Random thoughts . . . a break from
reading the philosophical dictionary of Voltaire . . . the time is
ripe to start wearing, in earnest, the over-sized black beret I
bought through the mail many years ago from a haberdashery in
Portland. Although I’ve had it on many times, I’ve never kept it
on my head for more than five minutes. I did so again this afternoon.
And so it is, in effect, still new. But why start now, after all
these years? For the simple reason that my hair, while still
seemingly plentiful at a glance, is thinning on top, and I feel I
need a little extra insulation during my walks on chilly mornings and
evenings. I have hats, but it’s hard to keep them on when it’s
windy. I have one big gray hat I love, with a wide brim and high
dented crown, and if a gust comes up it’s liable to pick me up and
land me on the other side of the street. In Spanish, we call this
mucho gusto. In English, we say he’s full of it. The
hat is a recreation of the one Walt Whitman wore. Yet something tells
me he wore more than one hat during his lifetime. Anyway, it’s the
one we generally associate with Whitman in his later years. Of course
I am nothing like Walt Whitman. Or am I? A beret, on the other hand,
will stay on my head in windy weather — in other words, it might be
just what I need during these glorious Specimen Days,
when each and every detail is so beautiful it is bound to break your
heart and you love the breaking — every bird, every leaf, every
last lady bug contemplating the approaching winter, the yellowing of
the grapevine, the blueberry gone an indescribable red that changes
with each breath, yours and hers, the shuddering of frozen, abandoned
stalks, footprints just deep enough to last all winter — and yet if
you were to go back and try to find them — well, that is something
you simply don’t do, and there is no need — such are the Specimen
Days.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Night walk
In my absent presence, a cricket
singing
here, here, here,
as if the way
were
clear, clear, clear.
Friday, October 27, 2017
Yellow Fever
There’s a solitary poplar nearby
that’s become a column of fire.
And behind the house, there are
*
Fig leaves so bright, the birds don’t
sleep at night.
“Yellow Fever”
Poems, Slightly Used, October
23, 2009
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Enough mist to say
When I walked through the house to the
kitchen to make coffee this morning at four, I felt like a spirit
passing through a place inhabited by other spirits occupied with
their own affairs, who were perhaps listening and wondering at the
sound of my invisible presence. Oh, I was awake enough. As surely as
I am sitting here — which isn’t sure at all, but which is just
Enough mist to say
the page could be a street
the day the way
fingers please
a face
“Enough mist to say”
Recently Banned Literature, October 26,
2013
Monday, October 23, 2017
Sunday, October 22, 2017
In my fairy tale mind, I have a fairy tale dream
In my fairy tale mind, I have a fairy
tale dream,
wherein lies a fairy tale land, in
which those come to wed
take part in a simple ceremony:
in a fairy tale silent space, neath
fairy tale trees,
the couple arrives from left, and
right, like a fairy tale breeze,
while those come to witness wait in
fairy tale angel calm;
when, behold, the couple meet, and,
holding hands,
face each other, and in the presence of
this silent fairy tale band,
sing a song as young as love and older
than the land;
and in my fairy tale mind, my fairy
tale dream has no end;
the song they sing is replenished by
the rain,
and each leaf is the joyous grateful
way of man!
Saturday, October 21, 2017
Friday, October 20, 2017
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Monday, October 16, 2017
Sunday, October 15, 2017
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Thursday, October 12, 2017
The Final Days
“The Final Days” is a very short
story written August 29, 2002. It is the nineteenth story in a
collection of seventy written in the space of ninety days, and
collected in the second volume of my Author’s Press Series under
the title No Time to Cut My Hair. Is it any wonder? Now, over
fifteen years later, I still don’t have time. Each and every day is
my last. It is also my first — and, of course, the only. I tell
you, it’s one thing to stand in front of a waterfall looking like a
hairy nut, but quite another to jump in. And the jump is really the
only thing ever asked of us. The jump — to peace, to love, to —
well, deep down, you already know, and certainly don’t need me to
tell you.
*
In the final days, the few humans still
alive spoke to each other with kindness. Bodies were everywhere. The
forests were gone. So were the animals. The rivers ran with blood.
The soil had been contaminated. Even their eternal friend and
companion, the sun, struggled in vain to bore a hole through the
earth’s polluted atmosphere. When a child was born, it died
nameless within a few hours. Some mothers held a hand over their
newborn’s mouth and nose until he or she stopped breathing. Then
the search began for a resting place where the child was least likely
to be disturbed.
In the final days, the few humans still
alive spoke to each other with kindness. For the first time, they
fully understood war, and the meaning of war. They understood that
they were responsible for what had happened, and that if they had
made the decision not to fight, war would have been impossible. For
the first time, they saw the direct relationship between the way they
led their lives and the events that had occupied and finally consumed
the world. The simple truth drove many people mad. Suicide, though
unnecessary, was a common occurrence.
In the final days, the few humans still
alive spoke to each other with kindness. The desire to know one
another had replaced all other desires. There was nothing to gain or
lose, other than friendship. Feelings of love and kinship grew.
People greeted one another with eagerness and affection.
In the final days, the few humans still
alive spoke to each other with kindness. When it was discovered that
a handful of the world’s leaders were still alive, and that they
were in hiding in specially built chambers beneath the earth’s
surface, there was a great outpouring of concern. It was too late for
them to be punished. Punishment had already been accomplished at
their own hands. Rather, their foolish self-exile earned them a
feeling of sympathy. Eventually, they were coaxed above ground, and
stood trembling in awe at all that had happened. They wandered about
like ghosts, afraid of each other and afraid of themselves. None of
them understood the love that was around them, for they had traveled
too far away from their own humanity.
In the final days, the few humans still
alive spoke to each other with kindness. Then the light coming from
their eyes went out forever. The planet sighed, then waited. It is
waiting still, drifting silently through space, crushed by the
knowledge of all that was lost.
“The Final Days”
August 29, 2002, No Time to Cut My
Hair
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Monday, October 9, 2017
Sunday, October 8, 2017
Canvas 1,057
Canvas 1,057
October
8, 2017
One
of those days — you are up very early,
or
very late, thinking about change,
and
the time you’ve yet to spend as an autumn leaf.
Saturday, October 7, 2017
Canvas 1,056
Canvas 1,056
October
7, 2017
I don’t have near the level of
control with my left hand that I do with my right. But after using my
left for a day, a week, or more, and I return to my right, I discover
both are left. And yet if I reverse the process, I never discover
that the left has become the right. So it’s either a right and a
left, or two lefts, never two rights.
Friday, October 6, 2017
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Sidewalk seasonal
Months later, in the chilled morning
air,
the same towhee, from the same tree,
singing and saying,
I see I see, you see I see you see . .
.
and after I wash, and sit with some
tea,
I write the word
dignity
and then the word says,
I think you mean simplicity . . .
Sunday, October 1, 2017
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