Tag Archives: Poetry

Sacred Moments

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

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Once, and only once,
I felt a swift beauty–
A flutter, a whisper of wing
Against my bare arm.
I sat alone, encircled
By sunshine and cigar,
The beating of wing upon skin
And the bird, no bigger
Than a honey bee, a butterfly–
A hummingbird mistaken of me,
As I of him.
He danced, suspended,
Hovered over white petunias
Like spirit, or all of spirit
I wanted to know:
No maxims, no morals,
Only something as profound
As God, as miraculous,
As if he’d spoken,
Or moved the pencil
I’d dared him to move.
I sat for a while, still,
Hoping he would come again.
He didn’t.
Because that’s life, isn’t it?
An eternal flight of song–
A brief touch of this or that thing,
Sacred moments–
Out of our control.

A World That Killed John Lennon

09 Wednesday Jul 2014

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Everyday, I try to find peace
In a world that killed Lennon;
Not only peace, but poetry.
The skies are open here, broken
Only by straggly stands of Ponderosa,
And, from my place on this earth
I can see the Red Tails hunting
Over the fields, and two crows
Gathering at the barn, for what—
To eat something that’s dead there?
Or, the thing I choose to believe,
A kindred reconnection of souls.
Today, I don’t want to know
The truth. It’s too hot.
Almost 100 degrees and much of what
Was on the verge of madness,
Has gone wholly to madness.
A husband entered a building, killed his wife.
Another man admitted doing the same
Only a short drive away.
Israel is at war, again, with Hamas,
As I sit and read The Atlantic, contemplating
The creative, communal genius of rock stars.
And, trying to find peace in a world
That shot John Lennon four times In the back.

The Mystery of Trees, Cats, Crows & Coyotes

06 Sunday Jul 2014

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When our black cat lay dead

at the foot of the crooked mailbox,

her sister circled nearby in the trees.

Three days later, she too was gone.

I thought I’d heard before,

cats will disappear

when someone dies.

Often, in trees near our house,

we see hawks, hear crows,

sometimes, they fight.

There is a madness in the trees;

it resembles our own madness.

Like the funerals of crows,

their gathering in trees,

their communal mourning,

their many scold calls.

Have you heard them?

They go on like that

over their dead.

Coyotes also gather in sound;

their howls manic and frantic,

the way we imagine demons,

if there were demons.

There is a place in the trees

where everything disappears:

cats, crows, even coyotes.

It’s a dark mystery we dream,

the sounds coming to us on wind,

through lonely skies,

and brutal, beautiful trees.

The Most Beautiful Thing: The Barn Sparrow

13 Friday Jun 2014

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There is a barn sparrow

Who continually sings

One clear note.

I hear him every day

Above all the other bird sound:

From the deck of the house,

From the garden,

From the dirt road.

And, below where he sits on the fence,

Two cats criss-cross

Back and forth, leaving the barn,

Returning to the barn,

One half-hearted jump

From the beautiful singing boy.

But that’s not the most beautiful thing,

This is: He sings to lure us away

From their nest inside,

Built into a light socket above a stall,

A nest filled with the newly hatched,

And their mama tucked with them,

Her protective wing wrapped round,

Keeping them hushed.

I wanted to tell him I knew,

That I saw him flying away from it,

Landing on one wall,

Then the next, and the next,

Singing and tempting me slowly

To the outside fence,

But when I got close enough,

He flew away,

And when I followed,

He flew even further,

Until I was so far from the barn,

I was no longer a threat.

He gave me one last look as he perched,

Tipping with the wind,

On a scraggly branch of Toadflax,

Then he flew back to his fence post,

And continued his song.

 

 

 

 

 

The Barn at Night

22 Tuesday Apr 2014

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Have you ever felt the quiet,

A sundown that steadies your bones?

I stood for a moment as the horses ate grain,

Big, bold geldings as gentle as whispers,

As noble as gods:

Old Red, his eyes blurred with cataracts,

My horse, the orphaned-pinto,

His breath always in my hands,

And the arthritic gray herd leader,

Now totally white with age.

Some people hope for castles,

As for heaven, I’d prefer a barn.

Chasing Birds

03 Thursday Apr 2014

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Every spring,

when the birds come back,

the cats disappear,

and I wonder if they’re dead,

or gone wild,

chasing magpies and robins

until they’re so far from home

they either don’t know,

or don’t care to return.

There are cats

who come back to me in dreams,

and I wonder if it means they’re alive.

