Friday, July 31, 2020
WISDOM IS
Thursday, July 30, 2020
SOUND OF MORNING
Wednesday, July 29, 2020
REALIZATION
Tuesday, July 28, 2020
WHERE THERE IS
Monday, July 27, 2020
EVENING
Stars, the scars
of the night sky's
reckoning.
A listless wind.
The trees know
what trees know
of darkness,
of light, and
of wavering
on an edge
of tomorrow.
I stand here
almost holding
my breath,
almost having
what will save me.
Sunday, July 26, 2020
GIRL
Saturday, July 25, 2020
WE ARE BLESSED
THE MORE
The more
he lets go
the more
he holds.
Evening comes.
He turns
his eyes to
the fading
sky. The sky
turns towards
him, shows him
all its stars,
what they mean
and don't mean,
and more.
Friday, July 24, 2020
THE GOOD
DAY FADES
Day fades
to the
purple
pulse of
evening.
Fireflies
and silence
out the
window.
In here
gratitude,
again.
Thursday, July 23, 2020
SUBJECT MATTER
THE SUN HIDES
The sun hides
day today.
The world is
wet and, for
the moment,
cool. Nothing
whispers like
silence. If
you listened,
Tom,
you'd know that.
Wednesday, July 22, 2020
THE POEM
WHO IS IT
Tuesday, July 21, 2020
HOW LIKE
ONCE AGAIN
Once again,
nothing.
July heat
even
in the shade.
No wind to
speak of.
Distant birds
complaining.
I sit her
waiting for
words. And
once again
nothing.
This will
have to do.
Monday, July 20, 2020
WHAT YOU FEAR
KNOWING
Sunday, July 19, 2020
OUR SMALL POND
WHAT WE ARE
Saturday, July 18, 2020
THAT IS NOT
MIRROR
Friday, July 17, 2020
HOW RED THE LIGHT
MOON CAUGHT
Thursday, July 16, 2020
WANDERER
Wanderer
in the mountains,
monk
of simple joys,
sayer
of what cannot be said,
keeper
of the mysteries,
lighter
of the lamp,
old man
with his hair falling out
thinking
like a flower.
YOU MAY THINK
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
WHAT IS THIS
What is this
emptiness?
A sleep's
dreaming?
Dragon's roar?
The mountains
knowing what
mountains know?
AS IF
Tuesday, July 14, 2020
TO ASK ABOUT
To ask about
the meaning
of a poem
is only to
give yourself
something to say.
The poem itself
has no need to
say anything more
than what it offers
in stillness.
A DEER
Monday, July 13, 2020
BRIGHT SUN
WINTER WIND
Winter wind.
A broken sky.
Is there nothing
left here for
the old poet
except some words,
this failing light?
Sunday, July 12, 2020
ONE FINALLY
One finally
comes to
accept
the silence
before, after,
between
the words, the
stanzas,
the poems.
This is when
you begin
to understand.
LEAF
Saturday, July 11, 2020
QUIET AS A MOUSE
BIRD
Bird
on the branch,
or leaf,
promise
of movement
in wind.
Shadow
is what
shadow
holds. You
don't know more
than that.
Friday, July 10, 2020
THAT MOMENT
It was a sudden
and as silver
as the pulse of
electric fence
and every day
he remembers it.
It was like a poem,
only physical,
as if God could
kiss your last breath
back into you.
I mean, that intense.
SOME POEMS
Some poems
march, CLOP,
clop, CLOP,
clop; some
poems coil
like rope
at rest;
some poems
spring like
lynx on
rabbit --
we wait
for blood.
Thursday, July 09, 2020
A GREEN DAY
SAY ANYTHING
Wednesday, July 08, 2020
BLACK-BLADED
DESERT WIND
Desert wind.
The smell of
camel, its
slick spit, grime
of the salt
it carries
walking towards
death. You hear,
in the distance,
djinn promising
water, the sweet
taste of dates,
of green shade
and women.
You can almost
see them, before
you turn back
to another
thousand miles,
duty
before love.
Tuesday, July 07, 2020
BEAUTY
Beauty
leaves one
helpless.
You fall
in and
cannot
swim.
You hold
your breath
and wait.
The gasp
of your
surprise
is what
saves you.
A FARTHER SKY
A farther sky.
Wind in the trees.
We walk here as
if all this is
ours. Morning,
afternoon, evening.
The seasons, turning.
Life and death.
We walk here,
our hearts saying
we want more,
the earth promising
we can do this.
Monday, July 06, 2020
WHY WOULD WE?
Why would we
wish to lead
other lives --
drinking sherry,
perhaps, at
a decrepit
hotel in
failing light
on the shore,
where the surge
of waves, that
sound, would be
the only thing
which matters;
that, and what
you feel when
I touch you
there, and there,
oh, and there.
WHO AM I TO THINK
Who am I to think art
and not art are not so
different? To think that
the frame makes something in-
to something greater. You
take a bare photograph:
is it reality or
is it more? The frame knows.
Composition is pattern
kept in place. Holding on-
to what is sacred is
the secret. The one who
finds it can claim its art.
Sunday, July 05, 2020
TIME IS THE TURNING
Time is the turning
of the light, now
evening, then to
darkness. Midnight
finds its way towards
morning, an old man
with his clock tick-tick-
ticking. The old man
loves the dawn when
it shows, as if it's
a new beginning.
You know it's the same
light showing the same
page in the same book.
Even so, if that
old man can be
happy with the same
old sun, you can
be happy too.
WHERE THERE WERE
Saturday, July 04, 2020
TUG
THE GHOSTS
The ghosts of
the moment
inhabit
us. One breathes
them in slow
if he wants
to know them.
They fill you
with willies,
as if to
know them is
to know too
much, as if
wisdom is
not knowing.
Friday, July 03, 2020
NOT
SOME HOUSES
Some houses enclosed
only a terrible
kind of emptiness.
Their windows blinded,
the darkness reeks
in every corner.
Don't go into such
places unless you
have to. Sometimes
you have to. You might
see a broken doll
on the stairs, torn panties
in the hallway.
There might be blood.
Someone has to
do this work. Someone
has to step into
that awful air. Someone
has to rescue hope.
Thursday, July 02, 2020
IF I HAVE
TRUE EMPTINESS
Wednesday, July 01, 2020
WE SAY
DEATH IS
Death is an
unbroken horse.
All the wind
is wild. The
sun is risen
and we move
on, chasing.
Some day we
will catch it.
