March 7, 2011
In the library
even when I write bright
the intensity of the light
is subjective in fact
comparatively dim
when I stare down the stacks
and see the glow
that still escapes
from row upon row
of closed volumes
some ignited centuries ago
January 20
from this week in January, 2007 (I was 62)
Think back to a time you believed in myths
were a part of the myths you believed
The place you lived then was your true home
and home was another myth
the warmth and safety and assurance
That someone knew what to do
and someone understood why it was done
was something you believed
and the belief made it true
until you knew better
January 17, 2014 (I was 69)
There is a melody in the background
a melody you may not hear
but the xylophone notes that float
in thought sound clear
There is a tune I hang the word upon
and the word is carried along a drift
from the tones of the vibraphone
serenading the cerebellum
It hums a song of balance and dance
It is a presence a pose and a posture
The inspired movements of romance
an equilibrium in which you’re lost
There is a consonance of concordant harmony
the incidental music of the mind
we find synchronized and euphonious
waiting for your expression
from this week in January, 1976 (I was 31)
The Cow in the Road
Hello.
Welcome to your real life
(remember the other
the one with the golden hair
the one on the rocks by the sea
and the wind and the wave
that broke in trembling tetrameter
o’er myriads of naiads
gamboling upon the shore)
All that’s given way to tap dancing
up and down the stony steps of Sproul Hall
and all kinds of other groovy things
All that ended when the war did
All the soldiers were underground
waiting again to inhale the smoke and breathe the fire
Then came who cares leading up to now
and the ha ha of personal commitment
sitting on its own lap on our doorstep
saying its been there all the while and somehow
that has to be the truth and suddenly you know
you’ve been to the beach again
and there’s an oh-oh from the basement
and a rustling in the woodwork
and memories of the night the bats were loose in the house
But then all those things went by
not for everybody, but at least for us
We didn’t know the beginning
though we kept on surviving the end
and we will until one of us
fails to recognize the cow in the road
from this week in January, 2020 (I was 75)
Keep Your Distance
It is the distance that creates the reality
we are able to construct in memory
Distance conjures the details
we did not sense at the time
The soul paints what eyes had failed to see
and hears the song from the fear and anguish
Tastes of bitterness become tart then sweet
Once a cause to spit now to savor and swallow
The cold and heat of our nakedness
now insulated by distance
from this week in January, 1972 (I was 27)
her
she follows all the rules
she believes every one
she stayed in school, rose two degrees
she is beautiful
following the most important rule
she believes every one
she tells all the truth she knows
in any language with a smile
men admire her
December 27, 1974 (I was 30)
Swirls of snow
powder the air of Cold Mountain
From my breath crystal mist
obscures and reveals
Blurred vision clears the mind
thought vapors enhance the image
the moon illuminates the wind
scatters light over the crags
December 25, 1976 (I was 32)
I’ve ignored daily evidence
disregarded the point of each lesson
So now it is I’ve flunked visceral learning
I have not had the compassion
to massage my own neck
It’s not that I lacked the feeling
but settled for powder in the stomach
when I could have conjured organic bicarbonates
bubbles in the brain
Dilated pupils should not be overexposed to sunlight
elementary enough
but not more primary than good posture
nor more essential than breathing good air
It is a corruption of the knowledgeable
to believe occasional indiscretions will be overlooked
in the face of their general wisdom
Christmas Bonus:
I Google Translated the above poem into Mandarin, then translated it back from Mandarin into English. The line, Dilated pupils should not be overexposed to sunlight, came back, Obese students should be excused from physical education
from this week in 2005. (I was 61)
unsound expectation
I had expected the sounds from all below
to settle into the comfortable hum
within the sonic universality of aum
I’ve been accustomed to this perception
in the heightened awareness stimulated
by focused intent on the physical climb
But yesterday there was an unfamiliar whine
above the drone and apart from it
It was less plaintive than the squeals
of freeway semis shriller than train wheels
fighting against the curving rails
a sound distinct from historic wails
of horror beyond humanity
that humanity so often creates
I know this subtlety relates
as all sounds from the common source
I just did not expect it in this state
I underestimated us of course
December 18,2003 (I was 69)
The text in my mind this morning
was full of the assonance of O
I try to remember the words now
once occasion oppression overbearing
I don’t know now
but it had to do with us recognizing
the hour of America was over
We’ve immolated our witches
owned our slaves
bombed the biggest bombs
bombed cities bombed jungles
bombed deserts bombed mountains
of bombs drones of bombs
The world does not trust us
because we are not trustworthy
Our biggest citizens are corporations
Our little citizens are obsolete
Our biggest business is fighting fear
We make sure there is enough
to keep the economy going
from this week of December, 2011 (I was 67)
Love the noun is an abstraction that
can only be indicated by love the verb
Love the verb is better indicated in the less
overt and sometimes superficial typical
physical action (hug kiss hand over
heart) More subtle indicators can be
emblematic or more heavy handed
symbolic It is not the enduring aspects
of love that are difficult to invoke
it’s the fleeting ephemeral unstable
quality even when it feels eternal
To relate that is as elusive
as discovering the real thing
It should never be quite what you think it is
December 12, 1976 (I was 32)
Steam Heat
First time I was stoned
it was on steam heat
Mad dog winter bite your ass off outside
me lying on the carpet
five year old face up against the register
hearing only the blower roaring
eyes closed against a desert wind.
