LAMENTATIONS

 Ramon's old camp

LAMENTATIONS 

A wandering of the spirit

Clothed like an idiot

In the worst weather, issuing

Sounds that take the heart

Away slowly so one can watch

It leaving through the filtered

Light of the jungle,

Past a small clearing then

Disappearing for a lifetime.

One becomes attached to 

Living this way only because

There is little else one can call

Life but the high cries

From the canopy of night.

A Rustling of wings, some beast

Coughing into an even darker

Front where everything must

Be carried away by strangers.

We call loudly for our family,

Our brothers and sisters and the dark

Answers with measured howls and shrieking

They move the soul away from the body,

Expand everything we know toward

A false dawn or a golden moment late

In the day, evening in the mouth

Like rust, teeth clenched trying

To wake the moon to see

If it makes any sense at all;

Elemental traveling such as this,

The things we never get used to doing.

SPINNING BALLS

SPINNING BALLS

When we are not there is the only

Time it will arouse attention.

Three spinning balls larger than 

Questions work themselves into

A frenzy of needing someone to see

Them, but it is never us.  No matter

How hard our prayers become there

Is no way we can see them, even looking 

At mirrors does not serve us well.

I’ve been going through this dilemma

For years now, mostly after dark when

Without reason I become obsessed

With this idea as if it were a void

In my life.  I try to observe the scene

To no avail.  I am fervent even when 

It ceases to matter.   It seems as if 

I could win this one without a problem.

I’ve finally made the decision in advance;

To know how beautiful they are without having

To see them spinning there, throwing off

colors and sparks, dream-like mists,

A music never before heard.  It is 

Truly beautiful.  I will lead my life knowing this.

ANIOLY KARTY DO GRY (Angels Playing Cards)

This poem was published in my book A LIMITED MEANS OF EXPRESSION published in 2011 by Rattlesnake Press, Pollack Pines, CA.

ANIOLY KARTY DO GRY

(Angels Playing Cards)

There is too much light

In the room for anything irreconcilable

To happen.  It will be recorded

Inside the caves, on the battlefields,

Across the purple moors and darker prairies.

The cards are flipped down upon

The table, voiceless like generations

Forced to speak to each other

Through the dark

Doors of time.

For each card is unforgiven, unforeseen

With traces in its skin of the stillness

Before birth, The Ascent of Mount Carmel,

The Olympian crucifix with its living

Christus smelling like wars and collapse

Through fire of great empires.

There is no betting at all.  All blows away,

Just the open-mouthed angels constantly

Surprised at how the cards fall

As if by chance.

A GO

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.

A SURPRISE FROM THE WEATHER

A SURPRISE FROM THE WEATHER

Suppose this is nothing.

Suppose the clouds and the candy

Of birdsong, furred flutes of a pile

Of sleepy kittens, are nothing.

Curved flight of an eagle, smooth as flesh.

Pretty carts, yellow with children’s

Laughter, the preening carnivals of

Sleep, laced up with dreams, all pretty they are,

Full of the heart singing the names of God.

Oh the bears and the rivers and the

Blustery hills senseless with the stars,

They are so bright. Turtles, snowflakes

Quiet on the ice of their pond, the beauty of

Your thighs, the little noises that escape

Us when we are suddenly standing on high

Places, the phosphorus of the moment

Burst into flame, all this nothing.

Long ago, I walked here alarmed

That one day, as sure as shooting,

That angel would be walking out to

Meet the boatman, raise his hand to greet

Him and, beautiful rose of life, such a

Thought would rise up, hallelujah I

Find myself saying hallelujah to

The whole orchard, we are here together.

FINDING THE OLD LANGUAGE

 Wayne Thiebaud

FINDING THE OLD LANGUAGE

In a rage to know all things,

Or as many things as it is possible

To know when one is eleven years old.

The divine walking amongst

Our friends, choosing this one

And that one, taking them away.

Unlacing their memories,

Giving their recognition of others

To the winds, to the birds,

Both flying away in a flurry of noise.

Electrical storms across the brain

At any time; just sitting there,

Getting out of bed, walking from one

Room to another.

All that was familiar

Suddenly not at all

Understandable.

Time without borders.

Anything could happen

At any instant,

Or perhaps not happen at all.

Waking from a summer nap.

The light, enchanting, over everything,

Temperature and sound engaged

In a magnificence of waking.

The world, yes!

Rulers of the mind,

All chemicals and fires

In the neurons and synapses.

More and more information

Beyond explanation.

The half-remarkable question:

"What is it that we are part of,

And what is it that we are?"

*

The delight of the dance,

The endless business of water.

That which is love,

Beneath the stars,

Inside all of sleeping,

Surrounded by its

Insistence on forever

Waking once again in the same

Room. Still here upon the Earth.

Doing things that become familiar,

To us. No longer surprised

By every act, by each event.

Moving through the day,

Learning laughter and

Helping one another to

Understand how something

Works. Finding the old

Language, the color, the

Limited means of expression.

MAKING YOUR NAME

 Frank Richardson

MAKING YOUR NAME

The wind, in from the desert,

Ruined from running through

The litany of winter, barely able

To speak.  Still, now it attempts

To say your name.  Blows through

The vowel sounds, leaving them

In the trees.  chases birds across

Alfalfa.  Their bodies make letter forms,

Change into wheels.  Unable to land

They find shelter in the ditches,

Clutching weed stalks, rocking.

Walking past the cottonwoods,

I hear it clearly for an instant,

Your name.  Impossible in such

Late weather, but there, nevertheless

Or perhaps it is other, a scraping

Sound of branches against themselves,

Well above the ground.  Perhaps

This is not language, this time.

Perhaps I am wrong.

Wind inside my coat, through

The neck, forcing words from my mouth.

They make your name, as if I had

No choice, as if I were the desert,

Or, at best, a part of winter too,

full of hands, waving, waving.