sun is unfolding across my face
freckled and lined
by all those
ancient summers worn
by dust and seared green pines
fragrant sap sticky as preserved
amber of peaches
warm from the stove
stirred in the ancient black pot
of fore-mothers
and from their hands
this tongue
their song, sung in wordless
voice
murmuring incantations above
pots and babies and lovers bodies
asleep in the shade
of a hot July afternoon
sweet water from the well
casts the evenings magic spell
as the fiddlers resin up their bows
mandolins court and spark
in early summers dark
lighting fireflies to twinkle and glow
its not every night but now
we sing and tell stories how
we lived and dreamed and truly loved
its not every night but when
we gather up to dance again
and music rises
to the summer moon above
so grab your partner
coo and dove
hug your friends and swing your love
cause all we have is the music
and the stars
its not every night but now
we are here and this is how
we celebrate the music
of our lives
I am longing for my friends and our summer nights filled with music and laughter.
This was written a few years ago and some of us have moved away and some have died. But this will always be my memory of our friendships and our love in a very specail place and time.
I read translations of poetry, books
written in a language I do not understand
which become books of poetry
in my language, I do not understand
I wish I spoke another language.
All I have is this cursive inked stained
language, spoken to my dead parents
and brother when I read prayers and psalms
of a dead king in translation.
I do speak a bit of wildness, river song
and maybe old catfish dialect that no longer
is in fashion or wanted or needed.
But there are times when we sit together,
the small brown sparrows and I
and we can communicate in sign language,
no feeding the birds or stop
look and listen
it is quiet
not quiet like completely silent
there are sounds of finches, a robin,
cooing doves, the rain
but quiet
away from cities and busyness and traffic
where I can hear my soul ticking like a tiny
alarm clock
the kind you used to see
sitting on the desk of your favorite aunt
or teacher
or your grandmothers vanity
I listen to that faint tick
and wonder if I have done enough
in my time
to bring peace
before the mechanism justs runs down
there are 36 righteous men in the world
holding our places to heaven
their foot in the door
keeping it wedged open
so we can slide in
no matter whether we listened to the
ticking
and did our best
to find quiet
and peace in this fraught world
the world as I know it
quiet snores from the easy chair
soft light from a clouded sky
James Taylor singing
you are my only one
scent of magnolia and honeysuckle
mingle in perfumed spring breeze
the world can seem
unchanged and changeable
kindly benign and swiftly cruel
it is
the door was ajar
open to the night
and its calls
and untraceable
sounds, rustling in the wind
wildness panting at the door
the masks they wear
loud mouths painted
and eyes covered
shielded from glare of sun
and moon
unselfconscious in their fury
wildness panting at the door
more than anything
wandering in the dark
they are what I fear
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be still
my heart flutters and
I wonder if I have forgotten my medication
my heart flutters
like a small butterfly wafting
against the cool morning breeze
there are no symptoms
of anything other than Spring
just Spring and all that goes with it
my heart flutters
Spring in the year of the plague
the sincerity of light
as the sun moves
from its morning to afternoon shade
its good natured
as nature most times can be
resting easy on the shoulders of old oaks
and old women
gently easing chilled worries and tender buds
from winters long ill-ease
its the goodfaith
of spring sunlight
as it sometimes hides behind gray clouds
or buildings, dark and shuttered,
the faith that its light will shine out
even if its in the face
of the April egg moon
And you can see in its earnestness
in the warmth of setting
blazes
scarlet and gold
gold enough to hold in your hand
to hold tightly in your hand
until the next mornings light
in-between
space in midst
of thought and action
exhalation
inhalation
in-between
knowledge
of before
and
after
the present
moment
nexus
point of now
when all creation
holds
its
breath
Moving to the moment
With the eye widening
Heart stopping
Awareness
Of
Eternal
Incarnational
Now
I write you from the edge of things
the corners of rooms
and margins of old atlases
where dragons live
and sea monsters swim
It is here where I marvel at each dawn
and wonder if you are well
and sleeping
and have enough to eat
enough to dream
I write to you from the center
of the universe as I know it
the tiny corner of space
where you used to live
and where your voice sang hymns
of praise and restoration
