TO my ROOMIE!

On a cold winter day when the snow and stone
somberly sat in the cold all alone
and the wind in the trees
was a whispering breeze
murmuring low in sad cemetaries
I ventured abroad
over the sod;
I was mad
and tad
bit angry at God.
"Why not more snow? Why this dusting disgusting?
If you're really divine, then the sky should be busting!"
And sullen I wandered this way and that,
thwacking thick slabs with my un-needed hat
and thinking dark thoughts about sunshine and school
and forgetting completely the number one rule-
Don't walk through a graveyard reading off names
when you're angry at God. The mind likes to play games
it's the best worst sort of king
you might just find a name with too familiar a ring.
Thus did it pass, while enrapt in my self,
I stumbled and fell. And there on a shelf
of ice and of stone, graven clear and unworn
was the name "Rachel Reiley." I swear and I've sworn
many times since that day
that I saw what I saw and that's still what I'll say.
I saw her fair name cut quite horribly sharp
and beneath it a picture of a child-sized harp.
"Rest now, Beloved, rest and be warm.
Hawaii will miss your grace and your charm."
Frozen I stood, tears froze as they fell.
My roomate? My Rachel? Now like a door-nail?
I fled past the trees, sombre and stil,
I fled past the tombstones as I ran up the hill.
I fled and I fled just as hard as I could,
but it didn't matter, it did me no good.
For no sooner than breathless at home did I get,
then I found Reiley dead. Quite dead.
That was it.

And no matter the days that lie in between
that ‘then’ and this ‘now’, I’m sure what I’ve seen.
People may whisper and preachers may rant,
but this really happened and conceal it I can't.
I know what I know and I saw what I saw.
(yet I think Rachel died because she ate sushi, raw).

pet me, please

she came in and jerked the thermostat over to 80. She didn't look at today's mail or reach for the WSJ, but just sat on the couch by the radiator. She looked so small and cold that I was moved with pity. It would be awhile before the room warmed up. In a leap, I was on her lap. Humans have such inefficient systems - no fur! However, she did not begin absently stroking me. She just stared at the wall.

I began to purr, partly in panic. what was wrong with my human?

• bulle
• t
• poin
• ts

1. s
2. i
3. m
4. p
5. l
6. i
7. f
8. y

unlike colored fonts

Lee’s Mary Anna

______________________________
I buried my heart southeast of desire
far from streams or cities
under a spring green sky.

I could have laughed or wept
but I just hollowed out a little place
and walked away.

There is only one man I would follow blindfold
and his grey-head rests gently
under a spring green sky.
I buried him northwest of sorrow.

Review

she cringes from her former eloquence - the essence of love can depart so quickly from letters!

i'd rather burn at the stake/than dream of your face
it's dark interspace/without you real
pour on the oil/pile the dry wood high
don't wanna dream of you girl/i'd rather die

ohooohohohooohohooooo memories on fire smoke & waver/prayin' to be free from her black forever


don't light up night, don't strike a match
i'll be all right if you don't watch
all flesh & bone and all time will pass
if it's gonna hurt this bad, i may as well crash down
down...........

(songwriting: 5 am)

You should've been born
when life still held some mystery
You should've been born
before the demon's wrote our history
Within the circle fell the day
you entered time and had to stay

i'm sorry for the way it happened....

you should've been born
when kindness walked upon the earth
you should've been born
with stars that had a different birth
you coulda been, you would've been, you shoulda been, you should've been born

onward.

"I want" -
how often writers start that way
expressing not so much eternal truths
as stating
the centricity
of
human need
for a provider.

i want to write poems into being
unleash them onto an unsuspecting world
catapult verses through the bewildered pupils
of the tired eyes
of my friends.
i want to be friends with all of creation.

I WANT TO GO HOME!

"We who live in this nervous age would be wise to meditate on our lives and days long and often before the face of God & on the edge of eternity. For we are made for eternity as certainly as we are made for time, and as responsible moral beings we must deal with both.
"He hath set eternity in their heart," said the Preacher, and here he sets forth both the glory & misery of men. To be made for eternity & forced to dwell in time for mankind is a tragedy of huge proportions. All within us cries LIFE and PERMANENCE, and everything around us reminds us of mortality and change." - a.w. tozer, knowledge of the holy, page 41

Questions:
1. WIll man have a perfected will in heaven?
2. Why do we pass up the beautiful intimacy of prayer for human whine-sessions?
3. Where are the other hungry Christians?

W H E R E (written because i had no idea these were all words!)

wherefrom the songbird?
whereupon the night?
whereat the songbird
whereto in flight?

wherein the sorrow
wherewith the tears -
whereby Time ruffles
wherethrough the years.

Kipling's Ladys

We have seen better days & worn better hats,
spoken brilliant words to smitten diplomats;

We've paraded down the Strand & dazzled it with style
we've argued for our pound of flesh & won our golden mile.

We have had better courage & won better wars
rescuing dinner parties from old British bores.

We've lit the stove of scandal & helped the flame of love
We have given timid Cupid many a gentle shove.

We've laughed through rain & sung the Season through.
scorning High Society when scorn was due.

London, don't you miss us, exiled out here?
But soon we'll be returning. Milliners beware!

A LETTER

Dear lord christ,
this world that holds together in the
glory
of your true unity with Father God -
this world is bound in decaying subjection to Time.

oh lord christ! this world is hungry
&
it feeds on patience & gulps down endurance
until
the table of my heart is bare & only crumbs remain to offer you.

it seems like everyday i rise early to prepare
your favorite things;
before the sun rises i gather spices for the wine &
i never forget to add salt to the meat.

As soon as everything is cooked, i ring the dinner bell to call you in....
but somehow
the hungry world
shows up
first
and the table of my heart grows bare & only crumbs remain to offer you.

i apologize, lord christ. this world is hungry
& I haven't learned how
to
bar the door against its appetites.

but i will try again.
You are cordially invited to dinner tomorrow, March 26.

Love,
cate

P.S. perhaps, & i ask this humbly, you wouldn't mind doing a potluck?

the timeliness of grace & sun
has left my bitter soul
undone.

i thought God dour, sword in hand
yet spring's a song of his
command.

Lord of lovers? Lover of green
paid sin's price with sorrow
unseen.

what manner of a God is this,
granting foolish girls such
bliss?

Where is the empty Christ the world gives up?
He's gone.
Instead the Bridegroom holds a brimming cup.

I would have come he said, but i woke up when i got out of bed
and
it threw off my groove.

but it's my party

duck down and hide, O trembling soul,
avoid the rays of dawn.
let not sweet morning greet thy face
let God not find thee in this place
where willfull sins thick feed on grace
and profane hands his Words erase
keep quiet, soul, and out of sight
walk in th' shadows 'til next night

[march]

i contend
nothing so new, nothing so tender
nothing so spring-like the day can render
as a tottering calf on tender green grass,
big-eyed with wonder at clouds as they pass.
He's indignant with raindrops & stays by his mother
and this is the best part
of spring
in
its
wonder.

