Hawk's
silence
is wisdom
in such
a wind
as this.
The trees
agree.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
I would
invite you to
walk with me,
the monk says,
if you can
tell me where
we're going.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:07 AM
In this wind
the darkness.
Nothing lifts
like crow.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The uncertainty,
another day,
another dawning.
The old monk has
nothing. Where does
he go from here?
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:32 AM
If not an
actual hawk,
the idea
of hawk
tearing the
mouse apart.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The monk
travels,
wishing
for less
of every-
thing. With
his sack
full of
empti-
ness, he
gets what
he wants.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:24 AM
Oh, my,
the great
blue
heron,
rising,
owns
the sky.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The angle
of desire
approximates
as woman.
This
I understand:
love standing
in for lover.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:11 AM
Nothing is
easier
than wanting.
Wishes are
fishes, are
girls on their
bicycles.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The red-wing
blackbird
sings the ice
out again
this spring.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:30 AM
If not
something
as real
as hawk
or crow
then all
you've got
is words.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Sometimes
only
one word,
this one:
evening.
Sometimes
that one
in the
morning.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:14 AM
Between
desire and
tomorrow,
one hopes,
wisdom.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Chew this, crow says,
offering me
my own tongue.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:56 AM
As if
water
could be
symbol
when you're
dying
of thirst.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Wind and long
light laying
the tall grass.
This is how
evening comes.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:50 AM
If you
see it,
say it.
The poem
is there.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Long light
caressing
the hawk.
Red-tail
dreaming
evening.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:06 AM
Man wants his
straight lines.
The earth curves.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The fade
of sky
as the
wind dies
and trees
begin
to speak
with stars.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:57 AM
You should not
have to work
the poem.
The poem should
work you.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The day
lets loose
towards
evening;
the wind
falls down.
What you
hope for,
though, is
seldom
what you
get.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:05 AM
Sky rags,
these
vultures
on
slow wind.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Where snow
keeps the light,
the woods
disperses.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:22 AM
Crow, the
bullet of
darkness
dragging
night in.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
What raven
says always
sounds chewed.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 1:30 PM
No line of
sky and field.
Wall of white,
all the light.
No difference.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Stars
in the
distance
bringing
nothing
but the
dimness.
You feel
the loss.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:30 AM
Narrow,
wide, the
curve of
the bird's
turning.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Raven
rakes the sky
with her cries.
No one knows
what this means.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:11 AM
where light gathers
as the storm comes on.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The woods
wherein
the wind
rests when
not worry-
ing us.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Crow on an
April morning
once again
pretending
he doesn't know.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 11:21 AM
Within
the wanting
a sorrow
that won't
let go.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Light like fire
in the top of the pine --
old friends.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 7:44 AM
Like leather
the darkness
this chilly
spring evening.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Where light
color
where darkness
would be.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:41 AM
A swash
of grey
rain
buckled
by wind.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Let me,
let me,
he says.
She won't
know what
he means
until
she does.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:30 AM
The rain
already knows
most of what
the river
will remember.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
My sorrow
is weathered
like
old barn boards.
In certain
light
sadness looks
almost like
joy.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:59 AM
The dry grasses
stand winter-
proud against
spring rain.
Somewhere lurks
the dream within.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The thing
does not know
its purpose,
sometimes
does not know
pleasure from
pain. Duty
is duty,
yet sometimes
is joy, which
confuses.
What it does
is what it
does and what
it wants to
do again,
this thing which
does not know.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:38 AM
The glistening
where light hides
after rain.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Don't think I don't
see you, trees,
talking with the stars
all night, the stars
telling you how to
say steady
against this
sadness. The wind
has nothing
it wishes to add.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:19 AM
What would be
sorrow hawk
does not know.
She knows
only hunger.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Who can know
stars and
stillness who
knows only
concrete and
glass?
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:11 AM
Loveliness
the shuddering
she does not
yet know.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
What the wind
knows doesn't
cover what
it doesn't.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:24 AM
Not the
begin-
ning, not
the end --
this one
moment,
glowing.
Always.
The stars
know it.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Words com-
posed in
silence
break it.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:48 AM
Message as
metaphor
for what the
poem does.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
If the things
of the world
did not have
their secrets
we would know
even less.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 11:11 AM
A swash
of grey
rain
buckled
by wind.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
I am one
cell in the
greater beast.
You are too.
When we are
gone, it still
goes on.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
This moment
knows it is
this moment.
It waits for
me to say
it: This, now.
Now this one.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Send my ashes
to some rocky
sharpness on Mars.
I haven't done
enough for this
earth to want me.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Where the wear
marks mark
the earth. If
you can't see
them, I will
show you.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
To whom
does the poem
speak
that they
do not answer,
that they
cannot?
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
