Friday, July 21, 2017

See you soon


Little boy with thin, reddish-blond hair and fragile web of tiny-warm words, tasting a ripe blueberry, watching the sunflower-bees, here-and-not-here, angel and dream, who lives up the street and leaves with grimace and cry when his angry-sad mother yells — see you again soon, perhaps in another realm, where willows grow and water flows, and tigers swallow tales and monarchs rain in the garden, dear.



Tuesday, July 18, 2017

If not tomorrow then today


Sometimes I think of the bodies of friends and loved ones
motionless in their graves — my mother, my father,
our old neighbor the beekeeper,
and even our faithful
old hounds —

and I feel
a beautiful harvest is in,

call it gratitude,
call it a blessing,
call it silence,
call it a symphony,

and I think, thank goodness my stomach is working today,
thank goodness for coffee, thank goodness we have a garden,

and for any number of things, for memory and pain,
for peace and forgetfulness and gathering age,

and for birdsong, and for you, and whatever it is
you are about to do or think or say,

and should you happen to pass this way,
carrying a flower or two or three,
with your moist lips and their shining eyes,

I hope you feel joy, if not tomorrow then today,
if not forever then now, if not at all, then anyhow.



Monday, July 17, 2017

meaning is


meaning is a funny thing

almost as if it happens

and that may be why

I die and you are beautiful



drawing lesson


paper is skin said the face of the man

looking up at him with a trace

of a grin and then he was sad again



Thursday, July 13, 2017

a sketch of someone you almost


a sketch of someone you almost

remember

the things in your pocket

when you were twelve

summer feathers

dreaming

your first flying lesson

counting posts at the end of vineyard rows

are ghosts now for all

you know

they love you when you

fall



Canvas 961



Canvas 961

July 13, 2017




Wednesday, July 12, 2017

all of this


the nights are growing longer

and the robin watching from her nest

in the fig tree

leaves

fall

in a breath of tender whirring baby sound

or is it a cricket in my breast

and all of this is done without hands

all of this and every sense

less and less and less

to rest

until light calls



Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Canvas 960



Canvas 960

July 11, 2017




and this is the world


and this is the world in the form of a map

mountains are knuckles and

nations are blotches of failed pigment

and this is my skin and that

is where rivers run



hero


a statue without arms

no arms have I or feet to run

or care to shield

love



Friday, July 7, 2017

as happy as we are to be clouds


sweet peas, as happy as we are to be clouds,

and all the other things we know, with no need to tell

the fields below, where lovers play

and children grow



Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Just as it is


My mother was born on this day in 1922. I remember sitting up with her in her later years, as she was startled and frightened anew with each childish explosion in the neighborhood, and calming her with my voice as she tried to understand what was happening. It was heartbreaking, just as it’s heartbreaking to think that flags and smoke and simulated war sounds are seen as an expression of freedom. For me, the simple truth that even one person, or one animal, might suffer by such a display, is enough to dispense with it altogether. But it runs much deeper than that. Much deeper. Freedom is not a taunting pose or demonstration of power. It is not the drawing of a line one dares others not to cross. It is not something one achieves at the expense of others more vulnerable. It is not a feeble shower of sparks against an infinitely immense night sky. Quite simply, freedom does not, and cannot, exist without love. And how does one express that love? By living it, of course. By not placing oneself at the center of the universe and assuming all else revolves around him. By thinking of others. By passing through one’s time on this earth as lightly and consciously and gratefully as possible. By — but, enough. I’ve said too much already. Life is beautiful just as it is. I love you. Happy Birthday.