Come, let us
dance the joy of words,
Come, let us enter
the howling house
with its swirling of leaves.
Let us assign ourselves
to each other’s prayer.
Let us kneel and hold each other.
And if the wind stops howling
to hear its own silence,
let us sweep leaves.
THE GOLD LANDSCAPE
Gold the color of gold; sky the color of sky;
thunder clouds, textural; the strange fierce light.
Soon the sound:
thunder; felt crackle; everything motionless.
Then a sway of blue . . .
not really blue . . . but feeling of blue . . .
The gold light spreads,
refracts; the gold fields start to sway.
A telephone pole shudders.
A long fence trembles and strains.
The huge sky billows and tears itself.
Nothing on the roadways
that form a cross here—no person—no cars,
only the great invisible force of light and the wide
bulging and swaying—the year
torn into another season— the moment charged
with some great ghost of gathered sorrow,
human-like—blent and moaning—wind-howl;
vast gold motion of field after golden field. Rain.
A MOURN FOR MUSIC TOO BEAUTIFUL
It is the music—
torn shreds of it,
remembering back into whole pieces;
or maybe it is the lack of it,
the wish for music
as that . . .
indifferent music, joyous for itself,
forgetting its composer,
its poorest listener,
filling other ears with perfection,
destruction, its cost for the envy:
the torn joy
for the ache of it,
to hold it,
so, free it,
tear its pages and
mingle them into something larger—
a cacophony to fit the tears.
SUNDAY IS ALMOST OVER
The hawks are becoming old for me.
They scream against the sky
though their eyes are silent.
They fly lower now,
now that they are heavy
and clouds are weary upon them.
It is an old season after all,
full of dim blue and sadness,
the painter in the field getting chilled,
and the light failing.
MONDAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE WEEK
Now we go fuzzily into distance. Our glasses
are lost and we must learn to grope—trust
the assisting hands that reach toward us—
gesturing and pulling back. There is no
such thing as loneliness. Time will not
permit. We are ever in the non-revolving.
Music wobbles when we listen for perfection.
Facades are well-structured and have proven
themselves real. How can we believe otherwise?
There are Sundays we must fill with our own
blessings. Some presence is always there.
Our souls whisper. Our glasses are pushed back
on our foreheads. We laugh at Monday,
finding us unaware—time blurring up to us,
fresh as a beginning— and we realize
that we have been living backwards all our lives.
THE SHORT SEASON
Summer has just begun and now is ending.
Time is not the dream.
Reality is forming while we move
through spinning days in a slow malaise.
Oh, why do we trust such rumor—do we know
what will become of us when we are old?
LIKE THE SINGING OF MEADOWLARKS
Where we are rich is where some happiness
fills a particular moment without reason or
specialty—only its little change of light
that makes its point at some lift of darkness—
and allows the blessing of gratitude . . . .
POEM FOR WONDERING
(After "Poem for Liu Ya-Tzu" by Mao Tse-Tung)
What is deep and what is lonely
if not the waters of the mind,
too deep and shallow
at different times . . .
* * * * *
IN THE PARKING LOT
I hand you a dollar
and you bless me,
you bless me, you bless me.