ALL RESPONSES |
| --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I’ve held back my words so many times that my capillaries are calloused on my tongue. Ground down the fillings on my back molars, milling whether or not to say anything. I’ve fretted away my nails with front incisors till my finger tips bled, dying my chewed nails like matte polish.
At every family gathering, at the Andersons, Uncle Forbort told me to stomach it all, swallow my swells of thought, bury my passion. With his stone face he told me that if I kept grinding my teeth he’d have to whittle me false teeth like Washington had, carved out of maple or cherry wood. At first, I thought it was a joke but Forbort never laughed–chiseled chin never yielded a grin, ever.
Now, when I think of all the Forborts and Andersons in my family I want to rip up my ancestry by the roots–an old, dying, diseased elm tree. I’d tear out that tree, stump and all with axe and hand and tooth if need be, leave nothing but a small pit where a sad, stoic tree used to be.
I will plant a seed the size of a guava heart, throw in a molding lye-soaked fish for fertilizer. I know it will grow, blossom flowers, bear orange and yellow fruit. This tree is mine, my new lineage. I will dance around the trunk, praise the boughs, smell the sweet new fragrance, hold the tiny new fruit gently in my hands.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Roots,
caught in final conflict
for earth and water,
antlers clashing
on the riverbank
overlooking the Red.
Bones,
the last flood
cleaning away
the flesh bark,
summer sun
bleaching tusks
once umber. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
None of that was expected:
I raced down the road, on a bike I never had
barely breathing, chasing the elusive moon crossing the street
with colors of eclipse. I wanted to stop it from moving. I knew
you wanted it, as much as birch bark wants rain; as desperately
as the visions of home for the spawning coho.
I had read it in a book, briefly before that,
in a library of hopeful poets
that eyes glow brighter than gold
upon the arrival of desire. I trusted
one thousand years, the words of poets: Neruda,
Marquez, Cummings; the ones who knew better than I did then.
I called in for flowers - the exact ones I etched into the skin of my shoulder: irises, the orchids of colder springs, the ones not quite coveted by collectors.
I, bought those purple irises for you
because you brought the chances back, as Spring always does;
because I could only imagine the smell of your skin on their petals.
You answered by placing your finger on their bearded tips.
None of that was expected, none as often seen;
When you parted the seas, the liquor of your words drew the roads for me.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Years from now our roots will
tell stories
like the time the dentist tilted
a child’s mouth agape saying,
“i see the moon in the back
of your throat”
And the child went home
and looked and this is what
he saw:
silver fish dreams making
their way out into his life
toward stars named after
creatures and heroes,
the velocity of his heart
speeding, the sun waiting
for its turn in his life.
The child knows the man
in the moon doesn’t really
exist, he sleeps knowing
there was a first man,
a small man, somewhere
in the cliffs painting his
own creation for generations
to discover.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
A small girl the color of coffee with cream
approaches the sandbox at Hyde Park
stoops, slowly, gently, with her index finger,
touches the sand. This is how you do it,
her brother says, barefoot, as he skips
bird-like through it.
Here in London, I do not feel like sand,
smooth and soft, more like the wind
that lifts the sand, rustles leaves, lays
the grass down, bows heads, lowers eyes.
I am wind. Here, then there, then gone.
Transient, fleeting, I travel this city,
the scent of rain and roses in my hair.
Every other woman at the park, it seems,
is pregnant, about to deliver.
I do not remember my body any way
but the way you have shaped me,
all patterns of our own making.
At the British Museum this morning I read
the Phoenicians invented writing to keep track
of things bartered, swapped & exchanged.
As I search for you here, amongst the voices
and laughter of children, I promise you darling,
every word I write, I’ll trade for a kiss.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Why do so many poems, good ones, appear
Under this tree, this ordinary maple
With its corrugated trunk, its leaves like crowns?
Should we believe the inner life of trees,
Whose only virtue is shape, whose only sense
Is touch, deep and deeper underground?
