Saturday, November 30, 2013

Friday, November 29, 2013

Bare tree, bright star


Bare tree, bright star,
grave child, thy kingdom
in what your mother knows
when the last leaf
blows.



Thursday, November 28, 2013

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Colors


New in my website Archive:
an excerpt dated October 14, 2006,
from Songs and Letters.



Friday, November 22, 2013

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Canvas 322



Canvas 322

November 20, 2013


[click to enlarge]




Canvas 321



Forever coming, forever gone, so sudden, so soon.




Canvas 321

November 20, 2013


[click to enlarge]



Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Almost winter


Almost winter; rain;
and what do I remember?

A pomegranate tree
in flower.

The arrival
of hummingbirds.

Love; pain.

Seeds.



Monday, November 18, 2013

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

I was the angel


I’ve been walking this route for years, stretching my muscles and expanding my lungs after nightfall. Alone in my dreams and affairs, I watch the clouds and the moon and the stars, listen to the houses, and yield my primitive self to the scented air.

Yesterday evening, just as I was passing by, an old man fell in the street near his mailbox. I was the angel who rescued him. In the dark, near the sidewalk, blood running from a scrape above his eye, I made a quick, reassuring assessment of his condition. We were immediate friends. Perhaps now he no longer remembers me. All the better.

Ninety if he was a day, I went to the house for his wife, let myself in through the door in their garage, called out, tried not to startle her with the strangeness of my voice. She, not much younger than he, back curved, trusting, followed me to the curb.

“I think you’d best call an ambulance, my love.”

It was that “my love” that made an angel of me.

Help arrived. One last touch of the hand.

The moon took me home.



Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Émile Souvestre


Fifty-seven pages to go. And such is the miracle of reading that a writer, long dead, enters one’s life and thoughts, and stirs them for the better with grace and humility; indeed, for what are mere centuries between friends?




An “Attic” Philosopher
A Journeyman’s Journal


The French Immortals



Monday, November 11, 2013

Veteran


What I recall is an old friend
sobbing at the sound of “Machine Gun.”

What I know is that the gun,
the sob, and the song
remain.



Saturday, November 9, 2013

Quarter-mile


Those autumns he sowed barley by hand
between the vineyard rows, just to see it sprout
and grow, and plow it in come spring:

You should have seen him
gaining strength:

Each quarter-mile
another galaxy.



Thursday, November 7, 2013

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

The Quest of Great Celtic Mystery


It’s no mystery that a friend would wish to write, and with such evident pleasure. The mystery lies, rather, in that subtle synthesis and transformation of the Great Mystery of which we’re all a part, and which thrives and changes between the ears.



The Quest of Great Celtic Mystery
and other stories

A new undated chapbook
by Jonathan Chant

Cover Image: Su Joy



Doctor Gargoyle and the Stethoscope
Doctor Gargoyle placed the end of the stethoscope in the middle of his forehead. He wanted, after a busy morning that brought many grave anxieties, to hear himself think. At first there was nothing to hear. Then there was a clicking sound like an old-time film projector.
Where had he heard that sound before?



Monday, November 4, 2013

Saturday, November 2, 2013