not stolen from Roethke

 

from this week in 2012  (I was 67)

 

  not stolen from Roethke

I know it’s an owl

he’s making it darker

You didn’t know

he could do it

 

I hear it hoot black

his yellow eyes pierce far

Any mouse that moves

moves silent wings to it.

This is America

 

from this week in 2021  (I was 76)

 

This is America

there is no elephant in the room

it's a white whale

and creatures beneath the surface

prey on one another

never really knowing exactly

where they are each

a most unreliable narrator of the other

pursuing and pursued by an unseen greatness

on a rough but textured empty canvas

filled by winds of an uncharted voyage

Kidhood

 

from this week in 2016  (I was 71)

                 

                  Kidhood

We skated in our socks across a polished floor

We decided what everything were for

We could discover a shieldin a garbage can cover 

Cardboard toboggans raced down grassy hills

Rocks could express many skills

We saved the age of savage kids

reinventing civilization every day

abandoning it each night

when with the bats we took flight

blindly on bikes to improve our sight

The rapidity which we matter-of-factly employ

 

March 28, 2001  (I was 56) 

 

The rapidity which we matter-of-factly employ

while jumping from the still moving car

as to run alongside to jostle the carriage

until the sprung wheel bounces back upon the track

seems but second nature and unremarkable

unless we consciously reflect upon it

after we spring back on board and settle back

into our seat and re-accelerate in our descent

Even then it seems only relatively quick

and inspired by the necessity of the moment

the kind of speed recognized only in failure

by those who stumble by the wayside

while the car careens on three wheels

or disengages completely

crashing or skidding to a halt

a momentary distraction to preoccupied witnesses

 

We like things to come in groups of one

 

March 27, 2012  (I was 67)

   

We like things to come in groups of one

one fish on the line is perfectly fine

one heart makes a valentine

 

We are undone wanting but one within the One

a sense of humor to exclude passion

no fabric beneath the fashion

 

We fear to know one and one and one are not three

but a larger One as you and I are We

Inside we know each one makes One grow

 

creation

 

March 26, 1998  (I was 53)

 

         creation

When no dog feels to bark

when phones are unanswered even by machine

when laughter is less than an echo

when the evangelical “Gees Us”

doesn’t do that anymore

when the silent internal voice

stops speaking

when the universe hums no wave

and nothing strives to call it music

when no tooth clicks upon another

no breath whistles

nor eye flutters

God may finally be

The remains of my mother were buried today

 

March 25, 2015  (I was 70)

 

The remains of my mother were buried today

 

When he became the rose she became the brier

His heart blossomed her skin toughened

When petals fell she preserved the fragrance

in the very root of her yearning soul

Intemperate times strengthened the thorn

Attempts to wrest her hold on memory

met by stinging barbs of comparison

until after years no similes were needed

staunch years brittle and worn

Leafless sixty-four springs later she rests

next to him with so much to tell

 

Address

 

March 24, 1979  (I was 34)

 

         Address

My country has not been able

to lead economically and righteously

We are not the conscious rich

We have not sought to make everyone wealthy

We have not loved the truth and freedom we cherish

We have killed Allende

We have set up shahs and shot down townsmen

Our personal generosities have not been official

We have sold armaments in the name of peace

I know this without reading anything radical

Our discussion of who we are is more dramatic than actual

It is easy to lead a life of parochial responsibility

It is hard to act internationally when you never leave the country

It is harder to know if governments are acting wisely

and impossible to trust them to do so

Revolutions can be trusted to supply us with corpses

and leaders who in the end are only men

 

Once they begin to think about it

 

March 23, 1998  (I was 53)

 

Once they begin to think about it

all the poets know

the simple common images

make the strongest symbols

 

and they write about the dog bark

the rain and whistle of train in the dark

the brush of the cat against the pane

and a walk in the park to keep them sane

 

Once they feel the pattern of the scheme

and understand the stream of consciousness

is no more than the unconsciousness of dream

the image is greater than the theme

 

Making the boat emerge from the fog

is not figuring the because

but merely saying it does

What drives the boat is its chugging monologue

The actual if significant

 

From this week in 2021  (I was 76)

 

The actual if significant

requires years becoming real

Bourbon in the burnt barrel

takes on the oak aging

to mature into complexity it lacks

as first siphoned into actual alcohol

The book read off the press is a book

but not a classic until reread

by generations of readers to follow

The significance of that first big fish

story is not a tale until retold long

after fish and fisherman are gone

All the nights skating on the outdoor rink

concentrate into a single night

that will last all winter long

Beyond the disillusionment of the actual

we sip distilled richness of the spirit

from an old container of the reality

At an eddy of the Merced River in Yosemite

 

March 21, 2013  (I was 68)     

 

At an eddy of the Merced River in Yosemite

creations of light occupy the river bottom

but they are not bright they are darknesses

that run along the illuminated stones

Squiggles of parallel worm squirms

move shoreward or spin toward center stream

across a bed where no ripples go

Water beetle forms skate on stones where no bug treads

Round black holes swell and disappear

as perhaps they do in space

Projected shadows of surface whirlpools

as are the other illusions

silhouettes of nearly invisible movement on its skin

when one great element touches another

 

The saxophone

 

March 20,2000  (I was 55)

 

The saxophone

held upright on its stand

could be a lavish pipe fitting

awaiting installation

under the sink of someone rich

Melodious golden plumbing

to be played by breath of water

in cold staccato spurts

or a warm flow of languid notes

that everyone knows

come straight from the eternal river

In the solarium of the Ahwahnee great room

 

March 19, 2011  (I was 66)

 

