Surrounded by quiet circumstance and days-long isolation --
the vacationing Poets' gift --
I walk naked freely, alone, atop the mossy rocks,
among the massive trees and off-spring,
along the steeply nestled creek to dip in the pool
above an old log dam wedged between the banks.
Along the dog-worn trail passing a fire circle and a labyrinth of rock,
back to the exquisitely purposeful yet seeming random-built and scattered house,
embedded safe and secure in the mountain over years,
I pass berries, leaves, flowers, plantings and fruits of the endless garden,
enter through the spacious, airy, well-appointed
vacationing dogs' apartment (some would say, "enclosed bare-wood porch").
Back inevitably to the Poets' den of intellectivity:
rare and rarefied, addictive library corners, enchanting shelves of collections,
Camus, Rodin, Baudelaire, Dickinson, Michelangelo, Dylan,
fireplace, piano, guitar, commentary, candles and plants.
Still naked, and but for my paradisiacal isolation's looming Goliath --
the voice who threatens me with return to the human world from this nest in paradise --
I watch, asking my reflection in every mirror and glass for courage and a sling,
"Are you David?"
for Mary and Heller
Monday, July 27, 2015
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Where am I?
Where am I?
Like, yeah, no, like becoming some first times.
You know.
You know the inadequacy, our shared experience,
where you, like, know what you want, yeah, no,
and I know, too.
You, a mystery, infusing me with nuclear fuel,
like Iran, illegal according to some,
but so powerful to us locals, so legal, so impossible to deny.
Like, yeah, no, like becoming some first times.
You know.
You know the inadequacy, our shared experience,
where you, like, know what you want, yeah, no,
and I know, too.
You, a mystery, infusing me with nuclear fuel,
like Iran, illegal according to some,
but so powerful to us locals, so legal, so impossible to deny.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
River of Love
A river of love flows
out of my heart
non-stop. And another out of yours.
Our torrential flood
flows into the frail human desert
surrounding us,
willing to sustain life in abundance and
the thirst for keeps.
Yet here is sand,
And elusive aboriginal arts aside,
I see no silk and spice in caravan,
no oasis, beyond the slippery banks
of this lonely violent flood.
February 9, 1999
out of my heart
non-stop. And another out of yours.
Our torrential flood
flows into the frail human desert
surrounding us,
willing to sustain life in abundance and
the thirst for keeps.
Yet here is sand,
And elusive aboriginal arts aside,
I see no silk and spice in caravan,
no oasis, beyond the slippery banks
of this lonely violent flood.
February 9, 1999
Seventh Wave
Stunned, not swept off my feet,
my feeling, inadequate,
somehow absorbs the love that comes
to break, warm, around and then within me.
It is not a constant, burning heat,
not lapping sweet nor massive crest tsunami.
But like the rhythm of the seventh wave,
almost inevitable, it breaks and, more than expectation,
more than passing, overwhelms.
1/1/2014
my feeling, inadequate,
somehow absorbs the love that comes
to break, warm, around and then within me.
It is not a constant, burning heat,
not lapping sweet nor massive crest tsunami.
But like the rhythm of the seventh wave,
almost inevitable, it breaks and, more than expectation,
more than passing, overwhelms.
1/1/2014
Sunday, June 7, 2015
I Took a Walk Today
I took a walk today down by the falls, in sunshine along the railroad
I tightroped the tracks and timed the ties to step along the day.
I took a walk today, by my magnificent river, under full moon and stars,
I reason an excuse for tides, for bridges, ferries, docks and parks.
I took a walk today to open up my spirit, to give me time.
Time to fly, time to recognize my ignorance,
Time to open up myself to all my possibilities,
Time to stop thinking of them and every detail in between.
I love where I am because it is where I am.
I love to watch, to look, to have this Earth around me.
I love to walk in sunshine, rain, fog and storm.
I love to be with those I love.
I love to challenge myself.
I love to be happy when I'm finished even though I fail.
I took a walk today and the sun shone down, the Earth shone up and
I shone in between, all one.
June 7, 2015
I tightroped the tracks and timed the ties to step along the day.
I took a walk today, by my magnificent river, under full moon and stars,
I reason an excuse for tides, for bridges, ferries, docks and parks.
I took a walk today to open up my spirit, to give me time.
Time to fly, time to recognize my ignorance,
Time to open up myself to all my possibilities,
Time to stop thinking of them and every detail in between.
I love where I am because it is where I am.
I love to watch, to look, to have this Earth around me.
I love to walk in sunshine, rain, fog and storm.
I love to be with those I love.
I love to challenge myself.
I love to be happy when I'm finished even though I fail.
I took a walk today and the sun shone down, the Earth shone up and
I shone in between, all one.
June 7, 2015
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Booktalk
Thank you for joining in this journey with me. Do you hate it when someone calls some simple pencil scratches on paper accelerated into a book, a journey? But proceeding in the spirit, not having had a drop yet, by the way, [‘by … the way’, get it?] I am glad you are willing to share the toll on the road to the end.
It keeps me alive.
If I didn’t think you were there to pay the freight so to speak, had something in your pocket there on the seat beside me, that is, to buy some grub and have some left over on the other end of the turnpike [page-turn pike – do I have to explicate?], I would just quit.
Like you and the rest of us faced with pressing ahead, I mean moving forward, not pressing per se, but then again [‘then again’, think about it: I’m trying not to repeat myself and besides, you get in beside me here on this journey, taking a seat that you paid for once again, you get my drift; ‘you get my drift’, think about it]
I must be putting the pedal to the metal or you wouldn’t have laid out the cost of the ride already.
