ALL RESPONSES |
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Bibamus, moriendum est.
Death's unavoidable; let's have a drink.
(Seneca the Elder)
Walk into a late-summer vineyard.
Do you hear clocks ticking?
Some go to work when the sun comes up
or hunt when stomachs are empty,
while memories, life's real measure,
accumulate with age, cultivated
on south-facing slopes. We pick them
bunch by bunch, dark purple grapes
to be crushed. Each drop swirls
until bottles fill again, with words,
with wine, with love. Is it time to live?
Now, let's bleed this bottle in communion. |
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In Ascent
My name is bird.
Here is my creed:
to fly, to glide, to hover,
to dip and wheel, to soar.
I change in light, from gleaming
silver to shadow to my wings’
born color of snow.
I move by light
--nest, rest, search--
and hunger--
eat, mate, search.
The night stills me.
Here is my comfort:
a deluge of light,
my feathers,
my wings at night.
My wings are my all,
my strength and my weakness.
My cry is my song.
I can’t tell where
comfort begins or ends.
It is everywhere--
in the rabbit’s gut,
in a cloud’s light,
in my wings.
I ascend and descend.
I light. I live.
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They don't fight it; don't think,
don't scream. Sense only enough
to pulse with the pull of the tide,
bump against a flapping sheet of air
and wonder. But no thrashing,
no grasping, when they are held
upside down with one strange
purple limb dangling
out of water, sun-bleached,
tatted in silver. Stellae Maris—
done to a turn for a sea-bird's dinner.
Swoop now, no more creeping.
Morph, soar on slipstreams of the joy wind
in stark white feathers, shrieking. |
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If the Tiber River should wash me away, let
it be with you. Let our bodies be blessed,
hallowed by each wave, swift & lithe. Shed of
clothing, we turn part fish, part frenzy.
With you, I want to be a part
of everything, want to be
elemental & untamed,
want to learn the ways
of recklessness
and water.
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for A candle, a hope in San Pietro
'Tis only by humble cherish
that I make my way to your fount.
The writhing of my essence in the hands that I clasp
make into this hollow of mine, a performance of grace.
The words of my confession, the trial of my days
lent to your forgiveness.
For you,
I shed myself of my flesh,
of my calling, of my sins
before your waters darkened by candlelight
to seek redemption
to ignite a purity
to deepen my bow
and fall to the within you.
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WINGS
Have you felt
your wings today?
The ones that bring your thoughts
where they blend with your dreams?
Have you felt
the breeze today?
The one that all of a sudden
caresses your heart
and it is time to go?
Have you inhaled
the scents today?
The ones
that smell of new places,
and make your eyes and soul
turn to look at new possibilities?
Is the wind
whispering the news
into your ears?
Did you see it
written on the wet sand?
Have you felt
your wings today? |
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-- for my father --
Whether in the shaking of hands
or the blink of an eye,
whether in a star’s
collapse, the kiss
or the turning away
from an unfinished life:
it happens so quickly.
There is no time.
My sons & daughters roll
in the sand, delighting,
handfuls hurled, in an afternoon
wherein the local
rhythm n blues station
plays in the distance
its take on music of the spheres.
The last day
does not come.
Across the known heaven
the sun will flow.
The moon will endure
to enlighten the fields.
What has not been done
will linger at the forest’s edge.
All will be well.
My 3-year-old lays
in the sand, intent. What,
I wonder, does he see
I do not?
Legs bound by a shoestring: at first,
it’s dead, I think.
I lift it by the knotted string,
not wanting to touch
the shattered feathers, to break
these thin bones. Child in arms,
how can I not
walk away? Later, I swear,
out of the shadows, I will return.
And he is there. Still. Soundless,
his eyes, adrift, finally,
to the back of his head, rolling,
do not move.
It is then I think of you,
and your life, and wonder
how like and unlike
your namesake you were,
how like and unlike
you I have become.
I’ve have wanted always to write
to the endless night
of your dying.
And now it is time.
My 3-year-old sleeps now,
on the porch swing dreaming
perhaps of eager flight
on unbroken wings forever
through a quiet afternoon.
