Thursday, May 19, 2016

Every bit a dandelion


Now blissfully adrift, there is no question of weightlessness. Now working the laces on my worn out shoes, none of gravity. Now musing on the trials of the past, none of anxiety. Now present in the present while it lasts, I, every bit a dandelion, bid good seed godspeed my deed of joyous carelessness. And may you, my love, my friend, my confidante, my child, granite that and crevice this, and I promise that, wherewhenever I am blown, will be my wish.


Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Canvas 694



Canvas 694

May 17, 2016



Grave-gray or sky-blue


In this week leading up to my sixtieth birthday, I have had multiple interviews with the mad artist who made me, and asked him, and her — for they are both simultaneously, and in turn — not whether the current version of me represents any desired perfection, but if it gives them satisfaction — in a word, are you pleased, dear Madame, or am I soon to be improved in a brighter more colorful draft with more faithful lines — or if not more faithful, kind Sir, more deeply revealing? — or are you, as I suspect, not quite finished works of art yourselves, because I am the mad artist painting you? Let it be grave-gray or sky-blue, whatever the answer — and I expect and wish for none — may I here, at least, express my gratitude?


Monday, May 16, 2016

His own clock ticking


A human aware of his own clock ticking,
I give you the weather — as it relates to my own,
which, having just bathed, is moist and warm
and promising sun — a day begun
precisely so, is all that matters,
and must not be
ignored.

How dull — a man nigh sixty
at a keyboard eight years old, printed, black,
dusty, punctuation-worn.

Yet see how he comes to the door
with no shirt on, answers well the bell
before it’s rung.

Hello — he clears his throat — hello? —
takes special notice of the hair upon his arm,
suddenly recalls the water in the ditch
in the sun on the farm — his childhood,
of course — you might have it
for your own — go ahead,
take it, put it on.

Naked-born, such a short while ago —
could there be anything as long
as the interval between a doctor’s spank
(yes, he too is gone) and the crossing
of the floor?

Yes — perhaps this poem.

Come in, come in, he cries, we’ve been
expecting you! — and who should return his wave
but the aching day in bloom — petal-fall, glad you called,
oh, how good it is to be faithful note
in such a simple, sacred tune.


Sunday, May 15, 2016

Canvas 693



Canvas 693

May 15, 2016



Immersed again in misty gray


Such joy, after a stretch of warm, dry days,
to be immersed again in misty gray.

Miracle within miracle,
raindrops on rose leaves.

And here am I, a world inside
the one suspended foremost,
as earth and rainbow both,
as mountain neath her veil,
as scattered seed and poppies’ moan,
as child’s shout.

How good, now,
to be in a tiny vase upon your windowsill,
looking out with bubbles clinging to my stem.

How good, to wake up back in bed
beside a loved one’s grave,
ripe with meaning,
without end.