You know you’re hitchhiking, and I’m hoping you have a beer or a story or a joint or a kindly place to rest if needs be; that is, my ride with you already beside me, my having something virtual to look forward to, by virtue of your having hopped in and having already gotten here [x], then I guess the ride-journey metaphor doesn’t work quite, given that you could have picked up the book … stop me right here … you picked up a book that’s already a book so’s it must have already been paid for by somebody and then you might or might not put it down or bring it to the register, risking the guilt that you paid the toll or just had a cup of coffee and paid the toll to somebody else who already bought the book that you’re willing, if you did bring it to the register, to gamble it be worth the ride, price, burden and the guilt over both the coffee and the coffee and the book when there’s a baby, education, house, Mercedes in your drive, a future that may have benefited by not having been preempted by our journey begun here in front of us, since you got in.
So isn’t it the truth, hard to be authentic here, stay on track [on a journey home or away, on the seat beside me in the car or train or ox cart box, maybe scanning the horizon] when cool cynicism put those last words down, needs be that there’s a little bit of toll ready, maybe gas money, then I guess we’re already on our way in a respectful sort of way, you acting your part and I acting mine [and, of course (course, heh) directing].
Just so you know where I’m coming from, so hard just to be here, inside the journey you could burn or close, I feel like I’ve already given too much of my gratis side and need to share my gravis side, as opposed to my graveside, since you already put your change on the table so to speak to read this.
You and a few thousand others, I hope.
Words are so easy to get on and ride.
2010
It keeps me alive.
If I didn’t think you were there to pay the freight so to speak, had something in your pocket there on the seat beside me, that is, to buy some grub and have some left over on the other end of the turnpike [page-turn pike – do I have to explicate?], I would just quit.
Like you and the rest of us faced with pressing ahead, I mean moving forward, not pressing per se, but then again [‘then again’, think about it: I’m trying not to repeat myself and besides, you get in beside me here on this journey, taking a seat that you paid for once again, you get my drift; ‘you get my drift’, think about it]
I must be putting the pedal to the metal or you wouldn’t have laid out the cost of the ride already.
You know you’re hitchhiking, and I’m hoping you have a beer or a story or a joint or a kindly place to rest if needs be; that is, my ride with you already beside me, my having something virtual to look forward to, by virtue of your having hopped in and having already gotten here [x], then I guess the ride-journey metaphor doesn’t work quite, given that you could have picked up the book … stop me right here … you picked up a book that’s already a book so’s it must have already been paid for by somebody and then you might or might not put it down or bring it to the register, risking the guilt that you paid the toll or just had a cup of coffee and paid the toll to somebody else who already bought the book that you’re willing, if you did bring it to the register, to gamble it be worth the ride, price, burden and the guilt over both the coffee and the coffee and the book when there’s a baby, education, house, Mercedes in your drive, a future that may have benefited by not having been preempted by our journey begun here in front of us, since you got in.
So isn’t it the truth, hard to be authentic here, stay on track [on a journey home or away, on the seat beside me in the car or train or ox cart box, maybe scanning the horizon] when cool cynicism put those last words down, needs be that there’s a little bit of toll ready, maybe gas money, then I guess we’re already on our way in a respectful sort of way, you acting your part and I acting mine [and, of course (course, heh) directing].
Just so you know where I’m coming from, so hard just to be here, inside the journey you could burn or close, I feel like I’ve already given too much of my gratis side and need to share my gravis side, as opposed to my graveside, since you already put your change on the table so to speak to read this.
You and a few thousand others, I hope.
Words are so easy to get on and ride.
2010
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Dancer
Rare fortune to witness the wonder of a pair of vultures
cleaning bones of a dead fox on rocks in deep wood
finding themselves discovered under the gaze of dogs and I.
As we approach the cliff they rise in silence absolute
with the fundamental sacred beauty of their powers, to float effortlessly
up and above to wait for us to pass with no sense of their wondrous beauty, their performance.
As much as the remains of the fox, we're simply witness to their innocent, inevitable being.
Your beauty fills me with wonder and desire.
Without performance your every move, the dance;
the dance, your inevitable being.
"Touch me, dance, and let me trust you."
Music
Sacred dance extempo-rare, I dare
recall my strength, possessed to embrace your fair
swooping arc unbound, unbroke, rebound
to balance perfect time to perfect end, a dance woven into life.
At the window, in the street, as I breathe
Sudden dreams electric shudder chakrac isles
Shiver neck, envelope heart, course current wile
To quake desire, remembrance
embodied vision, aftershock after shock, we dance.
cleaning bones of a dead fox on rocks in deep wood
finding themselves discovered under the gaze of dogs and I.
As we approach the cliff they rise in silence absolute
with the fundamental sacred beauty of their powers, to float effortlessly
up and above to wait for us to pass with no sense of their wondrous beauty, their performance.
As much as the remains of the fox, we're simply witness to their innocent, inevitable being.
Your beauty fills me with wonder and desire.
Without performance your every move, the dance;
the dance, your inevitable being.
"Touch me, dance, and let me trust you."
Music
Sacred dance extempo-rare, I dare
recall my strength, possessed to embrace your fair
swooping arc unbound, unbroke, rebound
to balance perfect time to perfect end, a dance woven into life.
At the window, in the street, as I breathe
Sudden dreams electric shudder chakrac isles
Shiver neck, envelope heart, course current wile
To quake desire, remembrance
embodied vision, aftershock after shock, we dance.
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Four score and eight years ago her parents brought forth on this continent a new humanist, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the propos... -
Rare fortune to witness the wonder of a pair of vultures cleaning bones of a dead fox on rocks in deep wood finding themselves discovered ...
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Walked past, by your place today, in the neighborhood, you know, scouting poetry at a bum academic show of a score of miserable poets'...