Do any trees, climbing into sunlight,
Break into fields of mystery and wonder?
For this tree, a hundred years is not too long
To get one poem right, its lilt and rhythm,
One likely metaphor, night and earth
Maybe confounded, something like desire
Compared to the slow boiling of the sap
Into the very teeth of February. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Pain and pleasure remind us,
life is real. As we fail,
we wish for powers of healing.
We hope that with one touch,
a breath, a precisely tuned thought,
everything will be repaired.
We believe what we must.
Your sleepless nights sadden me,
but our strength gives me hope.
When we finally fall, we see what held us up,
how we are all tangled together. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
No frost today on my window,
no tumbling stars
no forests of white, no birds
on the branch outside my window
no chance of one landing now
stealing the morning with their song
as I think about your hands
and how they make me feel
as beautiful as frost
as transparent as glass
as if I’ve swallowed
the sun.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Bones tuned, the body sings, See me
wide and rich with fat. See me
sour sweet flesh scaled with wrinkles.
See me hidden from other eyes.
Beneath the wrappers a fine fruit
similar to kiwi.
Dry Dry keens the untuned spirit.
No more turning with the circling moon
Map of orion scattered in freckles
across this body. Oh picture me
on the other side of the sun’s wanderings.
Tune the bones the body sings
Quiet the mind the spirit hums.
Watch the shore as tree stumps
ravaged driftwood shiver alive.
They lift their heron wings and fly.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
the plane ticket said
I was going to London
to stay
for a year
somewhere somehow
I wanted to travel
and find out who I was
and where I was going
to open my mouth
and spit coins
into my own hand
to feel worthy
I stayed
for two nights
in a hostel
just up the way
from Victoria Station
and each morning
after having a slice
of toasted bread
with jam
I headed out
to the circus
on foot
each day for a week
I bleached
in the sun
that rarely
shone down
and covered with
the salt of a few dead
end streets
I sang wandering tunes
and sometimes sucked on
a stone to slake
my thirst
until I pushed on
another
wreck
ed dreamer
walking southeast
to Dover
to catch the ferry
to Calais
moving further and further
into my walkabout
with fear sometimes
but also with hunger |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Roots...are attractive.
And precious but
oh, so hard to return to
in any fashion I have been able to think up
tried till now...
other yet left undared.
And do I know what my roots are?
The land that nourished me
the land whose hills
whose trees
whose meadows breathed lullabyes
even after mother was gone?
Was it the school,
the house
where friendships were learned
misdeeds shared
and where that damnable
thirst for words
was kindled?
Perhaps, my roots are hidden
among all those words
glyph-creatures
of unguessed power
that beguiled my days
with their whispers
and sang my dreams by night.
Where did they come from,
they whom I have come to adore
almost as much as her
whose flesh makes a drunk of me
even at the most unexpected hour.
To be where they are
is a place
not reachable by returning
nor one gained
by running even faster.
I guess I'll be patient,
stand still.
Maybe they will find me
when I need them. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
my roots run deep
they’ve worked their
way through layers
& carved crevices in stone
they’re unyielding
feeding on the remains
of my heritage
& experience
my trunk has
weathered storms
my bark is nipped
lacerated
& cracked
scars tell my story
my branches
are my poems |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I dreamed they came to me
with clasped hands
circling
Their touch ignited light streams
that arced across time
and domed the earth
in unbounded amnesty
"For you," they said,
Their heart-shaped faces
thrummed healing rhythms
that freed me from the nether
and 50 years of miasmic men *
a lifetime lived
rutting in the roots of trees
trying to drink air
suffocated by dirt
I rose to the ether
like a Phoenix
where we moved effortlessly
through each other
performing pliés
to the faint smell
of cinnamon and myrrh |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Mouse verse
Small creature scrambles
down a white path,
whiskers twitching,
tail trailing, switching.
