Friday, June 19, 2015

Canvas 563

Canvas 563

June 19, 2015


A head full of hoary-gray pollen,
the brain a tangled mass of creeping vines,
wild children leaping from waterfalls,
bugs, spiders, scat on the trail,
and ferns that are wise;

a young black cat new to the neighborhood,
upon her neck a tinkling bell,
kibble-chorus meets call of the wild;

the grand appearance
of a worn out shoe;

life a simple shovelful;

and here
the mind grows



Thursday, June 18, 2015

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

something in his shadow

something about the lighting, the coloring,
the clover full of bees so close at hand;

something in the sun on the neck of the man;

something in his shadow, where it bends,
how it ends, as it stands.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Enlightenment is

Can you see yourself sweet, ripe,
about to fall? Enlightenment is a child,
when she puts you in her mouth.

When clouds are flowers

When clouds are flowers and their petals fall,
sweet the hour, clear the sound, meek the man,
dear the child, soft their way to the ground.

Friday, June 12, 2015

Here to hear

Thus far, all the way

from here






(this very life a waterfall)

Thursday, June 11, 2015

That precious bit of nothing

That precious bit of nothing

you’ve given me today

I too give away

that nothing

may stay

the way

between us

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Tiny spiders hair and beard

Tiny spiders hair and beard, faucet to plant,
plant to board, summer’s whisper,
autumn’s word, by this path,
garden lured.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

The Old Language

“… And the old man wept, for there was no better language to explain his loss.”

(A new offering in the Archive)

Friday, June 5, 2015

Like Grandpa

Gazing out the window of my big workroom filled with old books,
with that alert, satisfied, otherworldly expression indicative
of his four grand years, my grandson said,
mostly to himself but partly to me,

This room smells like Grandpa.

To his left, forty volumes of 1901 Dumas;
to his right, 1890s Emerson and Goethe;
behind him, a rare ten-volume Tennyson.

And that is only the beginning.

In each direction, and at every point between,
waits aromatic adventure:

the novels of Waverley;
the Arabian Nights entertainments;
the letters of Madame de Sévigné;
the reliques of ancient poetry.

A man could lose his mind in here,
and daily does, blow off the dust,
and still smell like Grandpa.

(to my right, Byron; to my left, Swift; to my joy, this glorious if...)

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Jonathan Swift

Just another day at the old book barn.

The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, D.D.,
Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin

New York : William Durell and Co.


Nineteen volumes of a twenty-four-volume set,
part of the much larger British Classics series

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Rain on fig leaves

An old radio,
and an even older song,
rain on fig leaves,

tender, green, gone,
says the father to his son,
leave it on,

leave it



Monday, June 1, 2015