In the solarium of the Ahwahnee great room

at an oak table next to the waterfall fountain

the five great windows bathe in white

it snowed heavily last night

No matter where you’ve lived

you have not experienced the scenic intensity

of This reality

It is what makes ansel adams lower case

A laden live oak sheds weighty flakes

a sagging sugar pine turned dwarf pine

Buried boundary poles and whited wire

separate one white field from another white field

The trees are not trees

they are thick webs of white

releasing a secondary storm in the gravity and warm

The place is too public for serious thought

though passing visitors are silenced by the sight

The more private side room would be as bright

but I chose this place to occupy

the same space we made a family portrait

more than two decades of snow ago

now soaked deep as the Miwok into the valley floor

And all This not to mention the backdrop

amassed granite to glacier peak

white sheathed scarps rise to limit sky

wall away thoughts of this Japanese winter

where ominous flakes of fallout drift

Took typing in high school

 

From this week in 2021  (I was 76)

 

Took typing in high school

ensured a life of sitting

in poor posture and lousy dexterity

with wrists arched and fingers

that couldn't quite retain exactly where

each key was located to translate

clear thought into clear print

I spent more money on correction tape

than on typewriter ribbon

I think the same lack of facility

screwed up any chance for a music career

an instrumental dysfunction

It's a hell of a note

Yosemite -Under the bridge

 

March 17, 2007  (I was 62)

 

   Yosemite  -Under the bridge

water sounds wash away the years

rivulets into streams into river

waterfall falls falls down sheer rock

creasing at last the stony face

the rising spires rising rising

the domes snow capped and encapsulating

the valley below the meadow the forest

the thick trunked trees trees trees

whose needles whistle then whisper

 

Wind plays above and behind sounds of children

Dad Dad Dad look Dad look calls

the voice of my own son twenty years ago

and I look to see him poised on a rock

in the stream about to jump to another

but waiting for another dad to look and calling

Look Dad and I look for Dad to look

thinking he’s going to make the leap anyway

and you’re going to wish you had watched

 

in Yosemite

 

from this week in 2013  (I was 68)

 

in Yosemite

when you see the tallest pines

swaying in the serious wind

and think their shrill whistle to be

the final call of their impending fall

do not fear  It is no Siren sound

but the exclamatory squeal of limbs

exploring the boundaries for which they are built

Eye instead the rooted ground

from which emerges the sturdy trunk

It is there you want to perceive a stillness

as stationary and steadfast answer

to querulous notions blowing above

Life ran away from me

 

From this week in 2017  (I was 72)

 

Life ran away from me

can’t honestly say

I tried to keep up

couldn’t do what it asked

to get what I wanted

not even sure what that was

I never got a good look

I’ve been out distanced

It’s not that I did nothing

but I didn’t do something

someone would know about

The generosity of the poor

generally goes unnoticed

even by the recipient of the gift

You'd think

 

From this week in 2021  (I was 76)

 

You'd think the antelopes could eat the cantaloupes

But no they can't

You'd think the elephants would stomp the sycophants

But no they won't

You'd think the leopard had been peppered

But no he wasn't

You'd think the rabbit runs out of habit

But no he doesn't

You'd think the kangaroo should rue what it doesn't do

But no it don't

You'd think the cloud would cry out loud

And by thunder it does

Themes of a Life

 

March 13, 1987  (I was 42)

 

         Themes of a Life

   (Escape of the thrilled soul)

 

The themes of a life fall upon me this morning;

begun as hard phrases for ideas found in youth,

they glare through blue windshield off wet pavement

momentarily blinding me once more in the spring.

 

Cheap Thrills, excursions of extremism,

a few footfalls beyond the bounds of convention,

taken as regularly as medicine

to reveal the arbitrary values upon which judgments lie

until pedestrian habit becomes cynical addiction.

 

Battling the Demons, little evils allowed to inhabit us

because we proudly remember Hemingway had them,

and their stings were so innocuous.

Age begins to understand persistence

and respect has made the little devils grow.

 

Dreams of Flying, any dreams really

that linger into the morning and take possession,

extending their insistent reality upon the dreamer’s conscious actions.

Dreams are the art of the soul, and to dream of flying

is undeniably to fly for the space of the dream, perhaps beyond.

 

Spring Training in the Bush

 

March 12, 1974  (I was 29)

 

   Spring Training in the Bush

That man in Canada did not die

With the bayonet at his throat

He turned and ran weaponless

Sliding across the border like stealing second

We’ve been hitless ever since

Still we blame the stranded runner

Most of our hitters got drafted

Some signed heavy contracts

How many outs we got?

Still no score

Maybe we could’ve won with more like him

Bunt and run men

Give him the sign

In the end it don’t matter whether you struck out

Or whether you were thrown out at home

Because I know where the highway goes

 

March 11, 2012  (I was 67)

 

Because I know where the highway goes

   (You said it doesn’t go your way)

I take the off roads the side roads

   the back roads the inroads

   skirting private property

   along the stream through the canyon

   the way the Pony Express would gallop

   where silent films were made

   at the little church in the vale

   up into the woods of Kilkare

   gang of Robin Hood’s still there

   …He now owns a stable of thoroughbreds

      he races in a seasonal tournament…

But I digress

   (I said I know where the highway goes)

   from the route up the trail to the path

   and rocky outcrop from which the single sound

   may be heard or imagined

   like a country club with no members

   like understandings with no miss

   like a muse that has no meant

   Expressed from the expressway

   turned from the turnpike through with the throughway

   avoiding the avenue of whatever whichway

   unfashionable on the boulevard

   to meander among melancholy reflections

   somewhere just off where the highway ends

   must be somewhere near your way