Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Out there the daylight

Out there the daylight was a narrow little stream,
and we brought it home in our buckets one scoop at a time;
a splash on our stoves for fire; a splash in our mirrors
for eyes; a splash on our floors, and by our back doors,
and a splash to make us wise. The kids brought it in
in their pockets, and their dogs stinky-wet on
their backs — they shook out the splash,
made us all laugh, and now I’m
damn glad I remember it.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

If I thought of them as words

If I thought of them as words,
would I dare rake them into piles to be burned?

For words they are, that change color,
while I follow, in my turn.

Monday, August 25, 2014

We can dream reality

We can dream reality is real,
but can we prove ourselves awake?

What need, when what this seems
is what we’re free to take?

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Canvas 420

Canvas 420

August 24, 2014

No moon

No moon — and yet, perhaps, a tranquil bed
in a far-off room, nursed behind a pale gauze of clouds,
with words that have seen much more, and worse,
the notion of a timely birth, and a back door
closed, quietly at first, then more loudly
still, by one unseen, and as helpless
as responsible.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Canvas 419

Canvas 419

August 23, 2014

First to fall

Softly as it touches ground,
this leaf now makes itself well known,
a wise and weathered palm,
that pleads for those
to come.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Other shadows

A still, dark room,
this waning

I have known,

while I am passing through.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

We do not possess our minds

How we do not possess our minds,
but drink in wise from the same vast pool,
while our senses dream, then scatter,
like birds a tree once knew.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Canvas 418

Canvas 418

August 20, 2014

The art of letting go

Remember, the art of letting go,
is in letting go of the art.

Or, as a child might say,
were there any need,

Love is free, work is play,
and there is nothing but this day.

And suffering?

Is suffering, as much as any thing,
not that to which we cling?

And if not, what of identity?

Can I be free,
and still, be me?

Both ripe fruit fallen, and the tree?

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Canvas 417

Canvas 417

August 19, 2014


Such a gentle, quiet dream — a suffering child,
girl and also boy, with wide, moist eyes and scarce
the strength to sigh, and my shoulder,
a sea to rock us by.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Little one

Little one, this last ripe plum, a smoke-red sun come to age;
stay, little one, little sage; stay; see what your love has done.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Such were the questions

And such were the questions
so persistently asked, that children taught
words to speak at last, and the words
used their eyes, and held
their lips fast.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

About the fall

Trees writing each other
about the fall

not all

bend when looking down

Friday, August 15, 2014

A grace you need

A grace you need no more but a face
turned heavenward, this place a mirror,
with as many doors as hands
have laughter

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Where the wind goes wishing

Where the wind goes wishing
by the wall, and I bide, listening,
for the fall, you find peace,
or not, is all.