String of Lights

A blighted

place

beatified

by strings

of tiny

fiery lights

each with an essential right

to tell

the story

of the spark

that travelled

from its start

in darkness

along

a tangled

wiry route

to mark

all the important parts

of the plot

until the last

of the lamps

is warmed

for the one

and the many

to behold

and the neighbors

who try in vain to seem alone

and to remain
cold

Treasure Hunters

Treasure Hunters

I

My grandpa had a dusty

plate of seashells, dry,

and in plastic trays, a score

of tree parts, petrified;

each a hardened image

of an old, indurable thing.

(His trees had rock rings--

each marked a hundred years

of settling, from under-sea

memorials to the life of things

once living. Do they honor age

and greatness? Or mock

with minerals the fragility

of trees in their relative youth,

and old invertebrates

for their few years on earth?)

My mother also hunts for shells

and tiny priceless things

on walks outside, to fill

the permanent solo show

on the shelves around her home.

Grandpa taught us where

to start, but momma taught me art,

to revel in the fingering of stone

until it shone from human touch

and time.

                 Some will even grind

these rocks up into jewels,

to reveal the deeper secrets

and unhide the truer themes

of what the earth wrings

by pressure from simple dust

and ancient buried dreams.

II

I also collect things, and find

that I inherited the eye,

though I don't often get the time

to walk the wilds, to discover old

bones and gems by ancient trails,

outside.

                     Today, I’m a panner

for urban gold—my claim spans

the blocks, and mines the old

and ever-rising asphalt-mantled

roads; I sift the grit and duff

that cruft and clog the binding

slough, that fill the cracks that jog

across the busted walks that sit

beside the avenues.

                                         In fact,

in cities … I don't mind the trees,

nor always wish for grassy fields.

No. I take this place for what it is:

a forest of human things that rise

and stand; some parts designed

to last, to resist the wear of wind

and water, and some to be replaced

as fast as the shifting of the weather.

Along this breaking beach I walk,

between the rising dreams of men,

who’s trophies scratch at heaven,

and the crashing waves of time,

that grind to sand the things

our hands have brought to life.

Here, what was so wonderful

and clear succumbs to the craft

of years, rarely to become

embalmed, and allowed to stay,

enshrined or ennobled

by what’s been taken away.

It’s trash —okay! If you insist

on seeing it that way.

It's bottle caps and broken glass,

car parts, and other shards

of ancient, manufactured things—

once skipped along suburban

streams, now fractured and settling

into dusty pools and poisonous

eddies that collect where raging

urban rivers intersect.

Here, even ugly things are

made to gleam: iron and her

alloys are redeemed—abraded,

ground and buffed by water

and time, to pock and rough

the surface, hastening

the inevitable blush of rust,

and other signs of softening

that time conveys to human stuff ...

here, also, trucks by rubber pestle

cast-offs into jewels against

the mortar of our gritty, ribboned,

urban tracks.

                         Here, nature keeps

her eye on man, to shame the vanity

of our shiny plans. Though trees and clams

seem happy to be reduced to stone,

we resist, pretend that we don’t know

that humankind is aging also: getting

harder in the heart, and each year

softer in the gut.

                                              Meantime,

mama gathers up our proud inanimates

in bits and pieces to her mantle,

to polish, corrode, and make

more precious our ignoble junk,

and claim for glory countless things

that we, neglectful, send

to the icy bottom of her ancient sea,

where in her cleansing stream,

she rehearses an old and dusty dream.

Bicycle haiku

Our love for machines

And our better nature, now
Perfectly combined.

Self-Aware Haiku

a haiku is a small pebble to hold 

between warm fingers that wear it down, in time,

for smaller takes longer to behold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leisure Wear (or, Wendell Berry Breaks In All My Pants)

I

It's someone else's job to break
in all my pants --
some farmer or fashion model,
who's hard at work someplace,
living the active life I guess
I don't have time for, anymore--I get
soft slacks, sensitively sewn, to cover
the shame of my naked, useless legs,
and fulfill the promise of a technological age,
while projecting an air
of good times and hard wear.

