Undercurrents

New Orleans

The surface noise, at times tends too much

to distraction, tends, over time, for someone

like me, to tire—it’s the more

that keeps me coming back, the currents

that make the music and the dance

more than just a party. It’s the folks,

who will meet your gaze for no better reason

than your presence on the street—you get

greeted,

if you’re willing, you be noticed

with a nod, no matter the time of day.

It’s the genuine pull

of people toward one another,

hence toward you.

It’s the pull, that the people here go with,

that they don’t ignore, the deep pull of the true

and real that carries

all the rest—just like the river.

**

And of memories?

The thin curve of moon shoulders high,

keeping distance from the chill above the water,

some thirty degrees lost in the night.

A freighter shadows in the dawn,

the lighted tug groans, and the river, well,

the river continues—named or unnamed,

histories carry through waiting horizons,

under open skies and into nights of crystal-

chilled stars—nothing really ever lost.

**

The sun rises

among the sketch of clouds

just there behind where

the Mississippi bends,

but I can’t tell

if New Orleans is waking

or just now

heading for bed.

**

Even at this age…

It can’t be said enough how many times of late

I’ve used that phrase—even at this age—which suggests

of course, aging, aging advancing as against attitudes

and needs that have not too, moved along.

So here it is, a vow as such, to let the search

for reasons, for answers and plans, to here let all that

go—I’m here, right now, so,

as the masters were wont to say, I write,

sometimes chant or sing or dance, here, so walk

rivers’ edges, gaze grandchildren’s eyes, hold hands

with the wife and generally follow

the tangle of heaven and earth and my nature,

however and wherever it all unfolds.     

Amen.

**

Life really is about the spaces in between—it’s not nothing,

but something you cannot see, except by what it’s doing.

Like the fog this morning, like a veil-covered face—moonlight

shimmers the only sign of breath.

**

Streaks in the sky, south and west,

clear light despite early mists.

And the scent of fall

that comes of the crush

of crumpled leaves, that speak

of the last of their turn, this time.

**

The stretch of the eternal

cannot be heard in entirety,

thus leaving behind

the silence

within which we can hear

all that’s held in time.

**

Tides of miniscule movements, most unseen,

often missed, though sometimes not,

is where the poet works—

      what does this blossom

      on this apricot tree know

     

      about this late-November

      that I do not?

**

A day with no fresh air

is not yet

a day.

What if

you wake up

outside?

Well, that

goes without saying.

**

And still counting…

Awhile back, I cleared my shelves of titles

I knew in my heart I’d not return to, or for that matter,

those that hadn’t held my attention long enough

to have taken too much space for too long a time

on a shelf like mine—took’m down to the county jail,

where men with extended terms reside,

where books are read and re-read, re-cycled

hand to hand, and talked about—great life for books,

for words otherwise collecting dust, uncomplainingly

doing the work they’ve been cut to do, and maybe,

maybe even more—which is maybe the point, 

you might ask, they’re prisoners after all, but who

among us has not been there

before—the point is like butterfly wings

and weather patterns—everything’s linked,

everything matters, everything counts—each word

every time—and the best we can do is do them

as right as we can,  keep them out there,

keep them counting.

                                  

                               Cid Coreman:

                                   “I count syllables

                                         because every

                                               syllable counts.”