Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Whom the gods would destroy…

July 8, 2018



January 2, 2018

Doing the dishes
you sing so softly I can
barely hear my tears


October 20, 2017

That winter can be a speech, that words can change
A child’s body from the pink flesh
Of life into an icy gown,
An act of contrition so slowly spoken…
…So fragile and pale it becomes like
The stone hands it must use
To paint the lace-ice portraits
That so confound the storm windows
As winter springs from death’s hand.
This is what we say
When we pretend not to obey.
This is the sweep of ice across the land
Turned to the blank gaze of sufferance,
The loss of sunlight, into utterance.


September 23, 2017

If only we loved when the flowers
were old and dark, whispering of the sun
to the pall of winter itself,
our time would not be like icicles
that twist in the shadows.
The snow would not be piled,
insensate, like memories.  

Mr. Senescence

July 20, 2017

There were those that would have wept to step barefoot into reality…                            —Wallace Stevens

A picture of my family:
My mother and father and me,
all wading in some river.

Must be 1949 or so.
I can’t really remember it.
I would have been two.

But my feet were wet.
My father had his trousers
rolled up to his knees.

And mommy had a dress on.
The cold, clean water ran
through our toes.

(I could walk then. )
When your tongue reaches up
into the sky, the sky kisses it.

Yippy yi yo kayah.

Cry, the Quiet Child

June 12, 2017

Cry, the quiet child, for there is such a stillness
in the air this morning, the meadow seems silent as frost.
So subtle is your murmur, it seems we must confess:
your voice must be the one—or be the one that’s lost.
For we were planned and planted deep at birth
to have the inner strength to free
the earth of all the world’s debris,
it must have all its hopes in grave and gravel earth.
So cry. Cry of august trees awake.
The sky, awake. The lake, awake. Stay, terrain.
Cry of song and psalm to shake
the house alive, massive in refrain.
Cry of moss and flowers frozen in the frost.
Cry the quiet child. Your meadow now is lost.

The Glories Undefined

May 18, 2017

Through a thrill of flowers that cannot be found
in any other meadow, the slimy vine is
thought to be extravagant; it seems to seep around
the luscious soil as if it were molasses
going uphill in January, cold and numb,
attached like wings to the ‘flesh-like’ roots:
Will the glories come? Will the glories ever come?
Many of the glories have routes
they have always used and have won with.
The glories grow inviolate in a violent mind.
The glories all want this urge to transform ‘kith’,
unprincipled, into a glorious morning, undefined.
But summer’s sun returns day after day.
The sky clears; the glories swell and sway.


Ships of Time

February 8, 2017

All endings come with a surprise.
The limit is not found but must be allowed
until a fresh coat of snow is available.
For sunlight to equal destruction…
oh boy,
maybe tomorrow…

 For tomorrow’s children
always wake up to the sounds
of breakfast being prepared.
Their beds and books will always
be fond of dreams.
All their eyes can see is
the old men waiting,
clean and clear as bull’s horn—
as if the pale sun shivers
and the ships of time return
and all those Theban guests depart.

From Dusk

October 12, 2016

The word, the frogs, the pond, the neither/nor—
‘Neither’ left the fox too much to see,
‘Nor’ for long—not with all them frogs legs for…

At Dusk

October 11, 2016

At dusk, as the cathedral frogs sing songs
of unprincipled certainty, the fox
will circle the pond in search of what belongs
to every fox no matter how unorthodox.
It couldn’t matter less. Your theoretical
frog is not just a cliché—softened by
the fox’s growl—it is an inestimable
blunder. Why, if their song could even try
to rival a great graveyard in honest terror,
it would be as if all creation waited for
a mot juste from a bare nosed but blessed warrior:
the word, the frogs, the pond, the neither/nor—
‘Neither’ left the fox too much “to see,
‘nor’ for long—not with all them frogs legs for free