There are theories of dreams,

that they’re infinite

pieces of our perceptions,

some hidden, some obvious,

but jumbled together as we sleep

and experience sweet things

we never thought we knew,

or horror we didn’t know

we could imagine.

Often, I wonder which is real,

if the cats in my dreams

are as much themselves

as any of us living can be,

and, if we are all,

always chasing birds, 

wandering further and further

from some home.

 

 

 

 

Waiting for Safety

07 Friday Mar 2014

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Sometimes, all you can do

Is wait for safety,

Theirs or yours,

it’s hard to know,

You’re so utterly bound together,

You can hardly breathe.

Sometimes, all you can do

Is wait for safety,

Counting the geese overhead,

Rather than the minutes,

Counting the cups of coffee you’ve had,

Rather than the minutes.

They say you’re never given

More than you can handle,

But I wonder if it’s true.

Sometimes, love

Really can kill you.

Requiem for Johnny Cash & June Carter, Ring of Fire

27 Thursday Feb 2014

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The taste of love is sweet
When hearts like ours meet.

—-June Carter to Johnny Cash in the song, Ring of Fire.

 

Who’s to say what love is,

Or what it should be,

Or who can love who?

Isn’t it enough to want so deeply

You never stop wanting?

When that very love takes you

To the outer-edge of your ages,

Together still,

When it takes you, even, to the edge of death,

Together still,

In your mutual frailty, buoyed

and bound by your wild desire.

I think, only then can love

Be a thing of true beauty,

When it ventures out

And suspends itself upon the precipice,

And claims for itself,

In a rare moment of honesty,

And courage,

What it truly needs.

Meditation: Three Recitations on Forgiveness

19 Wednesday Feb 2014

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1

Breathe deeply and directly

Into your heart

And consider

how you’ve hurt others,

Betrayed

or abandoned them.

Remember the sorrows

You carry from hurting,

Because we all do,

Betray, abandon, make weep,

And shred each others souls.

I remember now,

and feel in my body

These sorrows I carry

And ask forgiveness.

2

Breathe deeply and directly

Into your heart

And consider

how you’ve hurt yourself,

Betrayed,

or abandoned, your deepest self.

Remember the sorrows

You carry from hurting,

Because we all do,

Betray, abandon, make weep

And shred our own souls.

I remember now

and feel in my body

These sorrows I carry,

And I forgive.

3

Breathe deeply and directly

Into your heart

And consider

how others have hurt you,

Betrayed

or abandoned you.

Remember the sorrows

You carry from being hurt,

Because everyone does,

Betray, abandon, make weep

And, sometimes, shred our souls.

I remember now,

and feel in my body

These sorrows I carry,

And I forgive.

Waiting for Crocus

17 Monday Feb 2014

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Crocus,

When will your tender leaves pierce the snow,

Petals tight as arrowheads?

I remember you white against rocks,

I remember you standing bravely against snow,

Not as tall as the droop of a Snowdrop,

But more profuse, more stunning;

You came in purple and white and pink.

Buried, you’re probably starting to tremble,

With the excitement of our first warm days,

Brief breaks of winter’s harsh winds,

Winds, which can’t break you

(And maybe me either?)

You army of self-determined survival,

You harbinger of rebirth and resurrection,

I know you’re starting to wake, I have faith,

And I tremble, too, with anticipation.

My hope: What’s dead in me will rise with you,

An army of crocus leading the way.

Inspired

12 Wednesday Feb 2014

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It doesn’t interest me

what your opinions are,

Or your opinions about opinions;

Tell me, instead, what can be.

Tell me what makes you want to sing,

Or cry, or scream,

But don’t worry how you say it.

Sometimes the precise word

Really is fuckin’,

like That fuckin’ ice we’re all gonna get killed on.

It doesn’t interest me

who you think you should be,

I want to know who you really are;

I have a suspicion

I may be that person, too.

I’m not interested in your perfection,

Tell me what’s wrong with you,

And let us both feel the glory of want,

The hopelessness that’s cured

By wanting hope,

The faithlessness that’s cured

By wanting faith,

The lovelessness that’s cured

By wanting love,

The loneliness that’s cured

by seeing each other’s true, laid-out-souls

Bared, yes, vulnerable, yes

But invincible, too.

 

A Few Fine Dots

07 Friday Feb 2014

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As we look back,

Seems our lives were squandered,

Except a few fine dots

Spread through memory,

Those rare moments

We were as we should be.

