The journey continues with two of my poems and four images

HAMMERING IT HOME

This should be a voice.

The should be a red voice.

I did not know that this

Would have this appearance,

That it would seem to be a collection

Of stars at a window, the blue

Eating away at where the moon

Was just reaching. This does not

Appear to be a voice. It is

So silent. I can’t get back

To it often enough. There isn’t

A sensation of sound at all.

Shaking the sleep away with

A voice. How can this be

As it seems. I will write

It down here. I will come

Here to listen. I will not know

Anything but the voice.

I will not be reading at all.

I will know what this really is.

FARM

I was once a farm.

The soft lips of dairy cows

Across my skin. The wheat

Discovering the sun and yes

The vegetables, huge books

Full of them, gardens they were

Called and too the rooster

And the hens and cats and dog,

A lamb, three goats in pens,

A pig, then two and Tommy

Took a horse awhile, and that

Was nice. His day: the pumps

And wagons, tools and working

The while. I was once

A farm. And now, a vacant parking lot

At the side of a Target store.

four of my poems and one of my photographs from Bolinas, CA

RAMBLES

The pink reminders of the evening
Have gathered themselves into the corners
Where the light has its own agenda.

The cornfields in their ranks and files
Start their parades delving into the mysteries
As they spiral upwards into fractals
Worshipped like the poor will objects able
To be possessed. We skate among them

Challenged by our wrong intentions, crashed
Into by dreams and ransacked by the arrogance
The mind handles to confuse us with lucid
Moments that defy time, leaving us on
The edge of our beds at three or four
A.M. trembling and unable to put the body
To rest again so that we may mount
The pastel boats of the nights flickering
Ships and use them as the vehicles
We need to consume the far shore
And ride home again, more or less
Complete upon waking and filled
With tales the night has told morning
Even as it steals from its bower fading
As it does so, convincing in its
Description of foolish wisdom.

TREE


When I last spoke to those
Luminous beings who seem to dwell
In the highest places of amusement
Parks where the thrills are,
They told me that they haven’t even heard
From you for so long they almost
Forgot you had anything important
To say. Please contact them now

Before this evening. They will be
Waiting. They know the prayers well.
They will bless you personally.
I will be waiting with them. You will
Recognize me by my smile and the fact
I know your name well enough to

Find your etymology in the trees
That once grew near the coast in
Northern California. I understand
You may be very endangered at
This time. Good luck.

__________________

WHAT WOODS


(for E.R. Baxter)


The altitudes have gone past tension.
We are required to know just how
High we are, what names the dead
Animals by the side of the road
May be identified by, what has happened
To the amphibians that the Spring
Isn’t as full; the vernal pools
With their pale eyes reflecting
The cool morning, the wakening
Rustle of the season, all green and up.

So we stand and watch the buzzards
Ride the thermals, circling round
And round and we learn to listen
To our breathing as we do so.

We can meet here as often as we are able
But let us speak to one another
About these changes, remind one another
Just how temporary it all is.
Or, if I am unable to see you here again,
I’ll be sure to text you, maybe that
Will be our attempt at presence
As Spring replies with confounding necessities.

__________________

EPHEBES


In the morning, very rarely, you hear them singing.
The ephemeral is considered luxurious,
Something they do not have to remember,
To reflect upon as one would fantasy,
Without perspective or much interior,
Shallow as mirrors are shallow
But seemingly deep simultaneously.

Misunderstandings are the coin of the realm.
They allow images for only a moment
When an ejaculation may demand its own
Punctuation to show propriety,
Their need of full citizenship
In a society unblessed by complete
Understanding.

We may wander up and down
The streets tempting them to knowledge
Of common things like music made
With the voice alone, or the shaping of glass
Using long, thin tools to play the fire.
There is little interest in these things.

Everything must be prepared well beforehand.
Nothing must be out of place.
Where love
Enters is difficult to determine,
A back door, left carelessly unlocked
So one might enter in the middle of the night
Undetected and find a bed with another,
Hoping for a morning that is full of rain
Or fog or other weather that confuses
The senses making everything harder to see.

_______

Here's a couple of poems and some more images.

EATING THE MOON

I smell you on my hands.

It has been years since

I’ve seen you, looked

Into your eyes, moved

My mouth to make your name.

My breath begins to catch

fire, sparks on my tongue.

I adjust the light,

Rub my nose, thinking

Of highway 50 through Nevada,

Flat, the loneliest road

In America.

It is no good. I imagine

Us there, floating above the desert,

Inches off the ground, twisting

Like a dust devil through

Our sins, beyond any radar.

We lose our ability to speak.

The sweat of our bodies begins

To glow in the dark.

We are astonished with

Our heat and alert

All emergency services.

We must cool down.

We take desperate measures.

Maybe if we taste the moon,

It will be chill like the night.

We try it...No use.

We eat the moon and commence

To shine. The night wraps

Itself around us, curiously unburdened.

