From the year last passed, poems,
from late July, on
Meeting at Bird’s and Beckett
Like cousins, almost,
the pulse and blood of words
binds us, drives so similar
as to link us as kin,
beyond tongue or skin,
mind breath’s music
carried to sound.
Bathed in the passage of light,
a growing body, actually
a growing body of work.
Behold the deepening treasure store of quickened richness,
receding limitations’ collective collapsing horizons of self, into self-sustaining clouds
of endless generosities and genuine gestures of welcome,
so readily, so graciously, received
that songs of praise
carry the only possibility of appropriate response.
In Jack Kerouac Alley, at the International Festival of Poets, 2009,
that Jack Spicer said
at the gates of Babylon, God divides
Man and Words--
Words, He calls Angels
and I saw
from within the shifting shadows
freshly hung laundry flapping sunlight into the sky above
the sounds of the many tongued yet singular song
and I knew
the unbounded community
of undeniable renewal
of the human voice
Reflections on this life…
I remember, well yes, maybe as a dream, but I do remember the turmoil
and confusion seeming endless, but was not,
for the depths carry a calm of their own, as does time, that too has a way
its own, and so I have lived to learn to sing, to praise
the ever shifting depths, and that which comes of that.
And so these days, I think myself a poet, yet
for years and upon reflection, for most of the most ordinary of days,
the face of their most common rhythms remain still unspoken,
this silence suggesting, for the poet presumed,
a most purposeful puzzle.
I certainly didn’t care how old you were then
and careful consideration tells me it’s not a concern now.
As it always was and continues to be, it is about our time,
your skin, your touch.
There is the softest whisper of rain on this morning’s air.
Street lights dim, to better hear; pine needles cease their breathing;
leaves swell and shudder to silence; and shadows wait;
each confident in its hard earned wisdom, each thing in its own way,
in its own time.
A haiku life…
drops of sound, blown past the lips
and into the world.
Of fathers and sons…
I’d have said you were gone,
but for those brief glimpses of you, there
in the smile, around the eyes—you there
in the grand son you never knew.
Fully grown now, with your own to care for,
we stand in the shade of ancient trees, speaking of poets
and students and what length makes a line and we agree
to never agree that real work is work at all,
or that, really, we would ever want it to be done.
Making music with our voices,
beauty with our words,
makes peace of places
Fog pressed air, so thick with silence,
morning bird calls must feel their way,
ear by ear…
The poet presupposes words,
says the priest, breathing, lifting the pen.
But language presupposed
does not imply words planned.
Wondering, he breathes, lifts the pen.