He drops neat stanzas flush left,
knows enjambment’s way,
follows the rules.
Little eyes look for a path out
or a hole that is the path in
to wherever.
Has to be a trail
out of here.
Small mouse heart pounds.
Poem that is a rodent
stops.
Tiny claws slip on
slick coating put there to make words last.
How do other critters
escape a thousand paper cages
going home?
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Oh, no, not roots again.
I thought I was done with that
nightmare-ish mass, an old
and knarly atlas of mistakes,
the wooden image of ache,
collected and dumped
at the front door; hard
to step over; the past is
the ultimate stumbling
block, at best kept
in its over-crowded world,
underground, undercover,
where I hid it yesterday.
Today, I open the door and ....
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
This is how time has shaped us:
planted tangled gnarled
limbs digging for moisture
thirsty bones of strength seeds
and pollen deposited in our hair
where the bird trill calls out to the
world kissed by sun into buds fragile
as the first day of spring, ready to burst
into tears at the slightest sign of cloud,
at the caress of wind, at the sight
of crocuses and tulips dancing
like so many fairy children
at our feet
happy for the sun
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Watch a bird in flight
soaring between cloud and soil
on wings made of starlight.
Grace and ease guide each tip
and turn, watch as he ascends
notice as he glides, how the air
envelopes him, steers him to his
nest of twigs and feathers and stone.
Beak and claw, rain and mate
his needs are fulfilled and yet
he sings.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
It’s crucial that my world melt into slabs
of rare steak slapped onto a canvas off-white.
To hold these roots, to be firm from where I come, is an ordinary solution.
Perhaps the drizzle of a leaf or two down my spine of sap will untangle me
from this mess of dirt and rot.
Triangles formed small geo shadows above the house where we lived.
The butterflies that coincided with our meaning have died
and their small ailing bodies form piles to burn in the weekly brush fire.
I pretend life is all I have- all of its wind and movement-
and the space between now and then disappears
with the colors each new morning brings.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
even the name has charm: pool
table; and with you bending beside
it with your slender back and maroon
sweater, steel-denims & withdrawing
eyes made our casual game different
than all the rest; pale cheeks, gold-
framed glasses, pink carnation smile
breathing a skin’s mock perfume
of cigarettes & whiskey Coke belied
that different game men & women play
balls rolled and cue sticks stroked
the rack was tight each and every time
i don’t remember who won
only the loose quarters
on the slick railing
of each challenge |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
The serious face of God, consumed by power,
Joins and separates bodies, rooted in creation.
Whorls, tormented by stones, appear to be
Searching for earth, their purpose driven by heaven.
Dürer’s Angels struggle with demons of Bosch
Over who will persist or perish, falling down
To dark seas, or flying into silver paradise,
Gates opened wide like living limbs.
Ezekiel’s wheels spin flames to Seraphim
Wrestling writhing serpents to sand,
Who chain them to wood with wind and water. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
there was a picture
I never took
that filled my lens
and showed my heart
as gnarled as
a bole or root
instead I walked
away from it
and left it there
to grip the air
as my consciousness gripped
a changed stare
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
you erased
violet
from my chalk rainbow
shouted at my back
that bark grows
like a river after rain
whispered onto my neck
that the devil doesn't exist
because his horns
are roots
today at 10:16 a.m
you shouted at the
sky
that your mom is
dirt under rocks.
dove shaped tears
flew from your eyes
and
you cooed like
passing time;
purple science. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Sanguinaria Canadensis of the family Papaveraceae opens in the morning, closes at night and stays shut up on gloomy days. Also known as bloodwort, red puccoon root, pauson or tetterwort.
For no good reason what shamed her life dropped away
as if never there, went to bones, sharp and angular beneath flesh.
Once, if you cut her she bled the crimson of love poems,
now her lungs were turning to stone from scleroderma.
Her hands cracked like shriveled purple hearts
and she was cold in her home of forty years.