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the wind moves behind you
but your feathers
still
as though placed in amber
thousands of years ago
no squabbling with the flock
down on the pier
your brother tears fibres
from muscles that are left out
baking spoiling their forever
and forever is not
not even in the sky
it is here and right now
right now I tell you
with an updraft helping me
stretch my wings past all
and learn to invite pleasure
instead of drowning in self pity
burning my coals hotter
learning to be a bird
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my father has learned the terrible secret
of walking himself on roads
for reasons known only to himself, he walks
for hours, mind filled with language--
slashed and fragmentary, certain cels seeping
in and out of his mind like old movie clips
he’s trying to reclaim and curl back:
a time filled with balloons, sliver pieces
of white icing sponge cake
& the sound of children’s shoes
ordinary days like the time
mother once purchased wind chimes,
soft music playing from her purse
what matters happens when father
is walking: blue sky,
a garden hose coiled in the shade,
the aroma of bread & Italian cheddar,
apple crust on the sill
the sound of the chimes,
and father walking himself
the soft music of mother’s chimes
playing in his mind |
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(after "Spen in Alium"
by Thomas Tallis)
The choir circles the gothic chapel
at the base of each arch a voice.
One, bell-like, begins the melody
another joins, then another
keeping the clarity of the round
gathering the ritual of a wave.
Thomas Tallis makes us hear
the hope in sounds that surround:
The sound of crickets scree-slide
over miles of air. I hear how my ears
ring for a moment in answer.
The four sounds of the ocean
wind, train, rain stick sift of water
through rock, and beneath it all
a singing.
Our wishes:
a candling in the dark;
the hope in the eye that loves
dolphins sun struck arc after
a long absence; air so clear
the ridge of Anacapa Island
is a neighbor’s open door;
or the deep knife edge of the world.
Nothing resembling a human
quarrel or warning voices.
Only a round.
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We are afraid to call it love,
but does it matter?
Dreams fill the bed we’ll never lay in.
Your skin, warm and real as a painting,
tells me no more of your memories
than the brightness of your tongue,
the way it flashes and beckons me
to taste its language. It’s not enough.
Your words, once everything, now
mean less than the lips from which they flew.
You see, the truth is in our eyes.
But does it matter?
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the parking lot seemed empty
from the bottom of the hill,
except for the ten or so seagulls
that hovered on the updrafts
from the tar and pavement.
I wondered why they had congregated
there—listened to their jeers.
as I climb the slope,
topping the rise,
I see a carcass lying on the asphalt
and a crow picking at it, slowly,
stately in its strutting around—
the seagulls mocking it
with raucous cries.
and the crow croaks in another language—
calmly cleaning up human nonchalance
killing. these two species of scavengers,
polar opposites of attitude,
one a jester and the other
a dark cloaked king, preside over death.
where royalty calmly says goodbye
to the remains of the day, eating the endings,
calm in temper, not afraid—
the other, stands back
as the odor of spent life fills the air.
and I am neither, just the wind,
passing by in vague language,
sure that I too will be carrion someday. |
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for A candle, a Hope in San Pietro
You do the things they say
will help. Make the prayers, light
the candles, wear a Santo on a
string around your neck, blest by a priest.
Cast stones enscripted with your fears
into the river. Stand still watching
sunsets, count the
steps to the center of the
labyrinth with each measured
breath. You can’t stop
the slow fusion of destiny with
you own skin and bones. There
is no way to foresee the joy
you might inherit as simply
as lying back on a blanket
to look up at the vast sky and there
is no way to foretell
the sorrow that will clamp
you shut. The walk to the center,
the days on the edge. The long gaze
into the fire—-how can you know.
Still you can’t stop the attempt
each time to find who you really
are and who you are becoming.
You light this candle in hope
and knowing, this is the way
home, this is the way.
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Clouds,
many pass over our days...
Hold me tight
Perhaps it won’t rain tomorrow.
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for A candle, a hope..
I struck a match and held it
to my face.
My hair curled up,
my eyebrows crawled away,
both eyes burned out, and finally
the spark
raced toward
the sack of powder at my heart.
So if you want to find me,
dig around the street
until you see
my stubbed-out end, and contemplate
those feet of clay—
the part that wouldn’t burn away.
And if you see a smudge against the sky,
wave goodbye. |
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for Colors on the island of Burano
They’re singing on the thoroughfare but we
loiter in an alley
almost too narrow to hold hands.
