Sunday, December 09, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (9)
RANDOM DECEMBER (8)
Water-color sky
hard as iron,
cold, unforgiven.
All the light
hidden. Morning's
meaning is
left unspoken.
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: These Are My Footprints
These are my footprints
I'm following back
to the house. You go
out, you come back. What
the wind takes returns.
What you give, you get.
Go out and come back.
Find a way to home.
CALL HIM STRINGBEAN
Call him Stringbean,
crow on the road
with offal dangling
from his beak. One
foot, then the other,
his strut, meaning
"It is what it is.
Let's eat."
Saturday, December 08, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (7)
RANDOM DECEMBER (6)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Such a Loveliness
Such a loveliness,
wind in the grasses,
the soft rim of hills,
a heart like that pond
full to overflow.
If you can't find it
here, you won't.
THIS HAWK
Friday, December 07, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (5)
RANDOM DECEMBER (4)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: The Morning
HIGH WIRE
Thursday, December 06, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (3)
RANDOM DECEMBER (2)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Poetry at Wishin' Jupiter
- for Karl and Suzanne
Out here among these soft hills,
the poems will write themselves.
When you can't think what to say,
listen to the sky, the grasses.
Listen to the cricket. Then,
if you wait, patient, the wind
will tell what you need to know.
IF THEY TAKE NO POET
If they take no poet with them
to Mars, who shall keep their memories,
who shall make and say the poems
they will need like oxygen?
Wednesday, December 05, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (1)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Nothing I Say
Nothing I say
to the grasses will
make a difference.
Everything they say
to me, somehow, will.
And the wind speaks
through them, and the wind
means business. It says:
You are smaller than
the sky. You are smaller
than the cricket. Smaller
than this grain of sand.
OUT OF A WEB
Out of a web
of which the words
say themselves.
The poet bolts,
surprised, for the door.
All the way home
the piggies going
Wee, wee, wee.
Tuesday, December 04, 2018
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: A Pair of Hawks
A pair of hawks
white of wing
underneath,
taking the wind
where they want
above these
grasses, looking
for the hills'
hidden creatures
or simply looking,
as I am, again.
EVERY MORNING
Every morning
this morning.
Somewhere to be.
Something to do.
Grey sky. New snow.
The wind and everything
slanted. Disregard
the omens
at your own peril.
Monday, December 03, 2018
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: You Go
You go
far enough
the world
goes away
and
the world
comes closer
than you've
ever seen it.
You just
have to go.
WHERE THE HAWK HIDES
Where the hawk hides
in this greyed light
is where the poet
finds his hope.
You can't pretend
it doesn't matter.
