Sunday, November 30, 2014

Canvas 482



Canvas 482

November 30, 2014




A poem, a drawing, a life


A poem of so many lines going every which way,
it becomes a drawing;

A drawing of so few lines its breath gives way,
to reveal a poem in hiding;

A life thought mine sailing away,
free of the binds I was tying.



Saturday, November 29, 2014

Canvas 481



Canvas 481

November 29, 2014




Let’s think of this


Let’s think of this as a friendship through letters,
some of them lost, others delightfully obscure, perhaps
even gratefully so, as when dreams prefer to be true,
but don’t quite know how, yet shine through,
blue as an angel’s eye, as it were,
yet visible only to me,
and, as always,
to you.



Friday, November 28, 2014

Canvas 480



Canvas 480

November 28, 2014




Ribbon-rain and street-light-stain


In ribbon-rain and street-light-stain, walkers stalk
in boots bright-showing, squish is splash, as which is wish
to ask, not quite knowing, where they’re going,
or if they’re ever, coming back.



Thursday, November 27, 2014

Impatience and haste


Which, then, shall it be?
Impatience, and haste, or snowflakes?

Consider the waste.
For it’s white, and light, in any case.



Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Canvas 479



Canvas 479

November 26, 2014




May this, so dear


May this, so dear, be nearer still,
in letting go the prayer itself;
a tender fear, a wiser
tear, and gentle
health.



Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Sense and non


Yesterday, while raking leaves, I thought,
The senses are open doors the mind walks through;
And then I thought, The mind itself is a sense;
Thus the pile grew; And the world I know,
I dwelt on, and in, Is a sense, too;
And that sense is kind,
To bide the like
Of you.



Monday, November 24, 2014

Canvas 478



Canvas 478

November 24, 2014




Thistledown


Freedom is the art of letting go, now, of all that will be washed away in the end — our prejudices and cares, our politics, arrogance, religion, and despair, our national identities, our borders, our pride, our patriotism, our greed, our theft, our war, our grief, our guilt, our anger, our pain, our need to feel larger, better, smarter, richer, or more sophisticated than our fellow travelers through this world — yes, and even our talents and abilities, which are temporarily on loan, and which, in the absence of grace and of love, can only define us so far. Why cling? Why sink chained to one’s rest, when one can rise, light as thistledown in the wind?



River run


How, as I gather them,
the veins in leaves take blood
through these old hands.



Sunday, November 23, 2014

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Your fruit, a word


Your fruit, a word, on the tongue;

Your peel, beautiful, on the ground;

Your meaning, silence, all around;

Your life, seed, gently blown.




Friday, November 21, 2014

Beloved


Imagine yourself a snowflake,
falling through space;

Imagine the air warming,
as you slowly near the ground;

Imagine your last embrace,
a joyous ache, without a sound.



Thursday, November 20, 2014

As if clinging means to stay


It will pass, you know it will,
and is now, yet you cling,
you know you do,
as if clinging
means

to stay

these fig leaves,

yellow one day, now brittle, brown,
and on the ground

the lovely sound,
they made

your frame the very bell
of life to toll, then melt away

how lovely it seems,
you as one who dreams
and sings

then

leaves.



Wednesday, November 19, 2014

And so the story goes


The truth is, the fiction you live,
while you long to believe the fiction you tell,
is as real as the fiction you dream,
and love, so well,

for good,
reason,

and so,

will you, all, until, the story, goes.



Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Pen aside, garden white


Pen aside, garden white, circumscribed by footprints wide;
once set down, soon from sight; by rising sun, the shadow might,
in love confide; body new, in spirit, bright;
doth word flow, and here,
abide.



Saturday, November 15, 2014

Canvas 474



Canvas 474

November 15, 2014




Intellect


Intellect, such a dry, dry bone,
as if flesh were meant by sense alone,
to hang the grace of love upon,
when intelligence is gone,
and respect is flown.



Friday, November 14, 2014

Canvas 473



Canvas 473

November 14, 2014




Love the spirits


Love the spirits singing thus,
that winging bring the light to us,
bright leaves, fleeing west,
then east, as flight
becomes.



Thursday, November 13, 2014

Canvas 472



Canvas 472

November 13, 2014




Winter rhyme


And from the oven, flying, with wings
no longer bent, into the ice, where dreams
were sighing, and flight, the sun
you spent.



Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Canvas 470



Canvas 470

November 11, 2014




By steep ascent such depth


Keep this in view, that by steep ascent such depth will show,
what heaven meant to you below, who kept the love
you ought to sow, before the death
that sent you.



Monday, November 10, 2014

The Works of Lord Byron, Lyceum Edition, 1900.



Yes, I still like old books.




The Works of Lord Byron, Lyceum Edition, 1900.
Limited to 750 Numbered and Registered Sets for America. Copy 214.
London and Boston : Francis A. Niccolls & Co.

click to enlarge




Come winter what may


That I a man in black well versed in gray,
should come upon a day so light that blue would say,
all truth is white; therein, your footprints lay.



Sunday, November 9, 2014

Warm, the flesh, sweet, the veil


Warm, the flesh, sweet, the veil — tremble, to touch,
breathless, pale — what falls away, is not betrayal,
or seems like death, to fail — such joy, confess,
that flesh is ship, and spirit, sail.



Saturday, November 8, 2014

Friday, November 7, 2014

Canvas 468



Canvas 468

November 7, 2014




A matter of mist


Those times you are suddenly outside yourself,
a matter of mist, spirit in the flesh, as if dance were lip
and lip were wish, you know best, that granted this,
no better chance, to bless,
exists.



Thursday, November 6, 2014

Canvas 467



Canvas 467

November 6, 2014




Gravity


The earth, a ball, rolling away;
a child, behind the motion, spills the ocean,
of words, that one, might stop, and think,
and almost, almost, wish,
to say.



Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Canvas 466



Canvas 466

November 5, 2014




In passing


Clouds so low, so dark, joyously brooding;

rain-black, worm-rich, breathing earth;

mushrooms now, in wise-white shrouds;

proudly naked birch, leaf between each toe;

your life, your work, what they are worth;

the sudden news, that you must go.




Monday, November 3, 2014

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Canvas 460



Canvas 460

November 1, 2014




Neat and deep


How the earth, a living thing, herself the offspring
of an imagining so vast, grants her mortality in the wonder
of a falling leaf; and how we, in graveyards neat
and deep, sing her joy, and sing
her grief.