I dreamed it could be Wendell Berry,
whom I'm certain never buys
stone-washed, must despise
the option of pre-softened jeans,
and works the rows in brand new
clothes, chafing to preserve
something of the old ways,
for the children, of the earth
and honest work, in these last days.


II

Out here, under old-denim skies,
in the worn-khaki fields of mankind's
primal dream, here, hand-shined
iron still sharpens iron,
and cotton ... only turns its will
to time, for Adam to remind:
when dearth has no part of fear
then leisure is no kind of wear.

How Doesn't That Tree Fall

How doesn't that tree fall?
Look, it split in two,
right and left,
straight down
the trunk along the heart,
bisected.

Broken
with the grain -
Like it was destiny
or doom to part,
like a bull
at the offering;
divided, right

across the
annual rings
as if you tore
every other leaf
from a history, to make
two versions, each
with half the truth;

 black on one side,
red on the other,
flaking into
separate trees.
Conflicting testimonies;
still standing, proving
only uncertainty.

It was the lightning
that did it.
It came out of nowhere:
a perfectly predictable shock,
to illuminate the whole
in unity before the
second rending crack.
See, how they stand
together!
One should be bent
in shame,
to see the other give way
so quietly
in obedience to flame.

But, red now reaches
round its barking bandage,
and black is bound
to bear new color
in bright relief,
like a smile
in a season of grief.

Conversation unfinished,
illumination undimmed,
two hearts
healing: and a history
that won't be ended
and can't be told
in parts.

The Tower

(A poem written after seeing a cell antenna being fitted inside of a church steeple).


It is a rare tower—vanishing as it rises
through that crucial moment—and carries
so many conversations in the hearing of God;
Lifted up by stone and girder
that guildsmen build on mysteries invisible,

in the full strength of the maker, whose
name is nevertheless taken up
and dropped, to the ringing
sound of mason's tools.

The steeple bears up hope and disappointment,
bears sorrows, denials, and deals with death,
adult obsessions about success
and adolescent fears of sex ...
agnostic as it is regarding the nature of the text.

A killer calls once from the station;
the suicide tries again to get through;
new converts fill the air with repetition, and mothers
call sons (out) in hyperbolic intercession.

Holy listening and base devices, long distance
relationships that survive long distance vices;
Angry bitter breakups, that might
have been prevented
by 3 or 4 more G-spots.

Sacred speech and shameless curses rise
through the tower in bold ascent,
architectural signals of humanity's
technospiritual fight to be free,
Or for a spot just above the trees.

Handmade Poetry Book

This post has been moved to imby.net.

I Speak Smoke

I speak
smoke.
Not cloud, or other vapors
inconsistent;
nor of incense,
tithed in poverty,
and lit in holy moments only.

But I speak the stifle
and alarm of distant fire,
about which you might wonder
before you die -
whether it's better
to succumb to fog or flame?
To blinded eye, or burning limb?

I stand in the reign and summon
the rolling billow, and reveal
the obscuring choke.
I preach the stoking passion,
teach mystical inspiration,
and perform mid-life
cremations.

Will we be burned, or languish
in fire-retardent shacks?
Will we bow to the pillar,
or bend to the stacks --
submit to the furnace or sit
with the hacks who roll their own
between phlegmatic coughing fits?

If only because we burn,
and can recall the ash
that flame left after all was made,
we're given to wear the cloak
and speak the plume
of creation's hidden, holy,
fragrant fume.

Under The Nest (updated)

Under the nest,
a broken shell.
Small crust
of a world
that learned
great things
too soon.

From above,
a sister,
left over,
when pressed
to lose the last
downy comforts
from her wings,

discovers the egg,
allowed to rest
below her bed,
not hidden
or hurried away;
the curriculum
mundane ...

the awful test
of life and death,
between the nest
and bone-white shell -
both empty now
and open
to the sky.

My Poetry Gets So Much Better

Last year, our poetry cabal staged a reading at the Red Rock in Mountain View, backed by (=improved by) the deeply satisfying sounds of Organamatronic, a couple who create music live in front of audiences with percussion and wires.

They post a lot of stuff for free on their site, but it took them a while to push the cabal performance up, so I only found the link.