It knows us as it knows stars.

We embrace more tightly.

The tides begin to change.

BEING AS MANY AS LEAVES

Oh this is peaceful.

This light stays when all

Else fades. It is a serious

Pursuit, worthless, yes,

Useless, oh certainly and I suppose

Even boring to some people,

Those ill on the world, drunk

On its ‘nobody’s a long time’,

Sentiment and that heritage

Of, ‘if anybody even attempts

To think deeply about something

They are the sick ones.’ And here

We are driven toward a beautiful

But terrible forest full of dead

Souls unable to be serious about

Anything except the executioner

Returning to darkness and the murder

That goes on in this perfectly

Lovely world.

Listen to them growling.

Let’s go get ourselves born

So we don’t have to deal with these

Things that feel darkness and ignorance.

Fury, boys, let’s give them fury, real FURY.

Two fairly recent poemss and some photos from the net

A GO

There is a keening

On the wind, a kind of clear

Blue wanting that knows how

To use a can opener on the

Air, so that it can tear silver

Lines into the heart. Oh, there

Will be no blood, for blood is

A veil and time, a great bird

High over the roofs of this town.

We thread our way past the crowds

To discover a land drenched with moon,

Its collection of owls silently winging

Out, over the edge of the lake. There

is an idiot’s song, a lament caught

On the floor of the night. How big

It all seems, the words, the voices

From the sink of the city. It is

As if we were not to find a way

Here, as if God himself were out

For the day inventing Christmas

All over again, so that it might have

A different sound, perhaps that of many

Children, rather than the small golden

Voice two thousand years old.

When we arrive home, well

Fed and slightly tired, the block

Is strung with colored lights and

Singing can be heard from windows,

Laughter and a crisp of first frost

In the air. It must have been

Like this over and over again,

So far we have come knowing such

Things, so far we have left them behind.

BEING AS MANY AS LEAVES

Oh this is peaceful.

This light stays when all

Else fades. It is a serious

Pursuit, worthless, yes,

Useless, oh certainly and I suppose

Even boring to some people,

Those ill on the world, drunk

On its ‘nobody’s a long time’,

Sentiment and that heritage

Of, ‘if anybody even attempts

To think deeply about something

They are the sick ones.’ And here

We are driven toward a beautiful

But terrible forest full of dead

Souls unable to be serious about

Anything except the executioner

Returning to darkness and the murder

That goes on in this perfectly

Lovely world.

Listen to them growling.

Let’s go get ourselves born

So we don’t have to deal with these

Things that feel darkness and ignorance.

Fury, boys, let’s give them fury, real FURY.

EDGE OF SUMMER MIDDLE MAY

In the garden the roses are making

Up their minds as to colors and ways

They might look just after the rain.

There is a way songs begin. The problem

Is we never know when that moment is.

It usually circles around the song title

collapsing into the lyrics and winds up

Near the corner of the heart telling us

Something we already knew in a flurry

Of delight and secret code remembered

Sometimes, for the rest of our lives.

In the garden the bees are making

Their rounds, fumbling and gathering,

Finding the sweet center faster than

The Buddha did under the Bo tree,

Much much faster with no thoughts.

The sky spins by as quickly as the wind

Will allow, so beautifully arranged it

Seems random but for the birds

Outlining the edges, describing

The parameters of the day.

There is so little we remember after

All. It is only in these moments where

The garden is the world and songs are

Everywhere around us. Here is some blue.

An old description of Niagara Falls-Parrish, Robinson, Amy Bennet, Ensor , di Giovanni

AN OLD DESCRIPTION OF NIAGARA FALLS

We could not see where

The end of the land came.

The French told us we must

Leave the water and walk

For a distance of many leagues

Because of a great waterfall

That would not allow us passage upstream.

These woods were old,

Filled with highways

And worn places, used by men.

The night we heard the

Waterfall was memorable. It

Seemed a constant wind that

Did not move the trees at all.

All sound. And then

The place itself. The voice of water

Articulate and incessant

Filling all of consciousness

For enormous moments.

There could not be such a place.,

Yet there it was.

Day and night forever

Through such time as man

Cannot but fancy.

All the choirs of the angels

Singing together precisely,

In this manner, so it seemed.

The greens, the whiteness,

The bows of colored light

By day and pale ghosts of

Them in the moonlight.

This must be what prayer

Was like in power and in voice.

All our lives we bathed our

Memories in this gift.

We joined it to our children,

Drove it through our dreams,

Hovering near its mists as long

As soul would cling to flesh

And then we joined this voice;

The rapids and the rills,

The clicking of the rocks,

The huge sighing of the

Place as it continues

Its descriptions with water.

I hear you hearing this.

All of us hear you hearing this.

It is a rushing through the seasons,

A mouth unlike any other.

We look into your eyes. You look into time itself,

The way all life understands it,

Full and incomplete,

Always moving. Time is water.

Time is the huge falling

That we saw here, surely

A fair description.