It was no different than the bloodroot-- let’s not forget the bloodroot,
bred in thickets, polinated by germs of flies, seeded by the ant.
Stairs became difficult, laundry impossible
and vacuuming out of the question. There were incidents
when she couldn’t get off the couch or her favorite chair,
legs like boulders, memory too. Even the words came hard.
Difficult to tell the difference, though. She was notorious
for becoming vague on subjects she wanted to avoid.
Wouldn’t admit she wasn’t showering or bothering to get out of bed.
Even that afternoon came too bold to her fine eyes.
Plants need sunlight for photosynthesis
and hold in their deadly gas until they turn green,
but oxygenate even in darkness of gloomy days.
Yet it’s the nature of things to die, even to die ugly.
Like the tetterwort, she never knew
what toxins lurked in her blood until too late.
The blood of a red puccoon root kills outward.
If ingested, it freezes production of essential proteins.
American Indians have used it to induce vomiting.
It has sometimes been applied to skin cancer
or as an ingredient in toothpaste.
But her auto-immune diseased blood killed inward.
It’s the same in the end--all wounds show
one way or other, depending on the force of its passion.
Then she didn’t think her sweet remembrances: Maryland
crab cakes, moss adorning Scottish stone castles, the noise
of rain tapping tiny fingers across roof, winter’s closed autocratic
beauty, the peace of a summer twilight, fireflies, wheat fields grazing
country skies, the trip to N.Y.C. she was supposed to take
with another daughter, the floor-length black dress purchased
for a night at the Met, her beloved hostas without her.
Instead she thought of mistakes, misdeeds, absolution.
She did not speak what died with her--the old sound
of her departed husband’s laughter, erstwhile wishes
that he wanted nothing more than whom she was.
Lies she told herself to survive.
Whispered “love-you” was just another form of exhale.
But without her loss, I wouldn’t feel such recollection. I would suffer
the winter without recalling her death on its warmest day,
merely attributing the high sun and balmy weather to spring’s approach.
Not as tender mercy. Not as a form of bravery—strength built of loving
fiercely what’s lost or invisible.
Then my heart wouldn’t bleed its severed roots.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Beyond the old apple orchard.. down where the lilacs bloom,
there grows a tree that has stood still a mighty long time.
Its roots are so many and strong. They weave a tapestry of time
and memory into the earth.. 'twill never waste away.. not really.
When one thinks of all the life that's happened there..
down by where the lilacs bloom. All that livin -
.....the children playin'
........the couples kissin'
............the ladies singin'
...........the old man sleepin'
................slowly dyin'
........... newly wakin'
so much life indeed..
a strong and steady tree.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Because I
feel lost if I don’t
search for words to find you.
Because I want my words in your mouth,
my voice in your hand,
my dreams floating like Ophelia, gazing
skyward & soaking wet. Because I have never
known the world to be like this,
but always suspected it could be. Because words
like communion and kneel, confession and bow
make me think of you.
Because we have no rules and each kindness
multiples. Because you bring me
peace and rapture, lay at my feet beauty
and fill my sky with unnamed constellations.
Because I want to leave things unsaid. Because
I feel found in each word you write.
Because even words
like illumination
aren’t enough.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
the world
has given
me many
things:
the most
precious
is solitude
the least
are white
knuckles
for most
of my life
i have lived
somewhere
in between |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
If I were some body,
I would be too busy
being some body
to do what I do.
Best that I am no body,
so that I can do some thing.