Delivering a pizza

don't you DARE be ungrateful
i
done used a waitress smile on you,
and
ain't nobody gets fractious with a waitress smile.

imperfections

Tangling with faith
edgy
or heavy-handed
.
both palms up, yet labeled
untenderly
an alien & stranger

they see

a quixotic caricature
of
an eager penitent
drawn out
visible

mene mene tekel parson
but
fear is a social construct
long
deconstructed

The Lord looks after his own.
He is not slow as the world counts slowness.

A Plea

Watchman, what do you prize?

What in you seeks improvement?

Distinguish yourself, man, with truths beyond these miserable walls. Raise our thoughts to higher heights, transport us far from these squalid scenes of misers & beggars & fools--please. What is worthy of notice in the other sphere? Render yourself to reflections on freedom, & Life & the real. It's airless here, and the darkened sky seems to be influencing our companions. Retrieve these moments from the brink of destruction!
Oh! Let your expressions fill up the gap, let your words battle the creeping despairs that besiege me in this place of sloth & licentiousness - TURN THE CONVERSATION TO THE ETERNALLY BEAUTIFUL!

Thursday morning: Easton, PA

piano notes & footsteps up the street
March day in Easton
where the houses sit patiently
on the hill
and watch the train trestle-bridge
rise.
MONARCH FURNITURE STORE just got a customer.
It's business as usual, red trucks and red bricks
and the red eyes of
the old man outside our hotel
who keeps trying
to steal a cup of instant lobby coffee.
Pennsylvania, your trees stand tall in the weak winter sunlight
but
your people are trapped in the shade
of
grey grey grey buildings.

honestly, she said, if i can't kill orcs i want to write poetry

cliche

he said to make a long story short
my lips are sealed
& she nodded but she's worn her heart on her sleeve for ages.
it's been years since i've had a square meal, she said, &
i'm skin & bones inside
but a penny saved is a penny saved
&
love conquers all.

you can lead Trouble your horse to Waterloo by burning bridges over still waters running deep but be ready to pour oil and don't throw the baby duck out with the hell-or-high watermark

small windows widen out
to harbors, vistas, long peninsulas
of
time.

vast vast vast is the world of men
and
wide the sky
before we
die

time

Caritas

"Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within." -James Baldwin

Yet love's force is not all liberation.

It's power is not just the power to remove, but to bind.

It is a forged chain of labor that spans both the quiet & the troubled days, and yet it is more.

Love can be facade, or thrive in a cage of smoke & mirrors.

It is an ocean where no ship makes harbor; it is a desert where all thirst and all falter; it is a starless night that somehow still glitters strange beauty, and it is a heavy burden that distinguishes not hours from years, and must be carried from the graveside.

Our love scrapes and scrapes, yet leaves beneath the dull ache of unfufillment - we have not got past ourselves, deep into the inner circles of the heart.

Human love is a helpless sort of thing, confused with drama and petulent, like a child trying to learn to read.

Love takes off masks and replaces them.

Love is a labyrinth that leads infrequently to the sun.

It is a shadow-grail to be sought after, seldom found and only fully realized at death.

King David, a man with depth of heart, says to the LORD alone, "Your love is better than life."

I too praise divine love, and long to dwell umasked & real within the shelter of that mystery.

Thoughts from Sunday

"We must get quickly every day to the inward things, to the soul." - Jerry Alway

Dabble, dabble in the water
order well your skin & hair
daily deck and double check
your outward self in semblance fair
but within you, o within you
slumbers deep your breathing soul
source of all your truest errors,
joys and thoughts and secret terrors-
will you wake it? Will you wash it?
Will you seek to rouse it now?
Raise a mighty-hearted screaming or your soul will stay deep-dreaming,
content with many layered-living, senseless to the God of giving,
slave to petty, selfish grieving.
Call loud across the coming weeks, at every day's new break
Call loudly to your sleepy soul and keep it wide awake.
Plunge it whole into the water,
dabble dabble in the water,
wake it with the real, clear Water
all to clear & cleanly make.
.

We Are Friends

Perhaps when your time is nearly come,
you will finally rest your white head
and we will have time to talk.
I will lay beside you on an outspread quilt
dappled with the sun.
We will both be old.
I will make sandwhiches
while you eat cheese, and we will talk earnestly of love
and loss and the worship of the abstract, and we will talk just as earnestly about
soccer and memories and the proper way to eat a steak.
There will be laughter and
nothing will interupt us there, on the brink of eternity,
except maybe the skyline-sighting of a hawk
or a soft song of silence.

we are friends, you & I.

sep. ar. ation.

Another lucky-penny sunrise.....

....windy day....

thinking of you.

February 9

Re-tar the torches, arrange the incense -
the party is about to start.
Put on your headress
the one with the gemstones -
i've angled all the mirrors to catch the light,
your head will dazzle with the fire of a thousand stars!
you are sure to stun them,
go on.
you're so good at this.

oh my friend, don't you realize,
my retinas will be burned with glory too -
i will not be able to recognize the guests
but only stand aloof,
smiling through the smokey haze,
longing to dance,
but
too blinded to move.
we may drink from different sides, but we all drink from the same goblet.

stockpot: rhymes for later

fair hair
sweet feet
high sky
town gown.

stung tongue
full grown
grand hand
stone bone

cream dream
bird word
leaf grief
room gloom

blurred word
bring thing
brush rush
night flight

fragment

True to form, mirror true
you dye your eyes to midnight-blue.
You tie your tie, you cut your hair
I'd know your falsehoods anywhere.

Black as night, raven-black
I hide from you and your attack
I shut my ears and shield my heart.
Your love is tearing me apart

"Even ornaments of speech are forms of deceit." - History of the Royal Society

It's 1667. Reason is everywhere, saving
for the future, ordering a small glass of wine.
Cause, arm in arm with Effect, strolls by
in sturdy shoes

Of course, there are those who venture
out under cover of darkness to buy a bag
of metaphors or even some personification
from Italy, primo and uncut.

But for the most part, poets like Roderigo
stroll the boulevards in their normal hats.
When he thinks of his beloved, he opens
his notebook with a flourish.

"Your lips," he writes, "are like
lips."

-ron koertge-

wake up, brother

He prides himself on his mud-eyed dreams;
he thinks himself imminently practical.
He never joins my hair-brained schemes.
I think it's time for something tactical.

Magnetic poetry - what does your fridge say?

who can stand near
not couching or close about
Keep now no matter here
or small tear will open out
Present her the longest way
give her a gentle why

slow moment too full to tell
if some blood is better

hope must die here
inspiring everlasting hell
but

strong he delivered his embrace
around her heart
& there flowered her heart:
the strength of trust.

another monday morning

Go jump off a cliff, she said. At least you're good at gravity.

R E V E L A T I O N 9

Smoke & sulphur pour from
my horse's mouth--
the trumpet has sounded,
and one slash of light
records the descent of
a star.

Across the blood-red ocean
Woe, woe, woe
mixes with the hail.
The idols of gold, silver
bronze and bone
have eyes, but see not
my iridescent breastplate.