Yellow walls filled with hooks and sills
white grillwork over windows
a crooked turn where the stones
are oddly jammed together—
this is the closeness we are longing
to walk for. And when we stop to kiss
we gaze up at a narrow blue road, leading over the buildings. |
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for The Lovers
Sing, Goddess
she held me
to her hear
like sullen Achilles
my heel naked,
her tenderness
dissolving armor
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mid-august
leaves are turning
orange & yellow
intense summer heat
has kept me prisoner
too long
it’s overcast
& drizzling
i squirm
in my chair
like a five year old
longing for release
my legs beg to move
my lungs crave fresh air
my mother explains
my tomboyish ways
to my future daughter-in-law
the guys are building
a patio outdoors
mom’s best friend
drops in to flirt
with my husband
she tells me i have
skinny legs like my mother
my mind
refuses to concentrate
on frivolous conversation
i still want to go out
to play with the boys
& my sister’s dog
wants to go with me
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For A Tree Bent by the Wind
Crows appear daily on my lawn,
black gypsies foretelling bad omens.
A tree bent by wind hangs in obvious midlife crisis.
My polydactyl cat has learned to clench her fists.
Furious panting clouds drop liquid petals on barren earth,
anger softened by the long fall from sky.
The crooked stop sign at the end of my block
leans closer each day to soil in which it was planted.
Nightly I wake within hallowed-out dreams
only to fall into the hole now my middle age.
Most days, my mind is empty of all
except how to pay bills and find a job.
But a mind can fill up with emptiness
like moon hungering for darkness in which to hide
the way a rooted heart grows wild grief.
Too often, my mind drifts off
returning to a like rainy day in March
when I was consoled by late afternoon sun
breaking brightness through
the rain-shadowed hospital window,
charging the shrouded walls with light.
You were an angel sleeping in the feathery white
and the dust particles danced
to the quiet thunder in the room;
the last moment
of certainty in my world.
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Don’t remind me of things I tried to forget
looking back on life without love
the realization of what it really is
too late
Tears that never come, filling wells,
knowing what is possible between us
something beyond faith and science
but very real
It’s a sickness and a blessing
no one would ever ask for
but once tasted, a fruit
impossible to ignore
You touch me with eyes that know
and kiss me with your thoughts
So I turn my head away
to face you again
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for The Lovers
Dusk slow and systematic eases outlines
of medieval houses, overgrown terraces
generations carved out of hillsides,
farmworkers gone, fortified hill town
three cats in the square dripping Easter rain
look us over then march downhill
we will eat gnocchi with pesto paste,
and porcini mushrooms, buttery and fresh, but first
you turn to me as if you look for something lost
as if you want to say something not yet said
as if you want to touch me with a tenderness
that's new as we lean against the sloping wall
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for Composition
Sit.
Here is a chair waiting
below strange leaves.
Breathe.
Here is darkness
softened shapes
muted red blooms.
Touch.
Here are stones scattered.
Here is a statue
stepping from its pedestal
to grass and vines.
Stay.
Lean back on old iron.
Close your eyes.
Compose yourself. |
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Walking by an abandoned house
reminded me of how I felt when my life,
(the one as I had known it)
had fallen apart.
Here,
walls still stood with pride,
but where once windows perched,
now I see empty eye-sockets
unable to hide despair and decay
to the glances and glares of passersby,
or block entrance
to moody weather and wild animals.
I know the day you walked away
my heart had felt the same,
strangely empty.
Abandonment reigned within
while I waited to recollect myself.
When it all happened
I couldn't help asking myself
where to put our photos together
the ones neither of us wanted to take along
on their separate journey.
Or the letters and lists of things to do
piled up onto the ones of broken dreams
which together laid covered,
perhaps like in this place,
by the dust and excrement of time.
I push the wooden door
and see old suitcases left inside.
I remember yours filled for one
waiting on the front steps.
Something is locked in my throat,
chained, as this front door.
The home which once witnessed life
had been left to die.
I walk away in silence.
Behind me, inside,
I hear the fluttering of pigeon's wings
disturb the still air where once,
love
used to live.
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you spoke to me
(without words)
and shared
your sister heart
when fall first called
you flew away
with the finches
(who said nothing)
come spring
they'll return;
you, dear friend,
will not.
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Took a flight of clarity
On an August summer morn
There were clouds of knowledge
Hanging low
To chase with freedom born
Followed Earth's gentle curve
Above the arbor's trees
Saw the gardeners standing tall
While tending on their knees
Gliding to the eastern cliffs
I caught an upward draft
And felt Him ruffle feathers
I let go,
Let Him,
And laughed |
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