46/365: first hours

in the first hours of morning
they say the mind is soaked
in its own dew.

things are undone in the night:

bows untied, and the ribbon left dangling
from the back of a white dress;

there is a gap in the fence
where slats have been removed -
no twisted nails, rusted heads looking
in all directions -
the weathered wood is just gone.

are your feet wet?
is that a blade
of grass on your toe?
where were you walking to
when I saw/was you in the moonlight?

49/365: invocation

take me to the place
I cannot go alone

(who am I invoking?)
(where am I ask you to take me?)

47/365: demon - deserts

"I hope you get what you deserve", I told my demon this morning.

We were carpooling together.

"Only people who deserve something terrible say things like that," she replied, sipping coffee from her skull-travel mug.

The mug looked at me, one lidless flesh eye still in place.

"Oh, drop me here," she added suddenly, when we passed a cop who had some tatted out, fat, truck-driving skinhead pulled over.  "I have work to do."

45/365: driving to work (published in Vine Leaves)

on the street where the grass grows tall

next to the wooden fences that have drank
the sun's whiskey heat too many days

I see an old man walking

as scarecrows walk in dreams:
his body rail tall and rail thin,
he leans on a drug store cane -
an adjustable aluminum tube with a grey handle
like a dusty Christmas decoration.

this is a sound bite of a life
out of context.

just as I pass him, he pauses in the path
using the stopper foot of the cane
to sweep up and aside
a curled page of newspaper.
it does not belong on the path
of the sidewalk-less shoulder.
this is a statement he wishes to make.

42/365: I used to sing

I used to sing
I tell them -

twice.

once
when I was young
for quartets, and concerts
with parts
and cryptic figures on a page

once
when not so much older
for long marches
feeling the rhythm in my feet and hands -
sweat in heat or
hand clapping for cold.

now there are songs

(this is my song
I find myself saying)
I sing myself,
but I have fewer illusions
that
what I assume you shall assume.

41/365: to not know

so this
is what it is to be old

really -

to know you are telling stories
to your children
but not to know if they think
"quaint"

when the wind from their lips makes a sound like
"that's so cool".

36/365: ice does not bend

ice does not bend.
it is hard,
until it is not.

this is a way of being.
hard,
and then flowing.

you cannot bend,
you who are made of ice.

and then you are gone,
soaked up
in the sand -
not more than a smudge.

35/365: fine

what I said -
that isn't what I meant.

I've been hammering on the phrase,
dipped it in the flickering flames
of simplicity
until it was white hot
in the tongs of my tongue

are your ears
as finely wrought as this?

I think I shall save it now
for someone else

after all.

31/365: empty classroom

after hours the classroom feels like a cave -
I never bother turning on all the lights
and so in the dimness I take account
like an anthropologist
of the artifacts the students leave
to mark their territory:
name plates, jars of candy,
an exercise ball rolled under the desk instead of a chair.
Some books, papers - pictures of their kids,
pictures by their kids.

yesterday they graduated - today I pass through
and all these things are gone -
like a primitive band of hunters
they have pulled up stakes
and all that is left are empty chairs.

I want to call them back -
wait - there was something else I wanted to tell you
it's the good part -
the punch line -
one final analogy that will bring it all together for you.

but I am already history -
part of a finished story.
it dawns on me that I am kin
with the painting of the cave bear.
I was never the teller at all.

29/365: a breather

I had to take a breather
so many rain drops were falling
during that last storm -
keeping track of them all
is a job I realized was best left
to the angels
to whom it had been assigned -
I have to admit I have other things
to do.

25/365

more tree poems.  I'm a little obsessed because I planted four of them yesterday.

***

what I wanted to say
about planting a tree
is that it is different than planting basil.
you know, because it's not.
basil.
I mean.

It's a tree, even if it's fruit bearing
you don't expect the yield and upshot
in a few weeks -
planting a tree is a setting down,
a setting in -
it takes time for roots to grow.
much must happen below
and out of sight
before anything meaningful can be
seen.

putting a tree into the earth
is putting branching dreams into the air.

you can like basil,
you can plant basil,
but you cannot dream basil.

11/365: native sounds

the shush of a passing car is just one
of the native sounds of the suburban night.
listen now to the chick-chick-chuck
of a wayward sprinkler kicking off,
and
don't call the HOA about that damn dog barking -
you can't fight Nature.

instead,
sit on your deck and contemplate
the flare of the streetlight shining
over your six-foot privacy fence -
it's like a personal star
the gods of public works,
circling the earth in their white pickup trucks,
have hung
                     
just for you.

***

This one inspired loosely by Carl Dennis's writing - particularly Practical Gods.Excellent, readable collection, by the way.

this is a make-up

this is a make-up -
missed time that can no more be recaptured
than the water that ran down the river yesterday.
where is that water that went by
when we weren't looking,
like your daughter's 4th year
or the third weekend after you were married
and you had to wash the floors
and do laundry.

**

Published in the Nov/Dec issue of See Spot Run