Loosed, the locusts masquerade
as scorpions.
Wholesale torment
writhes - these are the days of men
yet I must approach the golden altar
and
obey.

Injury. Demons. Hunger and thirst -
all this tribulation
for the sign and seal of a king?

AND THERE WAS WAR IN HEAVEN.....

[thoughts on lewis] [great divorce]

prove all things

i insist.

prove love strong,
prove thirst was made for water
prove the preposterous
is sometimes
the possible.

prove agony is glory-
twilight bleeds to morning.
reconcile purgatory with eternal bliss.

i insist.

prove a good man good,
prove the Ancients wise,
prove the Shadow of Death eventually dies.

you have lived a sheltered life,
you have not seen how far Hell extends its misery.
you have been an earthly knight,
you have been ignorant.

ghosthood awaits,
and still i demand

prove all things.

from the highest place to the lowest, I brought healing and joy.
i have proved in blood:
their weapon will be broken

[another saturday of mock trial]

Beast drill at dawn. Set out your boots
and kit, you'll have to gear up in the dark.
Pack light, sleep hard. Rendevous at Dearborn Park.
What, soldier? Don't be asinine. Practice doesn't make perfect
perfect practice makes perfect.

Saturday - semi-sabbath

Morning sunlight through the trees paints my sight with grace
it falls upon the waking hills
it gilds the winsome winding rills
the fears of night it softly kills
and
I drive on.

Your faith outpours from your life in such an evident way - we didn't even need to preach to the Macedonian countryside, the gospel in your life was so obvious to your neighbors!" -paraphrase of 1 Thes 7:8

CONTRAST

re: eternity

Sweep the hills for survivors,
turn aside and search every miserable inn you can
find in this
God-forsaken place;
I want every breathing thing
assembled
outside my tent in the morning,
understand?

"Sir, yes. But Sir...well, they're mere boys, the lot of them. They'll bring back the beggars and the whores and the plague-carrying vermin of the streets - Sir, this will not bring us anything but......trouble."

What are you suggesting? That we should poison the wells? Subaltern, as you probably have noticed, this place is six inches shy Hell itself already. Man was born to draw his breath in pain, but damn it, I'm going to give him a chance to breath it in, if I can.

Sweep the hills for survivors.

from WHERE SHALL WISDOM BE FOUND?

Will they ever come to me, ever again,
The long long dances,
On through the dark till the dawn-stars wane?
Shall I feel the dew on my throat, and the stream
Of wind in my hair? Shall our white feet gleam
In the dim expanses?
-Euripides (from the Bacchae)
trs.by Gilbert Murray

Quite so.

"Today my young sisters dressed up and made me draw pictures of them (they all were in artistic moods) but none of them liked the noses I gave them. A sensitive issue, noses; one never quite knows how to properly point out the simple fact that all humans have them, some long some not, some flatter than wider, some cute and some noble.
After a weary bit of defending my representations of that small organ, I concluded that when faced with whether to admire someone's nose or not, always stick with eyebrows. Just say, "You have very exotic( or intriguing, or beautiful-arching, mysterious, ect.) eyebrows" and whoever it was that was fishing for gracious speech will almost always be extremely pleased, because that is not something one hears in one's general converstation."

Viola

For, sometimes at least, love
is vanity. Irises tarred with tears
& the slow death of admiration.
Other times, it is worse, for it is so true it dies itself to live;
is hidden when at ripest,
"Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me..."
and all the while apples
of desire fall
softly
in the Duke's orchard.
Crows fly down and feast
as they ferment.
The odor of love is sometimes a difficult thing.



dry as a desert is my tongue in my throat
dry as a riverbed that can't float a boat
parched as a camel, gasping like a fish
Another diet coke is my only wish.

I reached rather slowly ,then grabbed for a can-
Gadzooks! They're both empty, I don't understand
I need it for life, for brutal survival
but Rachel drank it up. SHe's my bitterest rival.
Mr. Pibb would not sate her, nor Sprite fill her up
so she stole my heart's love, she drain'd my last cup!

I shall not let it die
though other loves intrude
or throng the green lawns that once were bare apart from you.
Forget the pain, the half-won smiles
given so freely? Do you see that river there, just through the trees?
It has been there since before the wild deer thirsted
or man admired the threads of moonsilk that play upon it in the dark.
So, so it will be with thou and I

did milton know he was going blind?
is that the same feeling as walking into a hospital with an infection in your right hand KNOWING they will cut it off and part of you will be gone?

IF ONLY PROFESSORS WOULD SAY SO

your bar chart
is a work of art
that rivals even
the dramatic art
of
Rene Descarte
at the marriage mart
when he tried to start
to enlarge his heart
with a woman who liked lobster tart,
a la carte.
For the most part,
take heart.
You've made a start

I'd offer back my cupped hands if they brimmed
with sincere water,
or if they sheltered some soft-winged thing from harm -
i really would, i swear.

But what I hold in these two palms is blackened with despair
and filth
and every kind of lie - I'd die before I'd bring it to you, most Beloved,
nor will I ever grieve you with my shame,
these hands that hold this heart cannot but maim the ritual greeting
friends offer friends.
Please let me go and
offer both broken hands to the jailor. He understands
the price I owe.

You shall not go.

You do not know how willingly I've burnt & charred & cut my chest apart...
You do not know my daily will to sin, you did not see my love depart...

I do. I did. I know your heart. Unclasp your hands and give it all to me.
Do you not know, dear friend, that I can set you free?

sometimes i get afraid all at once of the future.
What if I choose wrong,
what if I drape my days over the wrong bannister,
come up short in the half-mile sprint,
or drown in an ocean without mermaids?

woo me away from thoughts of myself, narrow airless empty;
plant the something that is me deep
into the ground
where i can die quietly
and nourish something small
that needs it.

I will not live an unlived life.
I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,

to make me less afraid, more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;

to live,
so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.
—Dawna Markova

In the Gallery with Death

"Excuse me, Sir. I hope
you don't find me rude,
but I think I have seen you here before.
Do you frequent this gallery often?
The art is lovely, I must say, though you missed a fine collection of murals, done of the War."

"Yes. I am
drawn back day after day, the Sunday not divided from the week,
nor the Monday from the Thursday, et cetera. Mark the
exquisite detail, the craftsmanship they all display -
meticulous to a fault. It would seem
as though even the imperfections were
proposed and executed by a master-painter,
some Renaissance Apollo obsessed with detail.
The colors riot
with such vivid personality
my mind is beside itself.
Perpetual astonishment - true genius
leaves a watermark, can't be forgotten or
brushed aside. This one
for instance,
this girl in the hat summons
visions. You can almost hear the laughter of
summer days caught in the curve of a May rainbow.
Look, how perfectly her eyes reflect an unseen Sun!
I think I need buy this one
today."

"Buy it? Ah, Sir, I fear this is a private collection
belonging to a most obstinate Señora. I do not wish
to trouble you, but Señora de la Vida does not sell.
You are smiling, Sir? Indeed, you do not know the
Lady if you think you shall persuade her otherwise."

