The darkness given off
by the shadows on the hills
calls the heart into a collusion
with wonder and suspicion.
Do they portend something
more than the beauty they
cast across the surface of the
earth and precincts of the eyes.
When do we read more into
what we behold; and, when
is that the way to go. For now
I’ll stop at grandeur not at omen.
And the river flows on by,
unaware of any hint of dilemma.
Grandeur, not omen.
Scattered beyond
the range of my
broadcasting throw,
the seeds of silence
took their root in
the spaces between
the rocks of the
walkway to the well.
And, the sprouts
and seedlings in
the cracks of the walk
sing their silences
aloud as we wend
our way nearer
the well. The well
of stillness and of
deep listening.
What could a word hold
if you gave it a chance.
Could it contain a string
of memories and meanings,
like a bag of candy on
Halloween. This one is from
the Smiths at the end of the
street who have a son name
Joey who plays army with me
on the weekends and lets me
sleep over. That one is from
Nana next door who lets me
stay at her house everyday
after school - milk and cookies
and a big swing set out back.
Might colors and music be
hidden deep inside, escaping
with a burst like a calliope or a
fireworks display. First a cymbal
crash and a pipe organ. Next
a fountain of endless blues and
silver.
Or do they already harbor
those associations within, just
beyond reach if we do not
listen, ruminate, and pause. Giving
ample space for their dimensions
to unfurl. Like the flags of countless
nations fallen limp until the great
gusts of wind grab them and
twirl them into dances.
It takes great sweeps of time to
press the juice out of a word.
Little by endless little; pressing,
always for more. Until. Until
the cup is full, the hint exposed,
the meaning grasped firmly and
that inner self sated and content.
Place all your intent in every word,
and pause - always for an instant or
more if you may - to soak up what
hides in the corner of every letter.
What could a word hold
if you gave it a chance.
Fair banks and hills about us lay, they rise along the river-side;
where sun and color soon retire,
and fade from view all light of day.
I’ll steal some red from cardinal crest,
and pillage blue from bluebird nape;
palm iridescent hues and shades,
and throw them in a bowl awhile.
To stir, and knead, and soon return,
the vivid touches of the day.
Lest as the darkness cover all,
my heart would miss this river so.
It comes to this.
When the weather cracks
and turns toward the north
and the cold. These wasps begin
to tumble. Every year I have watched
them and grown sad - every year.
It starts on that day when
the light shifts toward Autumn.
Every year I have had to say good-bye.
Perhaps they know it is coming.
Days and days before the crack,
before the turn, they become wild.
Frenzied. Unexamined. Like a man
with no connection to his senses.
Flight and attack, day after countless
day in August..
Swept into the corner (on
the slate walk) with the
golden leaves and dirt,
they are gone again -
for another year.
7 September 1995
Last week I nearly wept
at the fact of a “wish”
from a milkweed pod
burst upon the air that
flew between the windows
of my car in great gulps
of hot, hot air in a heatwave
that could have tortured a
soul into using the air
conditioning to escape.
Not just one, but easily twelve.
Twelve wishes I lamented I could
not hold, or touch, or even capture
the beauty and serendipity
of their arrivals. And yet, today, six
days hence and equally as hot, one
lone “wish” collected itself all together
and ambled through my car, circling
just beneath my nose - allowing my
heart to see that this was a response
to that. And, I could relish both as
wonderful - beyond all measure.
A pappus in my my mind “a while”,
but ever in my heart, and always on
the lineaments of my soul, which
each in turn, weave the meaning
of life’s every warp and weft.
One wish was this man’s salvation
on this oh so hot and gusty day.
And, that -
has also -
made
all the difference.
The Earth keeps time out
here with the sluushing and
the sloshing of the waves
and the water; hissing as it
retreats between the fronds
and bladders of the rock-weed
and fuci on the piers. Seaweeds.
In and out goes the tide. In and out.
The day wears on and on
as the water-stained piers
slowly lose their markings
of the lower tides which have
vanished. Covered bit
by bit by the advancing waters;
Muffling the hiss of the seaweeds.
In and out goes the tide. In and out.
Shadows, winds, and schools of
fishes mark the motion of life in
movements we note on calendars
and watches. Movements which
we have called time. But, the swirl of
activity noted from far, far away, is
infinitesimally incremental and
almost unnoticeable. The suchness
of our lives not making more of
a mark than the hissing of the bay
water between the bulbous fronds
of seaweed on a pier. A thought
which is soberly refreshing to me.
In and out goes the tide. In and out.
