April 14, 2017
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
Tho’ I’d heed less
March 13, 2017
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
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
February 24, 2017
Neruda’s “impalpable ash”
In the fray of my own tiny ruins.
“If I touch/ near the fire/
And supports the clearing away all
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.
(3 yrs back)
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)
January 13, 2017
1 ONE WINTER ADDITION
teachers to small children
the world over
pastors to parish
they all will tell the pretty truth
(aside the pretty lies, “pretty lies”)
that crystalline snowflakes
are unique. unique.
and maybe later in both
and sunday school classes
(and in all their varieties the world over)
small children might make snowflakes for themselves
they’ll fold lacy paper exactly in half
with a good crease
and taking their round-ended scissors
they’ll cut their very own unique cuts
so that when everyone unfolds their lacy paper
and lifts it above their heads
everyone can laugh at their uniquenesses
but one thing that ministers & mentors
rabbis & nuns will fail to add
is that those one-of-a-kind snowflakes
in their descent
on icy black currents
all their night fall
2 STILL, NOT STILL
It’s the coldest morning this year
And the Farmer’s Almanac says this year
There’s gonna be a winter of ’em
Me, I won’t mind
I like how loud the still is
forty years ago a brother from Chicago
called the cold wind
I wonder if it’s still true
I wonder if “that muthafuckin Hawk”
is still cursed & bundled against
in the only city cited for its big blow.
When island settings lose their place
When our mornings sun there
warms our skin, bare,
There’s these shade floral sanctuaries,
And, I’m betting, perfect for setting your eyes on…
God’s perfect line, one horizon.
When all won’t free you,
Won’t call you from all this freezing
Point of view,
This illusionary season,
(from a decade ago)
January 4, 2017
Unless these kisses
Fortuitous but for the most part,
Stay imaginary, yet not useless,
Stay & not start.
I will wear Hope’s
& will not fear openly for the most part,
Right in defining light/ Right off the shadow
Where cooly I coddle our heart.
November 11, 2016
“Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lovers. It’s like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of. One you haven’t seen in a long time…”
“.. A fond, old, faraway room?”
-from “Kafka On The Shore”, Hanuki Murakami
We mind that there mustn’t be dust
On those closed blinds.
Behind those blinds,
We find us.
We find ourselves salving
Our sore selves,
Saving us so
And after each chapter,
Which did us delirious,
It can be meant as some payment,
It can serve to defray..
It can’t save us, when in a night and a day,
without fail, We derail.
“I choose the rooms that I live in with care,
the windows are small and the walls almost bare,
there’s only one bed and there’s only one prayer;
I listen all night for your step on the stair”
Leonard Cohen,RIP, from “Tonight Will be Fine”
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?