"Friend, I thank you for your concern. But I will buy
the "Young Woman in Straw Hat" and the "Spinster Reading"
and several others too.
You see, I know Señora very well; she relies on me.
Her gallery is small, this edifice too diminutive by half,
to display each masterpiece she acquires.
She will sell.

"How happy a chance for you, then, with such friendship
to obtain such fine works. Perhaps the finest
is the painting of the old woman with
her prayer book open on her knee. How it softens the heart! Her very attitude
and attire reassures faith; I hope you
hang her in a place of honour, as well
as yon merry maiden.
I have been long in this hall
just to share the hour with such clear eyes and red lips!
She fills the quiet air with hope of better days."

"Yes, quite so. Well, they will have the same honour as the others, for I treat every canvas equally. Do not grow surly with me, friend.
Perhaps you are too young know this truth,
but all art, beauty, youth and vigor is destined
for a private collection somewhere or other.
And I am no crass collector,
but a connoisseur of almost
immortally classical taste.”

only once

He could remember not being able to handle the precision of black-on-white,
red-on-black-on-white;
only once before
in a different time when the world was his home. Her dress, the collar coming around her throat, and her throat beneath suddenly scarlet cheeks when he kissed her hand. One dance, slowly around the perameters of the room, the perameters of the universe, with her sharp and soft in front of him. He could not handle it; he gave her his heart.

black-on-white-on-red.

the long procession of mourners under the sky, the pages of the priest's book & the roses.

the whites of their eyes. the coffin. her crimson lips.

he could not handle the precision of dying, of black hats and the fact that it's all over in one day.

but it only takes one day of black-and-white to forget color.

The Ballad of Joy and Pain

peacock screams & starstruck dreams
(such pretty words and pretty birds)
drown in color, be my brother
(come take a chance and join the dance)
spin spin spin and break away
run the dawn 'til break of day

(oh we'll break it and we'll mend it come with me I know you'll spend it)

kiss the raindrop as it falls, laugh at Fortune when she calls
firewalk on Saturn's rings, we've the wonder breathing brings
brother, catch me but don't fetch me
from this blissful fountain font
Death can't change it or arrange it,
for our love was set in stone
gild the lily, go to France
or hide from me in pale Romance.
try to tear it, i can bear it

(i'm safe from lies, anchored wise,
in the harbor of your eyes)

you said to live like a living ghost and give to the uttermost

i'm trying.

ACTUS REUS

We yell and sin.
we pray to you with coarse words in coarse mouths.
we hate Nineveh and call eagerly for fire.
We unbridle anything half-tamed, lusting for freedom on out own terms.
we die little deaths & dig little graves
and we love the sacred raisin cakes at the funeral feast.
eve's daughters fence with adam's sons
and blood covers even the edges of the holy ground.
we get sick, stale, stuck, mired & unloved and caged
and then we yell and sin
with faces wet with tears and hard hearts
that turn to water
and sin is beaten back,
if we yell for Jesus
because he is the beater-back, crusher of darkness, the one
who takes the
hurricane of pain so that we can
yell and sin
another day.

Hallelujah

Lazarus' neighbor the morning after, at the well with Martha

Forgive me for being sensational,
but I need to know: Did he sleep well all night?

the problem is that it needs to be interesting enough to justify eyesight

lucky for me I live on earth.

Waking Up

a look from your eyes
and I lie bewildered in their net
my irridescent scales caught and quelled,
immobile.

a laugh from your throat,
and my heart breaks from a half-smile into a rolling ocean
overwhelming past and future, furious joy
unending to sweep away eternity,
unbound.

a touch from your hand
and i gasp. its small sureness inspires into me
radiant belief
"I EXIST, I AM, I LIVE"
which departs too quickly on white wings,
in flights of rapture,
imaginary.

three-layer cakes
and christmas plates
glowing in the candlelight
on this holly jolly night
tree stands tall
it's a ball
to play or do anything at all
freedom freely flowing through
the wreathful rings and weather blue
praise Jehovah
and the man
our fathers both who pay and plan

Midnight song

what do you do when the moon
is a silver wafer in the sky
and the barley field is blowing
and whispering
all night long?

Leap up! Tiptoe out of the tent
and run!
RUN! Barefoot
(the grass is crunchy with frost)
Bareheaded
(white haired with the starlight)
Barehearted
(God himself can see the thanksgiving
welling up out of your eyes
flooding the woods and fields
and drowning the song of the wind)

old thoughts

somehow open-hand and hearted words are here upon my tongue;
you're treating me like it isn't stained dark with forbidden fruits.
why does the bread rise only after it's entombed under a dishcloth?
when does the chick know to possess its yellow fluff and muscle its way out?
and why, why, why o Lord of knowing, why must i be weariness and blood,
doubt your strength in each minute, but not your eternal victory?

i love you now like i wanted you all my life

**********************************************************************************

Prelude

How could I love you more?
I would give up
Even that beauty I have loved too well
That I might love you better.
Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give—
I can but give you of my flesh and strength,
I can but give you these few passing days
And passionate words that, since our speech began,
All lovers whisper in all ladies’ ears.

I try to think of some one lovely gift
No lover yet in all the world has found;
I think: If the cold sombre gods
Were hot with love as I am
Could they not endow you with a star
And fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?
Could they not give you all things that I lack?

You should have loved a god; I am but dust.
Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.

-Richard Aldington

Almost....

The bald man wept and the donkey brayed
and Judas kissed our Lord betrayed
He sung in death to a demon choir
this hell-on-earth will end in fire
but now snow melts as small hands grip
misery tight like a blacksnake whip
savior save while deadman die
this, O Christ, is our christmas cry

On the shores of Lethe....

Death,
where did you learn
those queenly
manners and big-hearted ways?
You must have watched her days
so thickly
crowned with May-singing, until
Death.


Think.
Withold it, Cate.
make a fist,
keep the small ones for tomorrow
out of sight. You can borrow
the old list
if needed. Wait.
Think.

wrk. i. prog

Three tremble words white on the page
spread their little wings
and fly in spiral rings
around the tiny mountain of our age

Three knights ignore a weeping page
while waiting in the wings
can't stop, the bell rings
too bad he's small for his age.

Blotches and scratches adorn the page
their vows have lost their wings
though hands retain the rings
Love, like cheese, can smell with age.

ENOUGH ALREADY!

