Monday, November 30, 2020
THE EARTH STRETCHES
The earth stretches
into morning mist.
Happiness is not the exact
word, but it's close.
So says the red-tail hawk.
So says the dove.
FIRE BURNS
Fire burns
bright or
smolders.
Fuel and
oxygen,
moisture,
the stuff
of stars, of
wood.
The distance
between wanting
and having.
Sunday, November 29, 2020
AT THE EDGE
At the edge out there where
no star has yet been blown
there is no time, no light,
no weight of atoms.
There is no coiling
of imagination, only
the bliss of nothingness.
What was is blank still
and what will be is
even farther off.
We might be here, but
that's where we're headed,
out to where it ends, where
it all begins again.
THE MATH
Saturday, November 28, 2020
SCARS
Scars the color
of red-tail
where the trees
have broken.
As prayers do,
as hope does,
all these things
fly to heaven.
SPEAK, EARTH
Friday, November 27, 2020
AUTUMN COMES
Egrets in
the river.
Ducks. The sun.
Autumn comes--
in the trees,
in the fields,
in our hearts.
What we have
here, now, is
the first part
of dying.
WHAT DOES
Thursday, November 26, 2020
SOME NEED
Some need the ocean,
some a lake. I need
green fields, the wind
in the grasses,
a small creek pushing
through, a great blue
heron turning above,
the sound of distant
cranes to break my heart.
SUMMER
Wednesday, November 25, 2020
EVEN THE SMALL
Even the small
dark birds
are lovely,
the grace of light
which feathers them,
the way they
can make me
lift my eyes.
EACH ONE
Tuesday, November 24, 2020
WE HAVEN'T
INSTRUCTION
Like a new-
born heaving
for breath, the
poem has
preference for
air. Do not
hold back from
white space and
stanza break.
Let light shine
through the lines.
Monday, November 23, 2020
LEAF
WHEN ONLY
When only
the mountain
remains, you
who were there
might leave it
for me, and
I who was
not will sit
with it -- as
if I could
be a saint.
The mountain
would not have
it any
other way.
Sunday, November 22, 2020
SOME OF THE PEASANTS
Some of the peasants
are peasants,
who keep the great wheels turning.
Some of the peasants
are poets,
who try to give us hope.
Some of the peasants
are sons-a-bitches
who drive the darkness on,
blind to stars above.
BELIEVE
Believe
in the stars
as if
in God.
The stars will
save you.
The stars
will take you
to that
place which
lies beyond
caring
about
existence,
about
the soul's
endurance,
about
any-
thing other
than the
stuff we
were, and are,
the stars.
Saturday, November 21, 2020
AH
SO, YES, THE
So, yes, the
universe
hums
an E-flat
thousands of
octaves
below what
we can
hear,
a jazz
trumpet or
sax
wailing
the only
note
that matters.
Friday, November 20, 2020
SMALL BIRDS
SOMETIME
Sometime
someone
will say
the last
thing that
can be
said. It
won't be
me, for
I still
stand in
the mid-
dle of
the fire;
I still
burn with
asking
what might
bring this
final
silence.
Thursday, November 19, 2020
LOVE
SPRING IS ONLY
Spring is only
this sauntering.
Its leaf-green
offering is
only a tug at
our wanting more
every day than
the grey memory
of winter's
bitterness.
Come, sun, break
this earth open
like a flower
blossoming, like
a heart bursting
with joy, like
a cliche
in glory. Let us
enter the promise
of spring with
everything
we've got. We've got
nothing to lose.
Wednesday, November 18, 2020
SPIDER/POET
I DO NOT
I do not
wish
to repeat
the old
stories,
myths
and such.
I want
to shape
new ones.
Yet
I know
there is
nothing
new
under
the sun,
except
perhaps
some new
configuration.
Tuesday, November 17, 2020
MONTANA LANDSCAPE
LIFT
Monday, November 16, 2020
BARE TREES
BEAUTY
Sunday, November 15, 2020
LOW LIGHT
PLAIN JANE
Saturday, November 14, 2020
A WHOLE CAW
LET US GO
Friday, November 13, 2020
OH, CROW
SHOULD THE MONK
Should the monk
come down the mountain?
Should he offer
another sermon?
No one listens.
What he says is
nothing new,
like the light of
ancient stars
that is arriving
only now.
No one listens.
In the distance
mountain's darkness,
a farther silence.
Thursday, November 12, 2020
LATE APRIL
I HEAR IT
I hear it
in the darkness,
the monk says;
I hear it
at the edge of light
and in full sun,
everywhere,
the voice that bears
repeating.
Wednesday, November 11, 2020
FUNERAL
THE OLD / MONK
Tuesday, November 10, 2020
THE BLUE SKY
MONK FORGETS
Monday, November 09, 2020
CROSSING TRACKS IN FARM COUNTRY
Such a shine of steel rails
in the vibrating light of air.
Farmers are working these fields
and spring is becoming summer.
THE OLD MONK'S PLAN
Sunday, November 08, 2020
THE CITY AT NIGHT
The city at night
like embers glowing
in a campfire.
The wind is still, yet
the stars waver
in their wisdom.
KNOWING HOW
Saturday, November 07, 2020
THE BLESSING
I AM
Friday, November 06, 2020
SOMEONE WILL
I PUSH THE WIND
Thursday, November 05, 2020
INSISTENT
Insistent
the way the grey
day insists
on rain, the way
leaving home
means coming
back. Who can
hope for more?
RAVEN / WEARS
Wednesday, November 04, 2020
MORE THE SOUND
MONK'S CHOICE
Tuesday, November 03, 2020
GRACE
WATER FROM ROCK
Monday, November 02, 2020
HAWK / IS
DISTANCE IS
Distance is time
times his desire.
The the darkness
the old monk wears
stars in his hair.
All he wants is
a little something
in his cup and
never having
to explain.
Sunday, November 01, 2020
WHERE WATER
WIND / IS
