Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Canvas 760

Canvas 760

September 28, 2016

tell me

late evening

quiet residential streets

and as I took flight above the walkers and the trees

I beheld a vast field of stars

or was it grain upon the miller’s floor ?

so abundant were the seeds of light

so vast his open door

tell me

have you been here before ?

Monday, September 26, 2016


dahlia buds every which way

all pointing homeward

and then you say

here my love

Friday, September 23, 2016

Canvas 755

Canvas 755

September 23, 2016

how words on a page are love in a song

how words on a page
are love in a song

when they are fewer than one
and the singer has gone

and the page is a leaf
in your palm

Thursday, September 22, 2016

now the honey thickens

now the honey thickens
and the ladybugs grow wise

to realize


by a multitude
of eyes

night storm

how long will it take this thunder
to break

the mind open
for heaven’s sake?

Tuesday, September 20, 2016


The leaf you sent me found me in my room;
it’s only natural I would send the moon.

Do you weep, my love?
Then I weep too.

Do you smile?
I join you.

For the leaf you sent me found in my room;
and the light I send will find you soon.

Monday, September 19, 2016

and here I sit without a flower

and here I sit without a flower,
an hour gone or more, when a bee lands
on petal hands I did not have

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Friday, September 16, 2016


When the man
built a tall
wooden tower,
his neighbors smiled.
He’d been crazy
all along.

Then his bell
began to ring,
melancholy and deep,
bringing shivers
to the soul.

For the dead
in war it rang,
and for the child
who starves,

For the widow
weeping young
into her pale
wedding gown.

It rang for those
without a home,

For the weak
and lonely old.

It rang for the
sleeping millions
who will never know.

The bell rang
loud and long,
until the neighbors
had all gone mad.

Then they built
their own towers,
and more bells
joined the song.

(From Songs and Letters, September 24, 2005)

Thursday, September 15, 2016


what I meant

the words are bent

like awkward men in tragic suits

and haggard women who make them mute

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Monday, September 12, 2016

did some hitchhiking today

did some hitchhiking today

between stars

maybe you know the way

it feels

to be borne

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Canvas 752

Canvas 752

September 11, 2016

the cloud and the streetlight

when the cloud and the streetlight met at the tree
the three conversed most splendidly
about the new day upon them

or so thought the man
at his window
who saw

was raised
by the grace of its dawning

Saturday, September 10, 2016

how it is

how it is when you are about to say no

then decide to let it go

and a sky that does not fall

Thursday, September 8, 2016


My father in the mossy ditch,
wearing big comical floral swim trunks,
fastening a screen over the gate that lets the water
into our field, a mesh to keep the moss out,
polliwogs at his legs, crayfish in the icy
snowmelt, I must have been about
six, to guess by the way
I feel just now.

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Monday, September 5, 2016

Sea notes

Writing is writing and drawing is drawing, yes,
until you see words running down your true love’s neck,
and tracing the curve of her back — and the sketch
of the stretch and the fetch and the catch of the west wind,
and the waters and forests it passed — the sail and stress
of her favorite old dress — Ulysses, I guess — in graphite,
charcoal, or pen, and the paper you press, in praise
of the poet you bless in the end.

Sunday, September 4, 2016

cotton rag

a few scratches on the paper

I remember when the old man’s hair fell out

and my mother’s itchy scalp

Saturday, September 3, 2016

Canvas 749

Canvas 749

September 3, 2016

before we go to the flower show

before we go to the flower show
one of our sunflowers gone to seed
seems quite suddenly
all we need
to see

all children are her progeny

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Canvas 747

Canvas 747

September 1, 2016

Canvas 746

Canvas 746

September 1, 2016

There is no “true secret,” or “great secret.”
There is no secret at all. There does seem to be a fair degree
of blindness, though — but only as far, or near,
as I can see.


your soft light

the air


and there

where september

is the word for your hair