She gave me a watch that says tick-tock
but it doesn't match my party frock
I'll know just when it's half-past three
But I'll be such sight to see.
Father thinks I'm young and vain
but things that clash cause me such pain
Aunt Sarah says I'm sooo well bred -
MAMMA! Dan is hitting Fred!
Ughh, brothers are revolting things,
I'd rather have two diamond rings.

for Toni M.

it's been going on a long time,
stretched out like molasses in
a hot kitchen.
we made it,
baby we made it 'cuz we know the melody of friendship
but them chickens been scratchin' fore a
night and a morning
and
this Eve ain't got no garden.

don't smile that smile, unless you gonna
carry my weight for a little while, boy.
Oh and you'll run away back to Georgia so fast
the soles o' your feet will burn

she's been burning a long time
long time in that hot kitchen.
she made it out, she did
that one with the jet black eyes and all the hair.
indecent
without Adam
and loving
every minute of the striding & striving

to a young Cleopatra

Where shall be found sand for the sieve
of her mind? What man will last this life?
What god of fire and earth will leave
the bloody field for a brazen wife?
One, with hands of sin gloved thick with grace,
who burns the carpet of the eyes,
and falters not in cruelest race
but gets the golden-apple prize-
this cunning man will enter swift
with desert winds, and from her lift
that arrogance from off her brow
and clear her mind, nor to her bow.
A well of water will he be,
a mirror and a silver tree,
her words will drown, reflect, or bloom
his intellect will give hers room.
His sand has stones, nor is naive
aye, a warrior-king will sift her sieve.
yet desert miles stretch on before
the way is shut. She is the door.

NIGHTMARE

Dear You-know-who-you-are,

I've been awfully restrained today.

In fact, I've been a virgin-nun, a pillared-saint and a Republican secretary all in one
ever since you walked straight past me to those cucumber slices without one glance.
C'mon, the salad bar has NEVER been that interesting,
and what did I do? I keep glancing down at my hands,
convinced they are covered in the blood of innocents, or filled with the stolen bread of the starving or SOMETHING that would explain your cold shoulder of mystery that's freezing over my heart.
Do I get an explanation?
"Let me know if I am far from the light" was the second-to-last treasure I had from your lips...I thought we were talking about noetic structure & Descarte & studying for exams
but
were you referring to something farther-afield & closer to the kingdom?

I am sorry.

I am not very good at these quiet conversations. If you would let me sit across from you now, I could stare very pointedly at your tomatoes & be calm.
We could converse in lower-case letters instead of MY NORMAL ALL-CAPS. You could instruct me and I could quietly try not to worship the grace with which you cut up the lettuce into precise green triangles.
You could pretend at some semblance of order and control & feel affirmed.
BUT DON'T YOU SEE, O CAN'T YOU SEE, THAT I LIKE THIS WAY AND you do not and that's quite all right as long as we're just talking about Descarte and wax and the things that don't scare the living-tarnation out of the tangles in my hair.

this kind do not come out except by fasting and prayer....

good grief, this is ridiculous.
Maybe I'm asleep.
I apologize again.
Get your crutons and dressing.
I recommend the raspberry vinegerette, unless you're a ranch man........

....actually, I recommend looking at me , talking to me soon.

My head's beginning to smoke, and when I panic, i SPEAK LOUDER SO THIS THING IS JUST GONNA GET UGLIER AND WORSE AND oh well.
Go sit over there.
I'll go running.
By myself.
It's normal, I shouldn't expect ab-normal or special or spectacular.
i forgot to feed Cerberus,
and he eats his meat well-done so I've got to ditch this
half-baked dream zone
for the land of the golden chariots of day.
Peace,
my cold-shouldered friend. That was the last word I heard you speak to me,
so I offer it back to you,
in exchange for...

for nothing. There is no barter between the two of us. You
are of the night, and I....

I am of the day.

Peace.

S’il vous plaît

I'll fetch it for you, shall I?
Over the blue river & the waxing moon to the far green country
past the head of the horse, the sculpture of Vinzi
and the help of your family.
I knew what you wanted done the whole time -
isn't it possible she's innocent,
and you can stop asking questions. Have
you begun to realize the truth yet?
Deliberation & planning, all the eggs in our
baskets. Close ranks and smile.
Oh my darling, for God's sake, oh my darling...
it is too late,
the wife of the doctor will sit in that
chair forever. Play your saddest music
and get out the black lace.

Go, my child, your place is with the living.
I will remain here with the dead, with the many dead mouths and their questions.
That is not mercy, mother,
that is justice. But I will still fetch it for you,
the ending.
It's just over there, just past the river....

The Worshiper

He carried a torch for her, all these years
kept it burning somehow, he said, through long December days,
fueled from her paintings & the memory of
their walk down the Rue Mouffetard, and the knowledge
that she still wears his scar.
Beneath it, like an ancient star,
they stand. He
recognizes wild-eyes, but she can see
other changes mirrored on his face.
Not enlightenment.
Her journey through blackness,
with no-one to light the way,
no-one to crush the serpent or weather the storms of memories -
this
he does not see. The light is not strong enough to illuminate
the other scars at throat & back & blade.
Time tempers, time changes -
She wishes his torch more brightness
or more darkened shadow-caves.
No escaping from the knowledge now:
the slow minutes in Putnam County Jail
bought her bravery
at the expense
of
his Olympic love.

I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone

by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone

enough

to truly consecrate the hour.

I am much too small in this world, yet not small

enough

to be to you just object and thing,

dark and smart.

I want my free will and want it accompanying

the path which leads to action;

and want during times that beg questions,

where something is up,

to be among those in the know,

or else be alone.



I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,

never be blind or too old

to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.

I want to unfold.

Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;

for there I would be dishonest, untrue.

I want my conscience to be

true before you;

want to describe myself like a picture I observed

for a long time, one close up,

like a new word I learned and embraced,

like the everday jug,

like my mother's face,

like a ship that carried me along

through the deadliest storm.

an oldie

Gloriously wasteful, O my Lord, art thou!

Sunset faints after sunset into the night,

Splendorously dying from thy window sill—

For ever. Sad our poverty doth bow

Before the riches of thy making might;

Sweep from thy space thy systems at thy will—

In thee the sun sets every sunset still.


George MacDonald

You missed me

You missed me in your bohemian night.
When you lift your glass to drink,
for the good times
and don´t find me to your side.

You missed me when among the new friends
your soul found, alone.
And know that at the end of the night,
loneliness and indifference
will be your partners to the daybreak.

You missed me in the nights of full moon,
when you stroll with the moon to your back.
For the roads of the night,
reminding of the time when the love flourished
in each word, in each expression, in each caress.

You missed me when you look for my eyes
among the multitude´s... anonymous looks,
in the sunny afternoon.
And don´t find those eyes
that smiled, when they were
reflected in yours...

Do you know?
I will also miss you! ! !

ENRIQUE ALBERTO HURTADO MINOTTA

A Ballad of Death

The tears that through her eyelids fell on me
Made mine own bitter where they ran between
As blood had fallen therein,
She saying; Arise, lift up thine eyes and see
If any glad thing be or any good
Now the best thing is taken forth of us;
Even she to whom all praise
Was as one flower in a great multitude,
One glorious flower of many and glorious,
One day found gracious among many days:
Then I beheld, and lo on the other side
My lady's likeness crowned and robed and dead.
Sweet still, but now not red,
Was the shut mouth whereby men lived and died.
And sweet, but emptied of the blood's blue shade,
The great curled eyelids that withheld her eyes.
And sweet, but like spoilt gold,
The weight of colour in her tresses weighed.
And sweet, but as a vesture with new dyes,
The body that was clothed with love of old.
Ah! that my tears filled all her woven hair
And all the hollow bosom of her gown--
Ah! that my tears ran down
Even to the place where many kisses were,
Even where her parted breast-flowers have place,
Even where they are cloven apart--who knows not this?
Ah! the flowers cleave apart
And their sweet fills the tender interspace;
Ah! the leaves grown thereof were things to kiss
Ere their fine gold was tarnished at the heart.

