Monday, August 31, 2015

Between Acts



Between Acts

August 31, 2015




News from nowhere


In this edition of the news from nowhere,
we find we are

enough
of a sunflower

to know
a head bowed

is still
sound

as far
as it goes

.



Sunday, August 30, 2015

Ever, Present, Grace



Ever, Present, Grace

August 30, 2015




As, Is



As, Is

August 30, 2015




Your flowers, my books


A second short poem today, for those in the mood, or need, of such.
(Granted, that may be only me.)


Your flowers, my books

Your flowers, my books. We find a place to put them.
I read yours, you hold mine, to your nose.

Your flowers, my books. From showers, to hours.
A love story, true as any, as every rose, knows.



Last leaf wanting


Last leaf wanting of a letter that you wrote,
and I, a tree, in a dream, unclothed,
beside a street, lined with honeycomb.



Saturday, August 29, 2015

Another leaf down


I remember well the day the following poem was written. (It was yesterday, in fact, if such a mad thing as yesterday exists.) The grandchildren were here and in their usual sublime uproar. As I was not needed at various times (the question of the value of my influence aside), I returned to the writing of these lines. It was very warm, cloudy, and humid out. I had twice been in a good sweat playing and working in the yard. We were all waiting and hoping for rain. We ate fresh cucumbers from the garden. We picked peppers and squash and tomatoes. All joy. Rain came last night, accompanied by lightning and thunder. Praised be. Praised be the morning, and these “ghostly-scented rooms.”


Another leaf down

Another leaf down, and how I cling to my life,
the spent grass of it, the brittle dead mass of it, the sad stink
and orderly class of it, and think it all means what it seems to the last
of it, another leaf down, my right and my wrong and my front
and my back of it, another leaf, placed flat neath my glass
of it, another, and then the dark wind, and the rush
and the curse and the joy and the blast of it,
when, how strange, and praised be,
I see another leaf — is me!



Friday, August 28, 2015

My word, my age, my cage


My word, my age, my cage,
I in my singing make a grand life of it.

My dream, my breeze, my wings,
Not one note would I strike from it.

My change, my pain, my breast,
I in my night paint light of it.

My rest, my grace, my end,
I of my death find no strife in it.

My love, my blessed, my friend,
I in glad rage take delight in it.