Archive for August, 2015

The Tea Ceremony: What Just Might Be Beginning

August 29, 2015

He wished he could fit its beak
over his own rough mouth
and not have the seagull betray
his knowledge of what to do.
The seagull had cried
and so he had cried too.
Its lips were red and pure—
that could be deduced. But what else?
What might just be beginning—
a cry that was sympathetic to
a knowledge that they all felt was
important, but no one could put
his finger on. This bird’s
too tight for flight, they said.
Too loose not to be real and regal,
not to be, simply, an example
of breath and beauty, cream and cake—
a tea ceremony of enormous size—
screamed at by the seagull
as it changed and changed again

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Untitled

August 26, 2015

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Ariel of the Ground

August 21, 2015

To the prisoners of form: yes, escape is possible.
To the pensioners of time: no.

The doctors had assured them that that pain
On his face was only on his face, not in his mind.
That frown, those troubled lips, the scared look—
As if what he most feared, had come true.
But no, his soul was sleeping peacefully—
His dreams were sweet dreams of boys in cassocks,
Of young girls, not there for carnal knowledge
But for emulation—as if goats could be kids again
By pretending to be The Birth itself. True,
His face was afraid, almost. Truth:
‘Almost’ is a very big word here,
A mist over a time and place,
A mist to turn into a mystery.
To the prisoners, he was too big to see through
or around. His body was not of Shakespeare’s play.
He was not that old. He was not
0f that spirit, or made of those planets.
To the pensioners, his body was
almost of the ground—
almost touching it.

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August 19, 2015
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The Angel of your Birth

August 13, 2015

That he was still alive, he never doubted.
The heave and push of his pulse remained strong.
His eyes were aflame.
If he could only laugh,
he would fit his eyes inside a balloon,
so they could float over the countryside,
alive with spirits, and still—
still sing to the cathedrals
as they languished there under the sun;
still be fond of God even though
in all your confessions hating
only the sin and not God Himself,
and not yourself as the sun rose
and the roses rose—
each one an insufficiency
a finny thing, canned and creamed
and boiled and salted;
and still see the green boughs
of summer as they
become winter’s bare bouquet.

Can you see the circumference of
the tree? Can you see the light?

Remain still.