Because I am no body. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
is this all that we have left
sad remains washed cleaned
age and wisdom trying but failing
to become a goal
instant judgment without growth
as a possibility
the asphalt that is out of frame
the bubbles blown by a young boy
the terror of a waking dream
once when I sat
by Como Lake and fed the ducks
I did not know I was
to become a broken mirror
fragments and delusions
little more than notes
on some crumpled
psychologist’s
page
last summer I went back there
to Como Lake to feed the ducks
and was chased away
by an old couple who said
that there was a city ordinance
against feeding them (the ducks,
not the old couple--you can still
feed those farts) and I lost
part of a shared life
I stomped away
from the shore, and tossed away
my bag of bread, and there was nothing
in my heart--nothing, a new
tear in my childhood--I could not
remember what it was
to be young
that day
I could not remember. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
My affinity
for roots could well be because
I am a mushroom. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
you are a bent root, the hamburger shack my grandparents owned
long before i was born, the dream i had last night
where time didn't exist
there was quicksand in the dream, which is how i figured it all out-- i never
sank
i ran, with nothing behind me, nothing to run from, to
my grandparents-- immigrants, serving hamburgers in wax paper
to los angeles beach goers in 1942
you are a bent root, the picture of my mother eating an icy--the one i invented, but not in a dream
you are everything i love about history--
a bend in the face of everything the past insists
i missed |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
roots grown in rocky soil
never hold for long
rooted deep in
the warm earth
of understanding
can last an eternity
our passion for one another
born on shallow ground
blown away
like sand with
a hot desert zephyr
on shallow ground (revision)
love rooted deep
in the warm earth
of understanding
can last an eternity
our passion
for one another
born on shallow ground
blown away
by a hot zephyr
like sand
on shallow ground (revision)
love rooted deep
in the warm earth
of understanding
can last an eternity
our passion
for one another
born on shallow ground
like sand
blown away by
a hot zephyr
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
an evening
lush with stars
“look at me,
baby”
i kissed her hard
she cooed
“welcome
to my nightmare” |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
and the trees rooted and Dante-esque
When you ask me about love,
we play a game with letters and license plates
for three states, your voice a piano wire
in the dark car. A door I fall through over
and over. I set matchbooks on fire and toss them
out the window. Too much space here, you say.
Too many bottles fading on the windowsill.
The dripping hotel sink. I climb inside a
rusted Frigidaire at a gas station in Mauston,
listen to the engines droning like a nest of wasps
Dream of all the machines pushing their
way through air, the whir and shiver of gears.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
a mirror darkens or clarifies
gives off an unbiased reflection
not so a painting
a museum afternoon of looking
at women created by men
dancer by Degas courtesan by Renoir
Raphael’s madonna
allusive accessible
women eat for these men
are not angry Matisse
paints wife and mistress
at tea in the garden
women breakfast
with curled hair and rosed lips
and are clean for these men
what of the woman in Bonnard’s painting
washing in the bathtup upstairs
near the window her long hair golden in sun
she bends, washes with suds
please keep the cloth slightly on
what of the fourteenth century
madonna in the rebuilt cloister
who turns from the window
who ponders the secrets of the universe
god asks for her womb his hands
surround her neck
is she a man’s soul as he paints
her in that dream moment?
and how would women
whose best work is lost
have made her?
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
This may have nothing to do with anything that normally would be discussed here; I simply present it as a record of an event, an observation some of you might find interesting.
This morning, as I began spring cleaning in the basement, purging the effluent of teenage Guitar Hero parties, working my way through plastic bottles hidden under the futon, unfolded blankets once held against bodies for warmth, dusty pillows, tiny corners of plastic wrappers left on new carpet several feet away from the nearest trash can; I wondered what light would do for freckled skin, fresh air for raspy throat. In a fit of cabin fever, I hopped in my 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier and drove to a parking lot on the other side of highway 169, to go for a brisk walk. There was snowfall similar to offspring of cottonwoods in May, a fluff unusual for March. There was a little bit too much wind; it was a little bit too cold; and winter had already gone on too long.