I read several of my pieces during the performance and it was like candy to be able to be a part of a live, improvised music performance. Here's me reading a couple, followed by Kelsey Toy (warning, links directly to large mp3 file):

Org_RR_20100528_2.mp3

And the rest are at: http://organamatronic.org/music/ under May 28, 2010

On their site, they write about the performance, "The fun was in having the poets come up on stage and say things to us off-mike like 'I want you to try to make the audience's stomachs feel off.'" That was me, and I agree. What could be more fun than having that kind of on-the-fly creative freedom to let your weirdness loose in a room. Credit Michael and Delaney for being pro enough to never bat an eye.

Past the Waves (updated)

The lifeguard says
the waves are terrible,
tossing, a tumbling torture.
He says that sand
gets in your pants,
and salt water tears
your poor frightened eyes
wide open.

Double the trouble
for him: he's turning
over and over, under
the foaming edge of chaos,
and dragging bathers out,
only to watch them
dive back in.

Do lifeguards hate the sea,
and fear the open water?
Swim farther than
the farthest point
they've been: nothing
they can do
but watch.

But good swimmers know
the only escape from
the trouble of the waves
is to keep kicking and leave
the beach behind. Because
you might not need a lifeguard
on land, but in the sand there is
no swimming.

the years don't wash

The years don't wash
away so much as swoosh,
like water in the family tub,
when influenced by the shifting
of conflicting planetary plates
(earth by waves inflicting).

At times the years lap up
against our face as gentle
memories; sometimes as traces
of darker days returned from deeper places;
a tsunami to assault the village of
our maturity.

But on many days the laughter
of a child is heard, who after
violent protests of cleanliness,
relents to the humiliation of the bath,
and makes the action of his or her
own earthquake with big splashes,
to the giggled admonishments
of moms and dads recalling
their own childhood passions.

Then, time seems to ride the waves
of our own making: we lord
over sea battles, and sailing boats.
And God? Content to save
the quaking of the continents,
while we with soap repent, and the host
attends to raise our village up on posts.

Haikus

Several Haikus. I've been playing with this form, and currently am really drawn to it. I like the constraint, in fact, and the rules I guess. The first two are counted by syllable; 5, 7, 5. The last four are not so rigid though: I did not want to count by syllable, and so I counted by a softer measure, beats, or some other rhythmic measure that only exists in my mind.

Carefully laid bricks

Will never stop the grass, small

Blades unsheathed in praise

Stratification

Mother, daughter, father, son

Mounds of laundry grow

Devices by our coffee

Occasionally we look up to see. What?

Computers everywhere, and envy

Outside, bright autumn sun

Coffee and crusty bread, cold meat

Pause. Just long enough

Bright sun, beautiful day

Many pretty things to see

My screen bright enough?

Gauzy mat (square) of cloud

High above yellow-green leaves

Scattered sun, hot, cold

Profit

[circa 1990]

A grand despair.
Standing alone
In a valley of dry bones;
The dead and dusty landscape
Of a dreamy nightmare vision.
And a question comes on me
From beyond my mortality,
"Prophet, child of Cain!
Can these bones come back,
Stand erect again?"

Out of ashes, the adam,
First sojourner, while still one,
Wandered from the elements
To life: called by You.
"You made me human,
Who would walk away,
And welcomed me!
Can these bones come back?
Have eyes again to see?
Great God of bones
And dust! You know what
The mystery is worth.
Only You know the profit
Of putting breath back in earth."

Ghost Words

Could use a kind word
About now, a velvet touch,
To grout the cracks, to stem
The flow, arrest the oral
Entropy of seemly weak
Community. Right about now.
The spirit won't cooperate,
Or can't. Instead, the bleed
Increases, and hungry death
Encamps.


Wraith-like words emerge--
Slimy, demonic under-words,
Unfriendly, to wake old enemies,
Which warlike bend against
The sun on my behalf.
A whole, wide virgin field
Is cleared, and battle lines
Are drawn.
                  But before it starts,
It's done. The end is the beginning.


Drained and grinning. One helpful
Ghost is left, and groaning
With me, in me, softly sends
Me, through me, words
Which love-like, split the
Seams that isolate my hopes,
My fears, my dreams.

