Tuesday, April 30, 2019
MOST
poems are failures. It's hard to hit
that hundred m.p.h. fastball
which keeps coming high and tight.
Even an occasional
blooper to short right field
would be a blessing.
You don't even know which
inning is the last one,
or what follows silence.
Monday, April 29, 2019
LIKE WATER
Sunday, April 28, 2019
EVENING SKY
Evening sky
flung with
sunset, the
horizon
hidden by
trees. Plenty
of time to
learn I no
longer know
wisdom. In
the empty
place, joy.
Saturday, April 27, 2019
THAT SOUND
That sound,
an evening's
rain against
the house.
A heartbeat.
Some lovers'
silly patter
as they rock
their motion.
A measure
of the time
one has left,
marking this
moment, thinking
about where
death waits.
Friday, April 26, 2019
IF, AS YOU SAY, SIR
If, as you say, sir, all
poems are about death,
then this poem is. And
if this poem is about
death, then all art must
be about death too.
Michelangelo's
David is about death.
Music is about death,
even "Happy Birthday."
Roy Rogers riding off
into the sunset is
about death. And if art
is construct and math is
construct, aren't algebra,
geometry, calculus,
and trig about death?
Theoretical physics,
string theory, and such
cannot be far behind.
All our speculation
about black holes must
be about death. Our thoughts
on the Big Bang: about
death. Any which way you
turn, it is death all the way
down. You have to wonder
why the sun keeps coming up.
Thursday, April 25, 2019
RIM
Rim
of the earth,
a lifted
sky, the light.
All I know
a mere flash
of sun off
water
in the ditch.
How it shines
and then is
gone, as all
things go to
final sorrow.
Wednesday, April 24, 2019
IF
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
TOO MUCH
Too much
and not
enough
sky and
marsh. A
sharp bird
stabs the
water.
Something
dies. I
don't know
what.
Monday, April 22, 2019
SILENCE
Sunday, April 21, 2019
POEMS / ARE NOT
Poems
are not
broken
birds, are
not dead
coyotes
along
the path,
though the
best of
them might
keep such
scents.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
MY WORDS
You think
my words
don't know
they can
only
point at
things? That
is what
they love,
pointing
at things.
Friday, April 19, 2019
POEM AS WEAPON
Thursday, April 18, 2019
PUSH
Push, says the one
in front of me.
We are marching
on a cliff and
facing the sea.
Push, I say,
as I am
supposed to.
Push, says the one
behind me,
and I do.
Push, says the one
behind the one
behind me,
and he does.
This is how it
ends, and how it
will never end.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
IF WE WAIT
If we wait
and are patient
we are
given to
know: as evening
brings its
sharp darkness
extinguishing
the stars
our breath will
catch, yes, in that
last hard
moment the sky
undoes us.
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
THE FIRE
The fire that light
is was a piercing.
Let us be blessed
with that again,
that first imagined
star, its brightness
undiminished.
Monday, April 15, 2019
ALL OF EVERY
All of every
creature, Lord, God,
if you are, there
you are, and
there I worship,
lifted by spider
and fly, snake
and all the crawlers,
orioles, cardinals,
the lowly sparrow,
the squirrel up
and down my tree
and the hawk
which would take it,
the mouse, the owl,
the wolf, coyote,
and all the dogs,
the cats big and small,
lions and tigers
and bears, oh my,
elephants, and whales.
Follow these, I say.
They will lead us
to the only
heaven we need.
Sunday, April 14, 2019
A STORM
A storm
rolls through. Soon
a slow train
will come
from that same
direction
working
just as hard.
These days are
like that,
repeating
patterns each
different
and the same,
shaped, re-shaped
empty
containers
waiting to
fill, and
waiting for
us to fall
into
the awe the
world offers.
Saturday, April 13, 2019
SILENCE IS
Silence is
always
where
it was,
I said,
meaning
that, though
we move
from here
to there,
the heart
does not.
Friday, April 12, 2019
IF YOU FIND ME
If you find me
in the sounds I make,
or don't make,
then you know my father
was tight-lipped, not
given to wasting
breath; and you know
there was a grove
and west of the grove
hog chores, and west
from there, the sun
going down on
a terrible
longing, a wanting
more than chores or grove
could settle. One
could not, standing
in it, know what that
wanting was. So,
if you found me
in the sounds I've made,
then -- please, I ask --
tell me what it is
I've been looking for.
Thursday, April 11, 2019
PROPER SUBJECTS OF POETRY
Love and
loss, the
only
proper
subjects.
With love
it's a
song of
praise for
the world's
goodness.
With loss
more an
unresolved
chord
waiting
the last
right note.
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
THE POET'S WIFE SPEAKS
Tuesday, April 09, 2019
RED-TAIL
Climber of sky,
watcher bird, high
and lonely flier,
winged death. Like
the poet, speaker
of what must be
spoken, you are
doer of what must
be done to make
this world our home.
Monday, April 08, 2019
WHAT DO WE LEAVE
What do we leave
and for whom do we
leave it? Words are
all they are, just
words, though some of them
tug the heart when
set just right. If
you've been moved, you are
one of those for
whom I've written;
and if you keep it
you may find your
way beyond the
darkness. For this is
what I leave, a
promise there is
more than this, more than
this emptiness.
Sunday, April 07, 2019
THE TRAIN
There it is
again, the train
working
its way from
sunset to sun-
rise, horn
a warning
to anyone
who might
want to cross
the night in front
of it,
who might have
business on the
other
side in this
long and lonely
darkness.
Saturday, April 06, 2019
THE POET'S WORK
Friday, April 05, 2019
NOTHING FLIES
Thursday, April 04, 2019
HOW IT BEGINS
Wednesday, April 03, 2019
SOME POEMS
Tuesday, April 02, 2019
HOPE
Monday, April 01, 2019
POEM
