English garden

That sudden downpour

yesterday afternoon

Shakespeare

at his most eloquent

finds the deepest root

bright steam rising

from every roof

Conditional

Reality? Yes, if we must. But through whose seductive veil?

Mettle

Tempered by its purpose,

mind outgrows the legend of itself,

learns to love, loves to learn,

by heart.

All Those Years Ago

All Those Years Ago

June 16, 2013

[click to enlarge]

James Russell Lowell

Standard Library Edition

1899

Presently in Volume II

[click to enlarge]

Imagine

Imagine the brightest drop of dew

is the child of your mind

warmed by the sun.

Imagine them

gone

and you the page

they are written upon.

Present ancient

The easy print of a child’s hand

preserved in plaster

held in the present

ancient version

of his own

sweet

mind

Gray

Gray in hair, as cloud in day,

as love that shows.

Old cat’s yowl

Old cat’s yowl

kettle

calls

father sings in a dream

broom to step

eyes still wet

from listening

Canvas 295

Canvas 295

June 9, 2013

[click to enlarge]

Summer Thoughts

Summer Thoughts

June 8, 2013

[click to enlarge]

Where face is name

Where face

is name

and voice

is place

and poem

is coin

of the realm

Parlor and Workspace

Please come in

Where I do most of my reading

What I see when I look up

And on his deathbed said

And on his deathbed said

drifting into song

paused to know we heard it well

dove calling to no avail

first to sing

last to go

A book and boy

A book and boy in his lap, a farmer tells

his grandson how a big combine cuts the wheat,

and loaves of fresh-baked bread come out

the other end. They compare hands.

The mind — well, the mind is really just a pitchfork

full of loose hay, and frogs, and owls,

and wagon-rides, with some starlight thrown in,

and you grind it into flour somehow,

add some rain, and the sun turns it into bread.

There’s a big brick oven up there —

between the ears, that is.

And a heaven

down here.

The order doesn’t matter as much

as the tool at hand.

Death is going back

Death is going back

to see the swing your father built so well

the new owners leave it exactly

where it is.

Child, in a field, in a frame

Child, in a field, in a frame,

looks up at the sound of his name.

A moment ago,

he would have known it.

That’s me. But who’s calling?

So instead he explains

what he means.

His grandson is listening

to sparrow-song.

Wait, if you must, as a child

Wait, if you must, as a child,

forgetting the desire

until its end

appears.

A dream of running

A dream of running

not in fear

road the color

of a horned toad

back lots and car heaps

of a childhood town

porches and doors

framed by roses

wooden steps

paint peeling

a boy with a smile

on his lips

legs sore

greets the morning

Evening walk, hushed and gray

Evening walk, hushed and gray,

scented bush mad with lavender stars,

prophet, yea, we believe you.