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.