THE WINDS OF CHANGE

THE WINDS OF CHANGE

We had been traveling for many days.

The far lands still seemed as far away

As ever.  Everyone looked young, ready

To devour whatever might be placed

Before us.  We had a million ideas.

From the evening hills, just before the dark

The purple winds could be seen gathering.

We had no idea what they were, only that

They seemed ominous and unwelcoming.

By the time they were upon us all was

Confusion.  I could not see past my own 

Hand.  Voices could be heard but it was

Impossible to identify anyone because 

The wind claimed even their voices.

We had no idea when the wind passed,

Only that we were no longer young, that

It was harder to see due to the dust

In the air.  We were scattered but still

Traveling.  We tried to regroup, to find

Our friends from before the winds.

The sun was much less bright, so many 

Looked familiar.  The dogs had wandered off.

TASTING THE DIRT

This poem was part of my MFA thesis back in the late 1980's.  It has remained a favorite of mine and I think I should read it at readings more often.  I haven't read it in public for years.

TASTING THE DIRT

Not speaking the language,

I spoke in another language.

What speaks?

Does it speak for the heart?

Does it speak for time?

Is this the part of morning?

Must we always question

With desire, unhinged and hanging

Like a hook into samsara?

Will we find a mouth

In touching the edges of our dreams,

Feeling them like cloth used

To wrap the body, used to stop

The weeping, used to carry us

From loving, somehow children

Again and able to understand everything?

Will we be able to stand here with one

Another, spinning through our lives,

Fire, a metaphor, our clothing, a metapohr,

The great halls of our hearts,

A metaphor, dancing this way,

A metaphor.

Save us from other meaning,

From knowing our visions

As anything other than the singing

That they are, from the clumsy

Fabric we assemble to show

That we are the loved ones of time.

Yes, the night does come and

It is beautiful and the day too, we

Wear around us, weather, the

Reflection of all our emotions,

Clouds, our thoughts describing

The mystery of being here.

And yes, the sky is such a brilliant blue.

I shall know you forever.

There is no ground to stand that

Is not ourselves.  There is no sound

That is not language.  Not speaking

The language, I speak in this peculiar way,

So you may know I am among you.

SONG

Patrick Grizzell and I sang this song together long ago.

SONG

We are drifting over plains.

We are prisoners of the wind.

There is nothing we can say.

There is no place to begin.

We are higher than the clouds.

It’s a thing we can’t explain.

When we touch inside each other

It is very like the rain.

We are standing in the music.

We are always making love.

We do not expect forever.

We are always making love.

We are drifting over plains.

We are prisoners of the wind.

There is nothing we can say.

There is no place to begin.

WE HAD BEEN WALKING

WE HAD BEEN WALKING

We have been walking out here

For a very long time.  The dark

Colored glass of this valley

Was making us sick.  It might

Have been the smell that roiled

Through dressed like a five year

Yearning for blind angels to

Ministrate to us about the great

Mysteries.  

God, she looked

So beautiful as the ornaments

Of sleep crept into her face.

We couldn’t stay here any longer

Let alone wait for the great

Wings to show us what was

Really meant by those circles

Beaten into the stones telling

Us to love all things.  There was

Unrest in the weather.

We watched them cock their

Rifles and come down the rows.