Sunday, August 31, 2014

Canvas 422



Canvas 422

August 31, 2014




Always the young strangers


You read in a book about two little coffins taken out
through a house’s front door, and how they are lowered
to receive a handful of earth — then you notice clouds
have gathered since you last looked up — soft mist,
softly missed — and how your hands conform
to the shovel, and your deeds settle
their worth.



Saturday, August 30, 2014

How memory sticks like a burr


How memory sticks like a burr to your pants leg,
then slowly lets go in the wash; how leaves, off the trees,
on the ground, on their knees, seem both pleased,
by the means, and the cost.



Friday, August 29, 2014

Cool clear ponds


You think of the old man, and see him in your face,
younger than you are now, pain and grief erased,
or just coming on — in shaving mirrors,
bygone years are cool clear ponds
that grace the art
of moving
on.



Thursday, August 28, 2014

Canvas 421



Canvas 421

August 28, 2014




A wooden mile


It’s a wooden mile, polished fine,
and beyond that line the shadows fall on acres all around,
until you know quite well the mile is time, and as you run your hand
across its shine, the mile warms, and the mile mellows,
wise as wise as left behind, with what you tell
that others find, and leave beside
the road.



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
crescent
moon,

and
other
shadows
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




We


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
philosophers

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
for.



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.



Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Canvas 415



Canvas 415

August 12, 2014




Before the fall


As anyone
knows

what throws
this light

on dark
brown lashes

sight goes
before the fall

of night shows
what day has asked us



Monday, August 11, 2014

A funny little sadness


A funny little sadness, a pain
so much like gladness a smile is a cry,
and then we die — what better
way to madness, for you,
and I?



Sunday, August 10, 2014

Canvas 414



Canvas 414

August 10, 2014




Such a sky this heaven


Such a sky this heaven would be,
with a good dog in it, and a boy to love
her by — and such a heaven, this sky,
with the boy as our guide, and a dog
that has learned to fly.



Saturday, August 9, 2014

The night grade


Upon these tracks,
and deep into the night grade,
where black is light
and sight is fright
unmade,

saying, thus,

that right is might,
and a child shall lead
the way — a child
must,

for a child,
in this dream of us
is free, but not
to stay,

just as she
dreams,

her dream
is day.



Friday, August 8, 2014

You dream yourself a cloud


And now you dream yourself a cloud,
when a little naked child

lets go the string
of her balloon,

so you won’t be alone.



Thursday, August 7, 2014

Canvas 413



Canvas 413

August 7, 2014




No foothold


No foothold on the brooding rock,
or memory of the climb,

only joy in stepping off,
and these awkward wings of mine.



Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Canvas 412



Canvas 412

August 6, 2014




What greater notion


Should time exist, and we,
what greater notion than the sea,
lit by lavenders, blues,
and greens,

and these footprints
chance explains

as means
to things unseen?

And if we are not, and seeming
sees not what seeming
seems to be,

what greater notion
than being beings dreaming,
imagined by the dreaming
unseen seeing
sea?



Tuesday, August 5, 2014

The great questions


The great questions,
and as many stars or grains of sand,
as tongue can ferry from wish
to land

tangled in your hair
by the sea-wind —

Is that what brings you here?



Monday, August 4, 2014

As rare as gold


Those clouds drifting westward
from the hills, might well be an ocean,

for all the dead know,

and the dead, turning skyward
with a will,

flowers, when nights are red,
and blood’s as rare

as gold.



Sunday, August 3, 2014

Saturday, August 2, 2014

What a comb shows


What a comb shows,
the first time through a baby’s silky hair,
is that love knows how, and where,
to end your war.

Gently, now. Gently.
There.



Friday, August 1, 2014

Remembrance, a rock


A book so good, the coffee goes cold
in your cup. August, a month of remembrance;
remembrance, a rock. Lightning, then thunder,
from midnight on. The blind trust need
of thirsty drops.