No Strings

From every angle
there is retreat
many more will follow

and that silence
you've struggled
to complete, will finally

gather
all that you
have gathered.

A good opinion
is to touch
the worthy things,

the beautiful things
and rather than
seduce or claim them-

let them
understand you,
give them ease

to be what they
were meant
to be...

despite you.

Odyssey

There was never a story
that begins: float down hungry

In a white light strumming, the skin,
a photo of a flower: a deformed wing

And then- tremulous shine, mirrors,
bursts of bright: where I was born

For years, the finest threads unraveled
long and brilliant: the body flickering

Every cell, each organ kept its faith,
punishing the mind: fear of sleeping

We close our eyes and listen to the tears,
our mother's speaking: what waits for us?

Distanced between the price of love
and what a man keeps: the place of prayers

The elemental promise of the words- touch,
gather, wanting, holding: odyssey

In Memory of Dusk

It was dusk,
not dawn,

that died-

small, dark
deformed

and hungry.

Savant

In this world, this wisdom
(have you understood?)

I climbed a stream
and swam a hill

while this planet, an old
and silvered teacher

whispered-
fool!

Always, the blind
(do stars have eyes?)

crawl across
the blackened ground

without the sense
of light or sound

and find
the rose...

murmur
in its petaled ear

"because
I can".

Conversations with the Soul

Not far (as if distance
discourages us) my own

private altar where
the soul studies most

wonderous things
(in order of significance)

being there, the meaning
of ( ------------ ),

the importance lent
to ( -----),

the desire of ( ---------)
and how it's borrowed

from ( ------)
the purpose of (---------),

and lastly, this ( ------).

My GOD!

it's full of
emptiness!

Judas Kiss

Is there
but one love,

a solitary flower,
a single sunset?

I have not thought
of you often-

at least,
not once.

Unescorted

I watch
two hawks
wing down

entwisted- how?

Each claw
a vein.

You cannot think
I am in danger

now...

the skies
do not possess
me.

Natural Conclusions

The perseverance
of the vine, the pure

intentions of the light
that guide its journey

upwards...

the lasting silence
of the cliffs,

the sleeping sea

and all its sacred
memories-

what are we

compared to rocks
and mountains?

Within Us

If I had ever learned modesty
(here, a mention of the hills
crowned with sun) I would have

known the contrite nature
of settled stones; their solemn,
grey and steadfast eyes.

But I, without a graceful fear,
find solace in the handsome rose,
glory in its proud, beguiling pose

or sunsets with their blood-filled
mouths, purple-silvered ladder-ed
light that climbs inside us.

We can be at no loss for words
that justify our dull and tired flesh,
confirms our ceaseless homage,

while in the duty of the night,
hands that fold and glances fall
must not deny that beauty lies

within us.

The Humble Poetic

Turned, this stick
into a mast. There is

no need to question
the poet-

the sails of ships
are seldom seen

but heard...

what lies beneath
a woman's skirt

does not betray
what beats

beneath the bone-

the muscles
of her heart.

The splendid peacock
prances through the yard

in search of
praise;

the small brown
sparrow builds

a sturdy nest

and secretly
lays its eggs

and I
shall be just

as purposed
and reliant.

The Parlour's Light (unfinished draft)

Pale, blue-white
yellow-ribboned
mountained sky

my heart
wakes up like

this:

lighter than
the shocking black

beaded
thrush's eye,

the long, spliced
coat of meadowed

morning,

the fair-haired
wheatened barely,

the sheen
of green-robed

parlours,

the graceful
colored swirl

of cloud-

medieval
as the ornate glow

of shifting
light.

Wildly Steady

In a clear moment
you madly

rush in...

planets spin
less

wildly.

To make a storm
you stir

a wind;

your sudden
flame

like lightening.

And my own
long, unwavering

days
of silence

steady.

The "Rushing" Sound

We build the house
that leans

towards its destruction.

We turn the ear
that listens

to its lumber
creaking.