We think what could have been

Had we been our better selves more often,

Understood the value of time;

Time, that passes first

Not fast enough to get past our lack.

Time, we think, moves too slowly

Then later, we think, too fast, too fast

And try to slow it by observation:

     The smell of summer mornings,

     The smell of the Memorial Rose,

     The smell of Thyme, and Rosemary, and Pine,

     The smell of sex,

     The smell of our babies,

     And our children’s babies,

     And theirs.

And sounds, sounds, sounds

We begin to name them

Saying, that was the Great Horned Owl,

Becoming more and more like Adam,

More and more creators and sustainers,

More appreciative

Of this beautiful, dank earth

Even as our time on it

Comes close to its end:

Its suffering; its need; its joy,

And the never-ending-fear

That keeps our lives confined

To a few fine dots

And infinite regret.

Alla Turca, A Love Affair With Mozart

25 Saturday Jan 2014

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About playing it wrong: each incorrect move you integrate takes ten times the amount of practice to unlearn.  

For Mozart,

Whose music is to the fingers,

Like tongue-twisters to the tongue,

If you’ll accept his offer to dance,

You must learn the steps.

Teach yourself to surrender

As he leads you

From andante to allegretto,

Pushing you away,

Pulling you back to him,

Twirling you round and round

Until you’re dizzy;

You must unlearn everything,

Even walking,

In order to dance.

You’ll wonder if you can,

If it’s possible,

But you’ll love his way,

And want it.

After a time,

You’ll be ready to quit

But do two moves,

Simultaneously,

Then a string of moves,

Then another string.

And finally, believe you’re learning.

You’ll want to dance more, and more,

To prove it to him,

And yourself.

So, you’ll dance

‘Til you’re exhausted,

And laughing,

And, so thoroughly in love,

The only thing you can do after

Is relax in your favorite chair,

Light a cigar,

Watch the day drift by

In snow,

and the memory of song.

A Dead Baby

17 Friday Jan 2014

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He said he killed his baby,

His own thirteen month old boy.

Of course, it was an accident

And, he tries to say,

His faith has helped him,

Though he’s clearly avoiding my eyes.

I say it’s our worst fear

And how many times it almost happened:

My own baby accidentally left in a hot car,

My own child run-away down a busy road.

So close, and yet, mine still live.

There but for the Grace of God, I say.

And, I don’t understand

Why people choose to bring sorrow

Into a world where sorrow finds them.

We’re all just a tick away from tragedy.

He agrees, says he’s had enough

These last three years of mourning.

There’ll never be a day he doesn’t see

His child run-over.

There’ll never be a day he doesn’t want

Another chance to stop the car

He says, there must be a reason.

For him, I surely hope there is,

And so, I agree.

Second Wife

10 Friday Jan 2014

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I look for her in the mirror.

How many times have I seen

Alice in black and white:

Spectacles perched above her nose,

Blonde hair pulled back,

Features as tiny as her waist.

The simple lace wedding dress

Gathers tightly there—

Think bound

Think trapped.

When she died, her stepchildren

Wanted to tear it apart for fabric,

But somehow it floated down to us

On wings as fragile as dead butterfly’s,

Or old bones in Cochise sand.

I don’t see Alice Martha Goldie,

His young English bride,

Not in my eyes, my hair,

Nose, cheeks, or chin,

Not even the waist,

In only this:

Second wife,

A woman in an unmarked grave,

Orphans, and a wedding dress

As thin as air.

alice martha goldie wedding dress from 1910

Winter-Driven Gods

22 Sunday Dec 2013

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Who deserves the gold of the stripped willow,

Or the absolute stillness of fog upon snow?

Who deserves the overhead flight of geese,

The way their honking helps spirit take flight?

Who deserves to be the one not killed

In the five car wreck on I-90 just yesterday,

The first day of the first real storm we’ve had?

I don’t understand why I was able to run

Heat-drenched and naked

Into the snow under stars,

Wave my arms and legs through powder

Flying like a ground-driven angel

Sent by some winter-driven god.

We plunged back into the tub,

Passed happy dogs wagging tails,

Caught up in the joy of seeing humans

Act like they would, were they human,

We felt the glorious sting and stab

Of hot water upon closed pores,

a calculated game,

To revel in being alive, to pretend,

For a moment, we control it.

It’s a curious thing, grace,

Every second we breathe

Our bodies are bathed in it.