Sirens (draft)

Fore-warned, of sails
aflutter, fluttering.
Hurry! the river,
its sleepless flesh,

directionless,

must find
the water's edge.

Of accent, ocean's
clear,symbolic voice,
a moon,a sunken ship,
a tomb and this-

who can bear
my sadness?

Sea-hair roped,
bone-colored
wood,yellowed ash
of marigold and wind

the strength
of bulls,

spiraling wings
of feathered foam,
the bright, blue
darkness

that sings like
Phorcys daughters

calls you home.

The Rock

The sands lie down;
a towering rock
the darkness of a house

becomes my heart
in the cradle of sea.

A great hand or
some will against
my own is pulling,

cracking, crushing
bones like an axe

against a tree.

Wind, the ghosts
of sky, the endless tide-
keepers of a thousand

miles above, around me
show little sympathy

for a mountain's child.

These veins within
the stone, the heat
that melts to foam,

break the waves
that haunt me...

assure that I remain
a standing force,
though, separate from

the distant shore
that owns me.

Anamnesis

What you remember
your remembering-

the wake
of a plough

churning
clay fields,

seeds slipped
sequentially

in rows; further
down still...

cool of
the worm

shifting
the soil,

releasing
the fever

of a fiery
core.

The Hunter's Wife

A woman's chore
is to mend
the clothes
and scrub them
clean; the men
carve the hunted

beast

cleaving it
joist to joist.

A dress I make,
the world I sew
button to hem
like eyelids,
like a perfect
voice

I sing

of splitting seams,
of removing pins.

Between the eyes
of mountains, the hips
of hills, the deer
move graciously then
disappear; the hunters'
aim loosened, torn

like stitches
I have pulled.

The Frozen Woods

I do not move
as often as I should,
snow-laden gate
that bends-
a shattered ray
through water.

To be silent,
or transfixed,
a lesson in loss;
a wall of fog
broken, dispersed
like spoiled milk.

I know what terrifies
the screeching owl,
the shadowed wolves-
stillness of
the frozen woods

and when the breath
of mist and rain
becomes uneven,
labored in
the chill

grey mountains
lay as quiet
as they should.

The Abacus

Breach the interrupted span
come down, shaken...on guard.
A number not unlike a name
is written on the bedframe-

counting each quill wilting
from the shoulder's ridge.

Higher up the ceiling
a flaw- a moth painted
into the flat faux universe
that the landlord built

a reminder: your wings
will not secure escape.

In the evening when
vision surpasses vision
quiet, crisp, clear as
Medusa's face; fixes stars

in their tracks, bends back
light in unatural horror;

the neighbor upstairs
pounding nails into walls
as if to barricade night
outside in its cage-

a reminder of counting
the stages of dying,

each withering quill,
every wasted breath
or nail. You lie still,
memorize the numbers

tatooed on the wood...
the score of feathers

fallen.

Care, Caution, and Good Judgment (Skipping Stone)

Carefully choose
the even, faceless stone;

study the middle of its weight
train between the wrist and hip,

determine the narrow space
of a skies jaw bone, how

to feed it.

Consider the balanced wave
the fidelity of its surface,

then

throw like hell.

Drowning In

... the weight of water,
algaed pillars of a moor,
a finger torn to bone;

a boy diving in the lake
touching the bellies
of wood-ribbed boats,

his small hand
anchored there-
a misplaced ghost.

A turquoise ring,
the skeleton of a dog
grown out of shore-

what's left of its hair
matted and soft
and the smell of sea.

A Version of Repair

I would say to you
without a spur of panic
"My effort is a useless page,
a cracked and leaking cup,

a leveled synagogue".

All day I read the clamor
of glamorous things, a version
of contemporary dancing, words
formed like wings and fury,

ecstatic bodies where

the young, loud princes
compete for immortality,
the most precious winnings-
the multi-colored coat

of fame and season.

In a million years my words
will count for this: a seat
on the whitest horse, a silver coin,
reconciliation, a clear voice-

a ticket for repair.

In the corner of the page
a captive monkey stares;
in a forest fire there is
no time for speaking-

so I prepare a new,
unspoiled manuscript.

Diving Deep

For eight
and a half

minutes

it is impossible
to hold your breath-

my life
is like

that

some times.

The Oyster

The day is my shell;
don't rush me.

Here is where
the pearl is born,

tendered exactly.

A speck of reason
is worth far more

than a towering
giant...

how you overshadow
the small things
I examine

My mouth is filled
with promise,

my throat, a vessel
of strong feeling

and when I
smile the world

becomes
a moon.

My Inheritance

In an instant, a mind
is set on fire-
everywhere is
meaning.

Today, half the world
was born,the other half
is leaving. When did we
become so restless?

I give to you
a music box, a clock,
a book of singing,
an undiscovered country,

the untouched sunset,
a gold and perfect dawn.

I will take from you
an honest eye,
an uncertain identity,
a refugees story,

your well-earned
and damaged religion-
a lamp you have not yet lit
that will make my heart

a flame.

The Dark Eye

The night
has slain
many a man

because
he searched

for beauty
in the darkness

and could not
find it.

Earth Shadow

Not even one
unlikely stream
of moving light
will pass over my eyes
unrecognized...

my knowing, my blessed
barely mornings
will not survive
or outlast me.

Through the night
I carry a handful
of stones; carefully
buried in shadow-

they bloom.

Draft

In a language
I can hardly speak,

this strange voice
in my own foreign ear

the harmony of
the cedars' leaves

with gently parted
fluted mouths

give up their
secrets: here is

where the river
finally met

the sea
and disappeared,

a darker story,
still the willows

wait there
where it's heart

had lastly
beat

Incubus

I fear
there is

no reason
to be

unhappy...

why do I
endure it?

Could You Walk Less Loudly?

Can a poet
have a conversation

without thinking?...

muffle the sound
of footsteps

that walk
so far ahead

or follow
so close

behind him?

If I Were A Carpenter

This woman,
the tower

of a natural
wood-

unique
and mortal as

the hands that
designed it.

In this life
we build

many things;
everyday

a blueprint
of infinity-

a house without
a single, fastened door,

a bridge
to a garden

with a thousand
singing birds-

where light
becomes a child

runs
freely

between the roses
and the hours

that eventually
reduce

our best-planned
dreams

to finely,
scattered dust.

A Wilde Rendition

Life is too short
to miss

dancing
with

the wolves.

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.