Winter. After a time, it becomes a state of mind, more so than summer does for those who swelter in Georgia. Those of us who have accepted it know its shortcomings, as well as its grace, but too much of anything, good or bad, is more than enough. Maybe, if I ventured out one more time, face to the wind, the spell would be broken, and radiant sunlight would pour down on us once again. The trail along the dike was paved, elevated high above the banks of the Minnesota, at this time of year running shallow and icy. Below the dike lay groves of poplars, cottonwoods, and other fast-growing trees, vegetation that found a home on the banks following an extensive flood-prevention project over 35 years ago. A service road wound down to a boat ramp from the other side of the dike, spinning off sandy trails into the woods. This is where I chose to hike.
I entered a collage of brown, white, and gray. For one looking for relaxation, three tones is enough. Simple, boring beauty. Beautiful, because it did not buzz, or break, or talk to me. No buttons to push, nothing to click on. A naked branch over cold water. Saplings peeking up from snow. Above, overcast sky pressing treetops. Quiet, squirrels sleeping. Trees, fallen.
The trail led down to the river, steeply, almost too steep with slippery snow. A huge, old cottonwood had fallen, exposing roots to river. Underneath the tangled mass was a sandy, sinewy cave, with walls of wood and rock and clay. Someone had built a fire-pit there. It had not burned for months. Crushed Milwaukee's Best cans bragged of their survival. Cigarette butts littered the area. Spring floods would wash all this away, and the inhabitants, hunter-gatherers now quartered in the warmer world of the South, would return. Fallen trees would be swept away, and others left behind, stuck in dark blue mud. Do I see myself here, huddled beneath roots on a chilly June evening, waiting for catfish to feed? Trees and humans, uprooted by raging waters, carried far from home, eventually wash ashore, make camp, and survive. They make a new home.
Time to go back. The wind began to pick up; it was growing darker. Something in the water twirled in the shallows. Maybe a stick, or a walleye. Something from upstream, looking for home. I turned, and headed up the trail. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
tell me why
no Tomb of the Unknown Poet
exists
didn’t he once die like Keats,
ode after ode after ode
ago
his body thrown on the grenade
of scorn
didn’t he once drape an Irish flag
of living grass over our minds
blow bagpipe taps in Scottish fog
the Unknown Poet exists in manila
envelopes addressed to immortality
in Care of worms who edit succinctly,
sending unsigned rejection slips
in the rain |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
A smiling little boy on his father’s lap. They
pose together in the exposed roots of a giant
fallen tree; mom’s taking the picture. A pause
on a hike to a pretty spot with Devil in the name,
Devil’s Eyebrow or Devil’s Mixing Bowl.
Father in a white, V-necked T-shirt, gold arm
of his dark-tinted prescription sunglasses
hanging in the mouth of the V in the T.
Kid’s in little tan shorts, brown polo, fire-
breathing dragon emblem on the left breast.
Snoopy wristwatch with the red strap. Father works
nights, but this sunny day, they’re awake together. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
The grass in L.A.
doesn’t grow as here
in the Midwest
where each blade
an entity onto itself
grows straight and tall
deeply green
and independent
California lawns are a tangle
of clumpy, crawling stalks
sporadically throwing up
shoots of yellowed green
here and there
amidst a confusion
of sere roots and stems
more like urban sprawl
than lawn
Some indistinguishable clump
from among acres
of campus land
surreptitiously seeded itself
in memory
long ago
Perhaps it was the spot
where I mis-stepped
leaving off of art
for more conventional tracks
Now
in fevered dreams
this scratchy patch of green
pokes at my skin
and calls me home.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I waited for you in the spill of evening,
like a disease,
with a brass handled cane
and a glass of Côtes du Rhône.
If I could stop time gracefully
I’d understand this distraction is not a curse,
but minutes have a residue
that stain my hours.
To turn to the clock
would be to offer myself as your laurelled fool.
If I surrender,
I leave without seeing your face,
unable to barter for the roots of grace
with flowers.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
find me in the negative space,
the hollow eyes, the mouth
with the wicked tongue, watch
my arms disappear, reappear
in and out of the black holes
my spine twisted torqued
around my ribs within ribs
come join your ribs to mine
and yes, we will glide like
polished ivory out of the picture |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Good Luck with the reading tomorrow night! I will be on Madeline Island all week-end for A Celebration of Women, to commune with other women and Mother Nature and shake off the winter doldrums at last!
