If I’d insist on playing the pacifist

(I’m maybe miscast)

I’d resist being all-too-willing

to killing time.

If I would want to resist the persistent praying

For my mercy, for all our mercy,

Inarticulate verses of mercy,

Maybe I’d want to take steps,

I’d want to take things into my own hands,

Maybe I’d want to take on the task

Of yanking my mask off,

Of thinking of thanking

myself more.

Tho’  I’d  heed  less

Jesus

N E W

March 13, 2017

i)

M  U  C  H

often it’s uncertain   to see,

to see the true things through,

but certainly sometime’s there’s time

when surely much of what’s new

when noticed might matter

to you or rather

to me

.

.                    ii)

.

D  U  E

I fear I forget that the frail,

nearly unable, but

when a whisper of   Will…

when they muster an incalculable

measure of  reach

to straighten, and lean up

for what’s due.

That’s alot to wait for

.

The Freshest thing in the clearing

by the pond’s sunk boat,

near a nest,  There’s this ringing

drop, possibly  just now dotting

one leaf,  left  just new

by all the dew

That’s what I wait for

 

IMPALPABLE

February 24, 2017

 

Neruda’s  impalpable ash”

Chants away/

In the fray of my own tiny ruins.

.

If I touch/ near the fire/

Impalpable ash..”

Chimes away/

And supports the clearing away  all

Insubstantial,

Makes way to take less blinding steps away

From  cave  to  climax

.

I’ve come to have left out

Crucial  rescue  tools

From my matutinal

Lost-combination  locked bag of tricks.

In touch  information.

Out

 

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(3 yrs back)

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)

AN AIR IN MIGHT MARSHES

January 28, 2017

 

 

The word on the street was repeatable.

That was then. Y’know, now  not so agreeable.

That word, that gist  in senseless sentences, that word

It just must be ignored.

.

The sleepy  air  slipping right through the reeds there,

The night marshes where nightmares Stay as seeds  there.

The song, that mist of music meant to soothe, yes, songs

That must not be ignored.

.

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

 

.

.

.

.

(2 YRS BACK)