The borders of the morning drape
Mere cashmere light around your wakening form,
While a supple sun on your mischievous smile plays
And blood oranges compete to make your mien their norm.
The grasping of artists chasing after their game
Trying to raise up Lazarus from the stone chips ideas leave,
Cobbling eyes to see what they feel but cannot name
In the palace of light and shadow your own eyes do weave.
Give me the hand tools of my own stumbling art
In the lengthening afternoon of my days
To turn the writhing branches of the word gardeners art
Into japanese wisteria blossoms of wonder in loves ways.
And yet, when our garden plan is unrolled for all to see
You, my love, are the smooth rock center of my own heart’s trinity.
Posted in poetry
Tagged poetry, sonnet
Calumny is a word that needs a refresh. Like a pair of socks that got kicked under the bed years ago, it just needs some love In the word washer.
Here goes. Take a public official,
say a senator from Oklahoma, put an electric money hose where he sits and connect the other end to Big Oil. Then put said senator at the head of the senate Environment committee and turn the hose full on.
Now you can make him say things like “climate change is a hoax” with a straight face while the seas rise around us and the skies roar with new found energy.
You sir, have given calumny new wings! Slandering scientists who would try to wake the money and power drunk captains on the Titanic is the pure essence of calumny distilled! Bravo! The word even sounds as greasy as your actions, like deep sea oil sludge on a dying sea bird.
Unfortunately, our senator washer is currently broken.Washing sea birds is far easier than washing oily senators.
It makes me happy to hear
that Pablo Neruda also wrote
a truck load of bad poems —
most of them great windy tributes
It’s like finding
a five dollar bill in an
old comic book from childhood
or opening an Almond Joy bar
and discovering an extra almond on top.
all wiggly inside.
walking along the river,
there is a quiet lifting,
as if the day
we’re happening here
and I was a visitor in both worlds.
Cormorants still hunt
from the driftwood snag in mid stream.
The sky road still fills and empties with planes
from the nearby airport,
and cars still trundle along below the levy
like weary office workers
circling the habitats
of their own slow river of days.
Yet here, in this moment,
is a kindness,
like a glimpse of a great wandering bird,
blue green and iridescent,
strayed from its normal flyway,
drawn down to the sound
of all of our heartbeats,
and looking for others
who are lost in the own way too.
I watched two golden eagles
above the reservoir this morning
as sticks of late winter sun
penciled light onto the water.
One tumbled end-over-end
like a drunken acrobat,
while the other chased it,
finally soaring away
to find a tree top
to fasten itself to.
On such days
when the sky glaciers break open
and eagles spill out,
the day seems heavy with news
and I cannot understand why
I waste my time seeking to read
the news elsewhere.
Do you come seeking a battle or a poem,
asked the old Irish border guards
of strangers in rattling raiment
on the darkest nights of the year.
Bronkowski says the same thing
on his tombstone: ”Don’t Try.”
Either go to your borders
with a well-sharpened sword,
and the songs that burn in you to sing them
or stay by the fire, stirring the pot
and scratching the dogs ears
until evening draws down
your own tired eyes.
Posted in poetry
A human head
dissolved by beetles
and their agents
until only the brain capillaries remain,
red wickerwork branches
in the stillest night on record.
Apricots no longer taste sweet.
Horses cannot be ridden at evening
and presents must be opened
by those in charge of all
Still, this glass box in this traveling road show
of skinned human bodies,
posed as skateboarders and divers
and manufactured into chests of drawers,
is the perfect place
to look out at humanity
walking by in a liquid rainbow of awe–
and see see what people
are really made of.