It is a spring-time ritual. To feel
the stretch, tiny crackle of bones
hollow for expected flight. It is
a way to shed winter, the beary
coat of hunger and sleep. It is
lifting a face to sun, to shiver
with velvet tips of green, the
tingle of sap as it begins to sing
its way up from the bulb. It is the
expansion out deep into earth
wet from snow-melt, delirious
with nutrients, learning green.
It is ancient as the first day of creation,
new as the hatching of love in the
compost. It is a fever in the
pulsing of blood, a lift to the sky.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Your lightest leaves sing to the sky;
your deepest roots speak to the dead —
but sitting in my porch chair I
am damned if I know what they’ve said. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
This is how
we grapple
with ourselves,
fear slipping
its tendrils
about slack
desire, rage
closing its
fist on throb-
bing inten-
tion, impulse
cutting its
decisive
channel through
slim possi-
bility.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Onceness is an old beech in a new forest
on a hill above the smokestacks of Birmingham
lichen-green, thick, rooted outside
neat new plantings, left while others were cut
in wartime like the odd Irish oak,
the rest gone into houses of parliament.
Thick limbs mark off four directions,
a space heavy with age and remembering
Thereness is a beech wood in Devon
hundreds of branches
taken on the shape of waves
undulate from black trunks
in a valley ending at the sea.
Bluebells fill the spaces between
roots and trees, their color
the difference of sky and water
making the invisible more clear.
Do you think people can change
Merlyn asks as we walk the path.
She is thinking of her new love.
I’m remembering the beech grove
in New Zealand where Tim and I walked
to the waterfall, stopping on our drive
from Queenstown.
Those trees wear vines on top of moss,
vines that crawl and hang and choke
over lichen that smears and cracks
every exposed root.
In Birmingham, the Mayflies
have begun flash fiction lives.
Among branches dragonflies weave.
The females wait until almost death
to fertilize their eggs, to use
the sperm they’ve collected
over time, something like memory.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
To most, he seemed a lively plant
flowering regularly
But underneath the foliage
roots were bound tightly
the container
too small
held fermented dirt
and the stalk was bending from within
She broke the vessel
gently discarded the decayed parts
packed him snugly into a more welcoming home
filled with good feeding soil
a mix that offered longterm growth
packed snugly
to hold him up
in all kinds of weather
Now he greets the morning sun
with bright smile
and evening's dark
with grateful relief |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Today can’t take her eyes off of you.
Sees in your smile the awakening spring,
see in your eyes, the calm of night. Knows
that trust lives in your hand, and the power
to shape this world is in your fingertips. She
longs to take your arm, walk to the edge of
the day, take stock of the world you’ve made.
You will deny that your words make the rain fall,
the snow vanish, the snowdrops push forth
and flower, just as you’ll deny that you’ve planted
a thousand words in me, and with the sound
of your voice, made them bloom.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
You sit next to me because you think
I can salvage your weight; put your rusted parts back
together so that you move quietly without squeaks, barriers or
people who cry.
An enigma of lights hosts a party outside.
I tell myself I’m not allowed;
my hands draw sweet lines to the roads of
Satan.
A dust pile, you form at my feet.
It’s your atoms and waste,under there-
waiting to spark a storm again.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I watch rain melt snow,
water on water. Now
there is wet grass.
When the sun shines,
I see green.
It was there all along.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Exposed Roots
Aged enough
erroded enough that
glancing eyes
even studying eyes
will not see latent images of
tattered leaves or of
scarred branches or know
that my seeds went missing
Through the wet and the chill
through the long drought
this weedy youth
recovered, hardened
stood for the last century
like a sentinel
then toppled, finally
while standing alone |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
.jpg)