Ah! in the days when God did good to me,
Each part about her was a righteous thing;
Her mouth an almsgiving,
The glory of her garments charity,
The beauty of her bosom a good deed,
In the good days when God kept sight of us;
Love lay upon her eyes,
And on that hair whereof the world takes heed;
And all her body was more virtuous
Than souls of women fashioned otherwise
Now, ballad, gather poppies in thine hands
And sheaves of brier and many rusted sheaves
Rain-rotten in rank lands,
Waste marigold and late unhappy leaves
And grass that fades ere any of it be mown;
And when thy bosom is filled full thereof
Seek out Death's face ere the light altereth,
And say "My master that was thrall to Love
Is become thrall to Death."
Bow down before him, ballad, sigh and groan.
But make no sojourn in thy outgoing;
For haply it may be
That when thy feet return at evening
Death shall come in with thee.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

sort of a weird poem
i cut a lot of verses

TEN YEARS APART

You saw scandal in the tiny pink oval
poking through my sock.
Waterfalls terrified with their white-lioness roar
and you always held my hand
tightly in the park, in case the pigeons or
squirrels chance to feel gregarious.

I'd bring a hibiscus, and when you'd wanly smile
My fingers would dutifully dissect the fusia glory, and I'd watch your mouth,
hoping you'd be impressed by the pistil and elegant stamen
(and hoping just a little you'd be impressed that i remembered the difference)
But the orange-golden velvet dust angered your dress-front with familiarity
so we'd go home.

What would you be like if Gabriel had married you?
Not my gargoyle, guardian older sister.
I think you'd plunge through the brambles for blackberries too,
because he's fond of jam,
and the fragrance of my wet-moss garden
would remind you of mermaid's hair & other fabulous
and magical things he used to paint.

Now look at her, at her un-uncovered ruby-redness. She still hides and lies long buried;
and though I admire her & think her beautiful and careful,
my ten-year-old testimony is not heavy enough to mint,
so my unwedded sister refuses to spend.

for the striving one: Martha

no ties of blood to hold her down
just
all the dirty dishes
and
it is true, what you said, about ugly places
filling up
the soul with gritty feelings
and beautiful places
of the mind
quelling the greasy tide
of
self pity.

Romans 7 again

you made me look ridiculous in there

as if i care.

my mother was quite shocked - what will she think?

uhh...you've past the brink.

and what about that guy - he's much too old!

so why were you so brash and bold?

you're cruel. and rude. Leave me alone

yet i'm in your skin & bone....

His wound was slight,
the army, victorious.
Fell enemies were driven
far back beyond the border
but
Alexio was not at ease.
there were murmurs
and his head ached -
the last lingerings
of some kindly
spell?

OH PERNICIOUS WOMAN!

It would kind of stink to be the hero with the girlfriend/princess of awesome, cause you'd never get to brag around the fire with the boys. "Yeah, and then a magical forest sprang up behind us 'cuz she threw down a hair-comb...."

kind of lacks the usual mythic hero quota of machoness, dontcha think?

outside up, rightside out
i'm confused without a doubt.

poached french-toast? duck bombay?
you've chased all my sense away.

watch a book, read a bike -
is this what love is really like?

wash the pig, feed the car
you've made my wits as sharp as tar.

Bunyan, John, met a big blue fox -
my reasons crashed out on the rocks!

chase the moon, catch the sun
being with you sure can be fun.

scatter the sky, drink the stars
this world's a prison with no bars

classic fads and gold galore
O Poetic Muse.
You
I
adore.

Speak

my love it is deep
a well right into the earth
plunging down to where
the minerals
are brash to taste.

my love it is swift
braving treacherous paths,
rushing,unleashing
like a valkary horse race by moonlight.

my love it is high
towering up beyond the tree-line
careening towards the sun
reckless towards the light.

my love, it is free
uncaged & eager to be
gentle-eyed, gates open
and the one key thrown away.

you are silent, my love,
a closed window on a winter night
and around your mouth
there is a shadow of pain,
but i cannot yet tell

is it yours or mine?

#47

true beauty haunts no mirrored paths
or sighs in desperation at unseen eyes
self-obsessed, obvious, and whirling at the center -
no,
true beauty is busy living, hands helping
raw reality and eyes focused forward
diligent and square-jawed
weary, but resolved, and sometimes
when the light is just right
and she turns her head
you catch the faint outline
of a starry crown
heavenly.
true beauty, here on earth,
is measured
in glimmers.

Inevitable

not sure i can go on,
been camping out on the threshing floor
hiding from my donkey.

can't deal with confrontation today.

on top of everything, Granpa's brand new axe-head
is at the bottom of Goose Creek.
Uncle Elijah lied— certain elements are heavy as lead—
i would go to the temple
but my eyes are all red and Eli scares me.
it's not like i'm praying for a son.

rash vows are littered all around me,
so i locked the front door and
took my plate of manna out on the back porch.
my bush won't burn and
someone's been ploughing with my heifer.

you can blow the silver trumpet all you want,
pray for the sun to stand still
or take the bus to Endor,
but
nothing feels right.

I'm sore. Maybe I've been sitting on the household gods for too long,

feeding the living room lions or waiting for the oil to run out.

Increase my faith, O big-picture God,

because there’s no mustard sprout in my paper cup life

and I’ve never seen the Bronx River drown gangsters

or pharaohs or anybody.

nativity on her living room table

so quiet all around the stone manger
stone beards. stone baby.
starshine all around the stone mary
stone hands and stone head
the stone angel watches from an angle
the stone frankincense and stone myrrh
are offered in stone worship
and the stone donkey
nudges the stone wiseman
who is clutching his stone gold
with a stone look of surprise
in his stone eyes.

Across a thousand miles on a cosmic quest to find God made man. The stars cannot lie. But...a...child?

Back in the fearsome yore
of 1433.
when poor benighted man
made-do without T.P.
A band of English braves
made war on Sarcen knaves.
Both armies camped in sand
while reprieved from hand-to-hand.
Young Rollo no hero
as a knight they ranked him 0.
So he stayed behind to cook
or fill his colouring book.
One day the winds were high
but Rollo had to try
and bake some bread.
"THE MEN MUST BE FED!"
Richard the Lionheart had said.
So he got out the stuff
but deuce! it was tough
and everything blew away
which filled Rollo with dismay.
He'd spilled the baker's yeast
and it scattered throughout the middle east
so now their dough rises too.
I swear this story's...true?

(but not well-metered ;P)

I carried my life, like a stone,
in a ragged pocket, but I
had a true weaving song, a sly
way with rhythm, a healing tone.

