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Friday, July 26, 2013



They broke the early edge of morning,
Filling the positions of the day almost
Immediately.  Great platoons of moments
Forming ranks, files, minute by minute,
Hour by hour.  There were so many

Ready to greet the dawn that it became
Impossible to predict what might occur
Between morning and evening.  Love
Songs rose spontaneously from myriad
Places, decisions and resolutions assembled,
Sure of success.  It was as if everything

That could happen on any given day
Would happen today for certain.

This went on every morning, no matter
What; Winter, Summer, Spring and Fall,
A seemingly endless parade.  Surely there
Must be something to all this activity.

We stood on the hilltops watching.
We looked from out our windows.
We greeted one another and discussed
Every event as it unfolded itself.  Each
thing seemed new. We hardly noticed

How it all worked until it became
Necessary to remember where we
Were and what was happening to us.
By then our joy had moved to the children.

We continued this way for an indeterminate
Amount of time and then it was over.
At first this seemed strange.  Later we
Involved ourselves in the making of it.
We became the things we observed.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013



In my throat that sounded
So unlike anything I knew
That I would scare myself.

I became ceremony in sound.
A whirl of phlegm, crackling
And sputtering up from the
Rooms I guard against time
And her dancing princesses.

A quaking, as if a bear suddenly
Came into the room on hind
Legs and performed the crushing
Of an arm as if it were a
Dance and she the music.

Now, as autumn pushes clouds
Ahead of itself with a yard
Full of leaves, I hear these
Same sounds again issue
From their scraping across
The drive and think them
A familiar music, something
Treasured, like a Nocturne by
Chopin remembered by the fingers
Long after the mind has forgotten
The specificity of the notes and rests.
It is a rustling of lace
In a room draped with silences.

Monday, July 22, 2013



I have plans for you and have
The names of ships you may board
That will take you to islands, to lands
Where strange things, there the Bong tree
Grows or fairies might gather
By fires at night and warm the
Long ropes of their noses, they do,
And warm the long ropes of their noses.

I will teach you to spell, to light
Saint Elmo’s fire on the top of the mast
And loose it from your mouth
To frighten the birds of the far lands
Who will cluster in toward you
To hear your stories,  If you 
Come to the places I’d lead you,
If you’ll sail on the ships of the night.

Their voices will rise and mix
With the chorus that rides
From the waves to the sky.  There are
Legions that dwell in the depths
Of my body and serve the
Legends of men.  Yes, they do,
They enhance all the legends of men.

And yes, I will go, for my breath
Has the salt as the eye of the dawn
Is blood red and I’ll notch
My footsteps to the heave of the decks
And I’ll sail on forever and then some.

I’ll sail us on through the doors of the night,
You shall see me as a ghost on fogged mornings.  
I’ll be sailing us on through the doors of the night.
Let this dream of the sea be your warning. 

Sunday, July 21, 2013



The one with the broken mouth.
The one who used to put her hands
In the water, lift them  back to her mouth,
Speak into it and put it back in the stream.

She was the one.  We saw her many times.
Once she was a hill just outside of a small town.
Once she was a squabble of birds in a tree.
It was summer. It was almost dark, but it was her.

Those bay colored horses with the darker spots
On their sides and their perfect eyes.
We saw them standing in the moonlight.
There was barely a breeze.  We were waiting.
It was her, no doubt.  She was the one.

It was her too that time we were driving
Through the jungle at night, trying to get
Matt to a hospital.  He had mangled his leg
While cutting wood.  It was a bad cut.
We passed about a half mile wide fire
That ran almost to the edge of the road.
We knew it was her.  Ramon said, “it’s her.”

Once there was a ship leaving the harbor,
Easing through the morning mist.  The trees
On the far side of the river, all pink and wonder.
It groaned and creaked and moved into the river.
She was called The Little Star of China.