If silence is the Word
of God, what sound

is suffering?

What mother sings
when soldiers

fall? Whose emptied

arms explain
this hollow

feeling?

When a child
learns to speak,

a voice

weighs nothing.

When a bird
learns to fly

it understands
the gravity

of bone,

the sanctity
of thresholds-

rising
and falling,

living
and ceasing,

fearing
and abiding

the rushing
sound...

the circumstantial
heaviness

of its own
wing.

Entropy of Thought

You won't find solace
here

at the bottom

of a cask
or a soot-filled

heart

but in
the sober

night

a tiny
fleck of vision

extracts
itself from

living-

forms
pattern

in the chaos.

Voice of the Dog (in Rain)

It says many things "the wind
is wet, the food is gone,

I'm chained- release me."

There is nothing like forlorn
as it moves through night

cracking like a whip.

When we were born
the darkness asked,

"what form, which vessel,
what seed, this flower?"

How carefully we live
escaping knowledge,

learning how to gallop
when the fences

fall apart.

From a distant yard,
a voice repeats its sorrow

tonight, in tongues
like water

as the rain
pours down.

Reflection

In a moment,
the river robed

in cloud,

a small bird
dives into

a deceitful
ending.

Yet, the Spring

Memory traps
the grim; the net-

long night,
winter wind.

Powerful how
we're punished-

a short hallway,
the failing day.

It's no light thing
to hesitate, to linger

when the snow
is melting.

These mortal fields,
this "tapping" on my window,

the dark moored boat,
the tethered dreams-

and yet, and yet
the spring.

The Precision of Leaving

There are places less significant
than this: gnarled trees,

the barn with the face of an old man
carved in its slates, the stagnant

black well. There were seasons
stacked like fields, rounded

haybails left out to dry,
the berry bush tangled

in weeds; each red fruit
choking. We gathered them

thinking of mulberry seeds
and imagined the pie.

There are reasons for leaving-
when the snow came down

grey ducks would fly
in V's precise as decision,

the pond still and mourning
in the farmer-child's eye.

The Art of Watching

Sometimes, seeing
thinks clearly, knowing-

across a field she watches
the sleek-feathered crows

each dark shape strutting
divergent, unplanned roads

picking purple-red beetles
from the dug-up snow

as the brown-hooded hawk
circles down.

Comfort

The wolf
curls its body

into a fist

of sleep.

The Window's Light

When we look in
from the dark,
the window's light
is cruel; when a body

becomes transparent
as leaf veins held
against a glowing sky
and struck by its beauty...

we sacrifice
our hidden
future.

Who shuts out
the cold by dying?
Who feeds the mind
with grains of night?

If our weight
becomes the same
as thunder, as infinite
as the shadowed hills,

if we look away
from suicidal stars,
the burning arc
of nature's will-

we come away
with nothing.

Haiku Exercise....

He slept-
the black shape
outside his window
kissed him.

In bare feet
the sands
danced
in the moonlight.

The sky spilled
out of its cup,
fell into
the sea.

The night's
terrible hand
plucked down
the stars

and tasted
them.

Dreamer

First cold-pressed
new moon,

the madame moth
to be discovered

in the quiet meadow-

the room
where I am sleeping.

The glass eye
blooms

like water-

the shape of drowning.

Even as my body
dreams

my tongue seeks
for flavor,

the sweetness
of these depths...

the fluid
downward

movement of
the dreamer.

Pity

Joined at the hip, the minutes
and hours, the time it takes

for a hair to split
two worlds-

your mouth,
my skin; to peel

the beautiful, swirling
reels of rose

from its golden
stamen.

I prefer to write:
"there is no pity

in these wrists, no
counting measure

for these bones
growing together,

no perfect solemn
covenant of duty-

just moments
without their secrets".

Sunset

White moves-
burns
the egret.

Flame
colored
wing.

Iris orange
eyes.

Tiger-lily
sky.