-from The Healing Improvisation of Hair, by Jay Wright

Hero

By Paul Engle


I
I have heard the horn of Roland goldly screaming
In the petty Pyrenees of the inner ear
And seen the frightful Saracens of fear
Pour from the passes, fought them, brave in dreaming.


But waked, and heard my own voice tinly screaming
In the whorled and whirling valleys of the ear,
And beat the savage bed back in my fear,
And crawled, unheroed, down those cliffs of dreaming.


II
I have ridden with Hannibal in the mountain dusk,
Watching the drivers yell the doomed and gray
Elephants over the trumpeting Alps, gone gay
With snow vivid on peaks, on the ivory tusk.


But waked, and found myself in the vivid dusk
Plunging the deep and icy floor, gone gray
With bellowing shapes of morning, and the gay
Sunshaft through me like an ivory tusk.


III
I have smiled on the platform, hearing without shame
The crowd scream out my praise, I, the new star,
Handsome, disparaging my bloody scar,
Yet turning its curve to the light when they called my name.


But waked, and the empty window sneered my name,
The sky bled, drop by golden drop, each star
The curved moon glittered like a sickle's scar,
The night wind called with its gentle voices: Shame!


IV
I have climbed the secret balcony, on the floor
Lain with the lady, drunk the passionate wine,
Found, beneath the green, lewd-smelling vine,
Love open to me like a waiting door.


But waked to delirious shadows on the door,
Found, while my stomach staggered with sour wine,
Green drunknenness creep on me like a vine,
And puked my passion on the bathroom floor.


V
I have run with Boone and watched the Indian pillage
The log house, fought, arrow in leg, and hobbled
Over the painful ground while the warrior gobbled
Wild-turkey cry, but escaped to save the village.


But waked, and walked the city, vicious village,
Fought through the traffic where the wild horn gobbled,
Bruised on the bumper, turned toward home, hobbled
Back, myself the house my neighbors pillage.


VI
I have lain in bed and felt my body taken
Like water utterly possessing sand,
Surrounding, seething, soothing, as a hand
Comforts and clasps the hand that it has shaken.


But waked, and found that I was wholly shaken
By you, as the wave surround and seethes the sand,
That your whole body was a reaching hand
And my whole body the hand that yours had taken.

PARODY TIME!

The Orange

By Wendy Cope (probably written AFTER she graduated from college)


At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.


And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.


The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
END OF TERM

by Cate Pilgrim (definitely written before she graduated from college)

On Wednesday I had a huge test,
the length of it made us all cry.
I fought hard but lost to Jacob and Dan-
they got A's so now I want to die.

And that test, it made me real grumpy,
as schoolwork things always can
so quickly. The cramming. A talk with a prof
This rage and disgust - not a fan.

The rest of my week was quite awful.
I missed two dumb exams on my list
and failed some 'cuz of questions leftover.
I hate life. I've never been kissed.

SPEED POETRY with Jensen ;P

Porgy was a smull yet mighty troll
who made his home in a grassy snoll.
He had warts on his hands but none on his feet
He was a gentle soul. He ate no meat.
He was kind to slugs and liked to dance.
He wrote long poems about romance.
Every Thursday night he would comb his hair
and visit the home of Esmelda the Fair.

Esmelda lived with her thirteen cats
twenty mice and fifty bats.
She has long green hair and lovely eyes
To hear her sing was a rare surprise.
Porgy loved her and swore one day
He would win her hand and sweep her away.

After Chapel

I am like a child at the Feast of Passover, squirming in my clean, pressed pants, impatiently tapping my dress shoes, wanting Dad to lift the last glass and toast Jerusalem so I can go out and play. The matzo is dry, and my nose burns after gulping horseradish. I think my plenty suffering.

Sometimes I find the ritual, the structure, the starched crispness of this community unrealistic. Christians fit a narrow typology, and I find myself squirming. "LIVE! GET REAL WITH GOD! BE THE BODY, BE THE CHURCH!" I cry, looking around. Yet the LORD was not in the whirlwind. Perhaps it is not time to call Elijah, but to dance with Miriam.
Perhaps this is this is a taste of the afikoman -why should the friends mourn while they have the bridegroom?

Kay's Journal: To the Snow Queen

Waiting for the winter snows in summer I would be a fool
Yet more foolish he that thinks that Time's hand heals;
Words once spoken have faded not at all - oblivion is cruel,
Denying entrance to the weeping guests I send. It feels
As though the pikes are pointed in, formations up at arms
against the father-land! Conspiracy? I bid the traitor stand
Confess, and die together with his lies and charms:
"Time will surcease bring." - put trust in that when wisemen build on sand!
I spurn despair, but doubts within me rise. What is the cure
For death of love? Fetch out black velvet and a sombre priest
fashion our coffin from eternity; fill with memories, obscure
and lithe alike. Call in mourners. Wail loud for love deceased.
After all depart from covered grave
& the eulogy's been said,
perhaps, perhaps it's done?
I'll go home, clean house,
and burn
that
ice-
cold
bed.

"He walked slowly out into the sunlight. He thought: but the truth is so much more than that. Truth is too personal. Don't know if I can express it...Strange thing. You would die for it without further question, but you had a hard time talking about it." - Chamberlain, Killer Angels

Last Year: for J. Laurence

and then they looked down at their feet, marvelous mis-match,
and the clock didn't matter so much,
because their deep laughs rang so hard that the hands fell off
and the second hand forgot it needed to move first
and the hour hand was astonished with the tone
& color of the night-noise.
so snow or no snow, they danced with piano keys, and the notes hung like bracelets from their wrists, except they flung them out to illuminate the treasuries of their un-dreamed dreams,
which they were saving
for the nights when the hallway was full of shadows
instead of good things,
like friendlieness, e.e. cummings,
and
fudge.

THE MURDER OF MOSES

By reason of despair we set forth behind you
And followed the pillar of fire like a doubt,
To hold to belief wanted a sign,
Called the miracle of the staff and the plagues
Natural phenomena.

We questioned the expediancy of the march,
Gossiped about you. What was escape
To the fear of going forward and Pharaoh's wheels?
When the chariots mired and the army flooded
Our cry of horror was one with theirs.

You always went alone, a little ahead,
Prophecy disturbed you, you were not a fanatic.
The women said you were meek, the men
Regarded you as a typical leader.
You and your black wife might have been foreigners.

We even discussed your parentage; were you really a Jew?
We remembered how Joseph had made himself a prince,
All of us shared in the recognition, sense of propriety,
Devotion to his brothers and Israel.

We hated you daily. Our children died. The water spilled.
It was as if you were trying to lose us one by one.
Our wandering seemed the wandering of your mind,
The cloud believed we were tireless,
We expressed our contempt and our boredom openly.

At last you ascended the rock; at last returned.
Your anger that day was probably His.
When we saw you come down from the mountain, your skin alight
And the stones of our law flashing,
We fled like animals and the dancers scattered.

We watched where you overturned the calf on the fire,
We hid when you broke the tablets on the rock,
We wept when we drank the mixture of gold and water.
We had hoped you were lost or had left us.
This was the day of our greatest defilement.

