Thursday, December 6, 2018

One day...

               “…one day I would like to be a poet.”
                                                             —Rene Daumal

Someone said, in a movie of all places, 
said, even when you’re lonely, you’re lonely
in the world, said it right to me, I mean, too,
even when things are left behind, when you
move on, you’re always right here.


November mornings long for light lost 
to earth’s curve and turn, which, though cold, 
are of the balanced certainty of knowing endings 
merge beginnings befitting wholeness. Least-best, 
first-last, have little currency beyond 
the next flip of the page.


Migration is not an accident…

Lodi sunsets burn salmon-pink 
into fading blue, emboldened marshlands 

waiting the patient, long-winged chatter 
of wintering cranes.

Mornings move with the sounds trains,
dew-damp grape leaves carry prints 
of passing fingers.


Moon bottoms a high sliver to the south 
and east of the bay—a barge, alone
below the mist below the shore 
below the mountain Diablo,  
keeper of shadows.

We are with mountain on this side too: 
presence immeasurable, model, magnet 
pull of possibility, keeper 
of the speech of place.


This shadow speaks of its love of sun,
refuses to relinquish the trail ahead
without first, and last, receiving 
its touch.

To what or to whom have you
given yourself as thoroughly as this
and known it as such, 
and if not,

what might you be missing
all your life?


The hot-pink sun
at seven a.m.
speaks of smoke
from fires
east of here.


“Being is the great explainer.”


Cleaning up the yard for winter,
splintered branches, leaves crusted
to crunch, then dust, 

darkening sky choked with smoke, 
promising nothing more 
than night.


The teacher speaks of the unutterable, 

the untraceable, unintelligible potentials 
she urges us nonetheless to trust, because,

because our words can’t. 


Floorboards, carpets 
and painted ceiling sheetrock 
filter the cough in the apartment below,
a muffled signal of human near-by, 

accrued lessons of listening  
cupped secure, intuitive contexts—
this cough rendered friend, 

then forgotten:

fingers pushing pen, shingled roofing 
and the all-inclusive light of a moon 
at best only half-


Who here hears the crooning
of multitudes of voices ?


Uncertain of the source,
excitement rides expectations,
eyes closed tight.


Lamp light speaks
to the inside window glass,
leaving dark outside alone.


Eager to take it all up,
hands smooth
unwrinkled pages, 
search for the words
hidden there.


The November sun rises further south, 
shoulders golden resonance 
through leafless trees
that hold the best seats

in the house.

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