Drying Its Wings

All the dreams of caterpillars
Seem impractical.
Foolish hairy creeps.
Inconsiderate visionaries
Painting airy portraits
For themselves, invisible
To the hive. "Why so shy?
Look to the flowers, grumpy!
Have some nector, honey!
Show some self-respect,
Insect!" Shamed to see
All the winged productivity,
As if the burden of beauty
Were too great, the beast
Takes its own bait
And slinks away to think awhile
about its purpose, and to die.

Now, blind to what's transpired,
And suspicious of a sudden quiet,
It dries its wings in the sun,
And gazes out upon the flowers,
Which bow in its direction.
The butterfly hears a far
Vibration, and wonders
Why, and where the bees did fly.

On every worm, that plows the waste
Of better beasts, the life of trees
Depend. In every creepy caterpillar,
Dreams of beauty brew
Invisible, but not unknowable,
Nor untrue.

9-Grain Jesus

Many thanks in a pretty blue box,
And a cellophane promise
of near eternal shelf-life.
Body of Christ, O.T.C.
(just add Welches - sweet
Purple blood in a bottle). Bland
Doctors of the modern church
Prescribe a Saltine pill
The size of a TicTac -
Without the salt,
Without the sweet -
Once-a-week to guarantee
Community, chased with that blood
That causes cavities.

And here come the Whole Food
Faithful, organo-hippie
Holistics, who Feel For You.
9-Grain Jesus, the Whole
Body of Christ and a glass of
Cabernet. Tipsy, taste and see
That the Lord is ... ooh,
Is that a little seed in there?
Little kingdoms inside
My half-pound loaf.
I could plant this bread
And start a garden,
Or write a folk song
Expounding on the meaning.
Or is it just the wine talking?

Is there need for the bread to tell
A new story, or the wine to sing
A new song? Isn't the story
That was the seed, the song
That made the kingdom
Sing, aren't they big enough
To be contained
In one Eucharistic Chicklet
and some grape juice?

communion

Gold fades to black
as if the baker slept and burnt the bread
and then, if that weren't bad enough,
the fire went dead.

And while the dark and cold
of loneliness crests
and froths tsunami-like
above his village,
He sits down to eat with friends,
Nero-like in disquieting
self-conscious annihilation.

He tears at bread. "I'm torn
between you
and me."
He rips at the loaf that's warm and hollow
enough for a tap
to reveal it was finished.
The empty in-between defines
the shape of things.
The rising golden warmth says
you're home at any hearth.

Then he drains the skin, the heart
about spent, emptied, divided
and walked between.
He says his thanks, and pours a drink,
reminding the cup of it's purpose:
to be full and always
to be emptied--the perfect
pregnant surface
offered to the thing that breaks it.

"I'm giving me to taking you.
Your hungry bowl, my angry cup;
your cup of wine, my empty bowl.
My wine delayed
until my home
is warmed again".
This bowl of time stopped
at the rim
and quivering;
its surface holding history back--
not like glass, which keeps us from
the things we're looking at,
but like wine, which is like blood,
which they say is thicker than water,
which could tell you a thing or two
about tension.

waiting,
for a tilt of the planet
towards tomorrow.
Remembering,
to hold the wave aloft.
Waiting
for the bread to rise,
and the cup to fill and
hoping, remembering ...
that home is where the hearth is,
and if that weren't good enough,
the fire still has life in it.
And the meal calls us back to the table.

Dream of The Created World

Flashlights under the covers,
playing like cavers, diving
deep into giddy infancy.
Though a proud dream-stag
might poke you out of slumber,
drift, spelunker, underground lover--
begged blessings hover
like a funky patchwork raft
you're riding under. The light
and lethe comforter is the night--
the world turns in, turns to forgetting,
creeping easter, "Flashlights on!"
No hope in rising! Who craves and hunkers
down to wait? ... World turns,
God pulls the covers up.
You fight to not forget, while
revelers stall, stealing light
from above: stay sharp, heads up.
Each work of day rolls over,
above and of the surface,
and yet the earth careers to
other rhythms, finally cloaked
and orthodox ... asleep, unseen
where youth are left to rise,
and plunge towards the center,
under the covers, where motion
is never felt.