December 9, 2006 (I was 62)
Revenge is impotent following genuine tragedy
Moral devastation affects perpetrator and victim
The degradation debases all
Humanity is absent
Aggrandized thoughts of what we were vanish
like smoke constricted in the reality of cold air
Truth dissipates in the perfect distribution of chaos
Narrow focus explodes to widest angle
planets lost in galaxies lost as well
Mere justice and retribution seem
a preoccupation of an insignificant number
in the population of one minor specie
from this week in 2015 (I was 71)
It is repetition that makes us believe
the lord has something up his sleeve
Nothing like a natural scare
to prompt us into fervent prayer
Nice to have a verse in mind
when we find us in a bind
Recalling something plenary
from our childish memory
gives us the hopeless hope
we’ve not yet been given
quite enough rope
from this week in November 1971 (I was 26)
Everything I focus on
is only a fragment
perceived by a fragment of attention
I flash
like a Picasso person
pure sense essence
without grotesque flesh
or reasonable circumstance
from this week in November, 2012 (I was 68)
Someone before me decided rain on my roof
should not drain directly off the slant
but caught in gutters to downspouts funneling
to corners of expedient convenience and past logic
This delivery system is quite efficient
as long as there are no trees nearby
It was devised when the neighborhood was new
trunks still held by stakes below the roofline
We live among foliate monsters now
whose sheddings fill the aqueducts in every season
to decompose into mushy verdant gardens
At an inconvenient time they must be cleaned
accessed by slippery ladder moved station to station
shoveled out by hand then flushed by hose and still
there are storms each year that overwhelm the system
pour off the roof in the most direct manner possible
I consider appropriate truisms of our existence
a zen acceptance of a waterfall in the window
Thankful for a roof overhead
November 20, 2007 (I was 63)
Is it the command over another’s decline
that makes one age? It seems so.
Deciding what is to be discarded,
what was written that will never be read,
what in the closet will never be worn;
it makes one more than the specter of death.
I have discarded wardrobes of the soul,
eliminated expressions to a savable few.
The Grim Reaper is a heartless editor,
humility a byproduct of playing that role.
Where is the repository of life?
How careless of any Grand Design
to leave it to those left behind,
to one who may have read Sound and Sense
but survived only through expedience.
from this week in November, 2019 (I was 74)
The Perfect Fifth
Not the life within but the inner life
the two are not the same
The life within is of heart and lung
the vehicle we strive to maintain
The inner life floats parallel
but may drift ahead or drop behind
Llife within feels its mortality
Inner life invents eternity
riding on a cloud
*
If a story be told in verse
make sure the story may be sung
If the tale should languish on the tongue
attempting to tell more than it knows
all that language becomes a curse
and probably better laid out in prose
from this week in November 2008 (I was 63)
So often with partial mind
thinking seems inept
yet one-eyed sight is not blind
common sense and images kept
Inspiration needs a spark
deep thought seeks the dark
Most time we avoid the glare
to see our dappled shadow there
When rid of that shade inside
comes a task in view
Art and focus must decide
what half a mind can do
from this week in October, 2006 (I was 61)
Retired time accelerates
and its undertakings multiply
Urgency requires efficiency
All is immediate
The meditation that orders priority
is easily lost in the scheduling
When fatigue is ignored
and the pace persists
a coffee break isn’t enough
The breakdown that happens
disconnects all those with expectations
of immortality