You were simple of heart, you were sorry for Miriam.
You reasoned with Aaron, who was your enemy.
However often you cheered us with songs and prayers
We cursed you again. The serpents bit us,
And mouth to mouth you entreated the Lord for our sake.

At the end of it all we gave you the gift of death.
Invasion and generalship were spared you.
The hand of our desertion, resignedly you fell,
And while officers prepared for the river crossing
The One God blessed you and covered you with earth.

Though you wer mortal and once committed murder
You assumed the burden of the world and for our understand.
Converse with God made you a thinker,
Taught us all early justice, made us a race.

- Karl Shapiro -

-The Boy- j.b. Leishman

I'd like, above all, to be one of those
who drive with the wild black horses through the night,
torches like hair uplifted in affright
when the great wind of their wild hunting blows.
I'd like to stand in the front as in a boat,
tall, like a long floating flag unrolled.
And dark, but with a helmet made of gold,
restlessly flashing. And behind to ride
ten other looming figures side by side,
with helmets all unstable like my own,
now clear as glass, now old and blank like stone.
And one to stand by me and blow us space
with the brass trumpet that can blaze and blare,
blowing a black solitude through which we tear
like dreams that speed to fast to leave a trace.
Houses behind us fall upon their knees,
alleys cringe crookedly before our train,
squares in flight; we summon and we seize:
we ride, and our great horses rush like rain.

(translated from Rainer Maria Rilke)

As If
by Jim Peterson

When I was Shakespeare,
the weight of a new manuscript under my arm
bound and tied with leather
was enough to sustain the fight in me.
And my hands, which wanted nothing more
than to turn the pockets of strangers inside out,
curled up like fists even while I slept.

When I was Shakespeare, the moon
etched my face on the windowpane,
the sun carved my shadow in the dust
and the dogs abandoned by the dead
could not obliterate it.
The critics who sat in the galleries,
who never felt the rain on their heads
in the midst of a soliloquy,
who never tasted the cold roots of originality
bitter and foreboding in their mouths,
scribbled their tiny paragraphs, their palsied puns,
then avoided my eyes later in the pub
as if I ever gave a good god damn.

wearynes

Stinking tar, roiling pitch and the relentless smell of dead fish hangs over the deck, augmented with pungent gusts of air from the galley below. As the bell for the second watch rings out, a tall figure slides with weary grace from the mast top, and crawls covertly along to the prow, grateful for the darkness, absence of moon and presence of star-obscuring clouds. Sleep perhaps will come, let fear and anxiety float for a while on the vast black ocean. How many nights have passed in this manner? Raw red hands clasp the planking, splinters driving deep into the callused palms. He no longer felt the desire for adventures. He no longer felt young. Two years ago he had been new to the ways of sailors, unschooled in the ship arts, new to the sea…new to the now familiar longing for her…

High School

Amy puts Premium in her tank
an insignia of rank
but when he passes on his bike
her eyes begin a hunger-strike.


Shakespeare at 1:00 in English class
His sweater and smile strangely clash.
He's good at math yet loves the Bard -
poor Amy loves a wildcard.

Eleventh grade romance:the tragic tale
of rich girls with cars who fall for male
poets in sweater-vests. The end is sad
especially if you're Amy's dad.

Amy and Malcom now live on Main
so Amy can ride to work on the train.
This Christmas is tough, there's not much egg nog
because Malcom supports himself from his blog.

C O U R A G E

I am the sacred book
heavy as lead.
I lie here full of
words
no-one's read.

Open me, if you dare
and donkey's bray will fill the air
Listen well, if you can
hear of God become a man.

I'll be a sword
to slice thy soul
I'll be a balm
to make thee whole

Pick me up
and prepare questions.
I answer them.

Do you know:
I was the first
word.

Taste the banquet
come now,
preferred.

For Eleanor Farjeon, One of Martin Pippin's Girls

Martin cocked his head to the side, squinting down his nose at Jocelyn.

She squinted back.

"No kiss but a right-handed one for you, dear Jo." He placed his lips against his palm, and lightly pressed her forehead. She wrinkled her forehead, then tossed her dark head and snorted, in what she hoped was a stiff and prim manner. "why thank you Martin."

Then he turned to Jeniffer, curled up small on a pillow in the corner.

"Do I get a right-handed kiss too, Martin?" Jennifer's pale skin looked rosy in the firelight, and for a moment Martin's eyes weren't periwinkle, but a sober blue.

"Ah, no Jennifer. For you all that is left is the left-hand." He delivered it.

"A left-handed kiss means you will walk cold miles under strange stars, alone and betrayed, Jen." She turned her face down to the kitten purring on her lap, and then looked up with puzzled eyes as Martin added softly, "But you will do some singing."

Done with her grand manner, the hint of pout lingering small by her red mouth, Joceyln chimed in, "And what of a right-handed kiss? Am I as cursed as Jenny?"

Martin laughed. "The bearer of a right handed kiss will swim in the blue water in a bright bay, and.."

"Alone?" Jenny cut in. "Martin, will I be alone?"

He walked over to the the fireplace and stretched his long arms from one end of the mantle to the other. He took the china shepardess and and placed her gently next to the curly-headed china shepard.

"You may be alone, Jo, but not for long. For someone must hold your left-hand, lest it work mischief abroad." Martin caught her eyes, and she met his gaze boldly until he whispered "There are enough lone wayfarers walking this earth Jo."

Then Martin put both hands together.

"What have you got there, Martin?" asked Jen. The kitten's claws were hopelessly entangled in her lace petticoat, but she had noticed the cup of his palms.

"What have I got?" Martin mumbled, looking down in surprise.
"Why, I've got peppermints!"

And so he had. He gave one to Jo and the other to Jen, and when Jo tried to break hers in two so he would not go without, Martin found a third mysteriously tucked into his upper vest-pocket.

(And that is the story of Martin Pippin in the Winter Parlor)

Mr. Greatheart points out to the pilgrims the bones of one Heedless who was "foolishly venturesome.

Bunyan experienced the Scriptures almost as physical presences. The Bible, he says, "was so fresh,...that I was as if it talked to me."

Mr. Greatheart has walked with me as well, and I am a Pilgrim indeed. Yet the bones of one Heedless are not having the freak-out effect I desire...O LORD! Long have I been a venturesome fool - Forgive me, and awaken your Word with the dawning, to meet with me ere the sun illuminates all the day's lust alluring alleys and pathways.

May I venture to wayfare in your WORD!

neocortex

the Alborz mountains loom, another Boulder, almost the seventh swan
ludicrous
and beautiful
This is Tehran? This is the hub of evil? Where are the groaning women? Where are the noosed necks & fanatic secret police?

walk into a coffee shop, rent a pair of skis, walk down main street & see:

They are wearing Ralph Lauren and throwing snowballs.

The eye cannot lie: propaganda & mass media are all lies - the eye cannot lie
and
i
haven't seen any pictures of suffering.

make me like the running deer
scatter my heart to run after you
in twilight or sunlight
may i graze in your pasture