Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Monday, January 21, 2019
Long day for us both
Field work hot sun
Resting later on
Taking off your boots for you
Then your socks
from her bath
It was a Sunday morning
When we decided to chase
The freight train flat on the
New Mexican plain —
Straight and longly forever
It seemed like the barren
Road we were on, rails
Running parallel, sun
Rising, three locomotives
Strong — we all galloped —
And when we reached
Ahead and to a bend in the
Road we stopped and ran out
As close as we dared and
Almost better than the
Sight of the train itself
Felt the earth shake at
Its approach up and down
Like a planetary drum
This shooting star comes
Thundering over the rise —
A good man knowing a
Good thing when he sees
It waves to us with two
Blasts of his train whistle
Quivering and heart-filling
Like the best folk song
what cloth I
have watched her
hand spread smooth
with an elegance
Sunday, January 20, 2019
Saturday, January 19, 2019
Friday, January 18, 2019
Thursday, January 17, 2019
The Old Poets of China
Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness, it does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.
1935 - 2019
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
You left me to re-attach myself
Carefully and only partly to someone else
While you finished your fling
With fast cars, married women, cocaine,
magic, and deception.
Now you begin a new life
With a young strong lady
To whom you give fidelity,
Honesty, and clean living.
I long to give this body —
Not to science, not to the fire,
I long to be given, whole
For the fish in the sea to nibble away.
I long to be buried, naked,
Under the earth, to be returned to the earth.
I want to be placed high,
On an altar made of sticks, for the birds,
For the birds of prey to feed on,
For the sun to whiten my bones.
I long, long to join myself
Back, back into all that life
From which I came.
I long, long to feed life directly.
A Chinese Painting
Up the mountain,
Are delicately, barely visible.
A chicken looks at
A butterfly looking at . . .
I think of Issa.
North Atlantic Books
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Monday, January 14, 2019
What a noise!
Pots that won’t
What does a writer do all day?
She or he writes
Some are successful
Most are not
Even if a book or books are published
Many millions of books go by the wayside
So now what is the writer but someone who writes and fails
Books are forgotten or no books are published at all
Years and even a lifetime could be wasted
Something else is accomplished
One becomes a sales clerk
While still writing at odd hours
The writing goes nowhere
But the sales clerk is very popular
People leave you very happy, bag in hand
You try to write a book about a sales clerk
No one cares
They’d rather you be the sales clerk
Who sells caramel candy
Because you are beautiful
Someone goes home and melts
That caramel in their mouth and
Smears the caramel across
Their teeth and lips
On the coldest day of winter
just to get-by
and it’s all about just getting-by
we took the two largest empty potato chip bags
in the house and fit them over our heads
I can’t get anything done
until she is out of my hair!
her eyes are that blue
her hair goes with the sun
the flash of her flowered dress in the air
and even when she is away
only momentarily, an errand to town
I’m thinking now of what I’m missing
here where I work in a woods ditch with shovel
laying in stone stairs which may as well be to the sea
since she’ll visit on her return and I’m grubby and
she steps lightly down each new step before anyone
saying how lovely it all is and all is fine
Sunday, January 13, 2019
The Journey Inward (Body Time No More)
From that which refuses my moth, I replace my hands.
From that which instigates the winter storms of my eyes, I open
On the pillow, a spot of snail blood, spittle of the vanish auk.
Where my left ear had lain in the moist warm, all noise of the world
Draw a bath of lightly caressed playing cards.
Ask me for the king of clubs, the jack of night sweats.
There is a place in my heart even I have not touched with
Try if you must, but know that—in extreme quiet—you too might
A divide opens up along the shelf of Antarctic ice.
On one side of the deck, it is cold. On the other, cold.
I do not speak any longer in ice moths or in irreparable twos.
I will not solve the dichotomy of this winged pain, even with an
Nor will I salve my own blue-bolstered bruise with dream talk and
I am not talking time any longer but a continental drift of ice
diamonds, devoid of the clutch of a kind hand or mouth.
That Moment of Wept
SurVision Books (Ireland)