Friday, July 31, 2020

WISDOM IS 


Wisdom is
the punchline

for a joke
I can't get

the timing of.



Thursday, July 30, 2020

SOUND OF MORNING 


Sound of morning,
the O of the
sorrowful dove

opening like a
vowel, like a sigh
after loving.


Wednesday, July 29, 2020

REALIZATION 


I have failed
as a poet

and am less
than half

a comedian.
Perhaps

I should have
become a priest.



Tuesday, July 28, 2020

WHERE THERE IS 


Where there is
no mountain

there is

no mountain
where there is.


Monday, July 27, 2020

EVENING 


Stars, the scars
of the night sky's

reckoning.
A listless wind.

The trees know
what trees know

of darkness,
of light, and

of wavering
on an edge

of tomorrow.
I stand here
almost holding

my breath,
almost having

what will save me.



Sunday, July 26, 2020

GIRL 


The angular
awkwardness

between what
she was and

what she is
becoming.



Saturday, July 25, 2020

WE ARE BLESSED 


We are blessed
if we find

heaven
on our way

to hell.



THE MORE 


The more
he lets go
the more

he holds.
Evening comes.
He turns

his eyes to
the fading
sky. The sky

turns towards
him, shows him
all its stars,

what they mean
and don't mean,
and more.



Friday, July 24, 2020

THE GOOD 


The good
poem bends

the poet
to its

needs.
The good

poet bends.



DAY FADES 


Day fades
to the
purple

pulse of
evening.
Fireflies

and silence
out the
window.

In here
gratitude,
again.



Thursday, July 23, 2020

SUBJECT MATTER 


Subject matter
is only a pretext

for what the poem
really wants to say.



THE SUN HIDES 


The sun hides
day today.

The world is
wet and, for

the moment,
cool. Nothing

whispers like
silence. If

you listened,
Tom,

you'd know that.



Wednesday, July 22, 2020

THE POEM 


The poem
requires

measure,
yet exists

in a place
beyond it.



WHO IS IT 


Who is it
who cares and
doesn't care?

The old poet
with grey beard
and grey hair.


Tuesday, July 21, 2020

HOW LIKE 


How like
a tree,

the poem,
wavering.



ONCE AGAIN 


Once again,
nothing.

July heat
even
in the shade.

No wind to
speak of.

Distant birds
complaining.

I sit her
waiting for
words. And

once again
nothing.

This will
have to do.



Monday, July 20, 2020

WHAT YOU FEAR 


What you fear
will not kill you

but fearing it
will. Don't be

afraid to
let it go.



KNOWING 


Knowing
nothing is

something.
Emptiness

empties
what it fills.



Sunday, July 19, 2020

OUR SMALL POND 


Our small pond
loves the sky,

even in rain.
The wind tells us

that, again, again.



WHAT WE ARE 


What we are
is a spark
of awareness

in water,
in air,
on the earth.

Or not.



Saturday, July 18, 2020

THAT IS NOT 


That is not
butterfly.

That is
leaf in

butterfly wind.



MIRROR 


Mirror
of water,

mirror
of sky.

The only
thing

moving:
wind.



Friday, July 17, 2020

HOW RED THE LIGHT 


How red the light
leading into evening.

Someone who wants to
hold this moment.


MOON CAUGHT 


Moon caught
in a net
of branches.

The tree stands
where it
always has.

This is home.



Thursday, July 16, 2020

WANDERER 


Wanderer
in the mountains,

monk
of simple joys,

sayer
of what cannot be said,

keeper
of the mysteries,

lighter
of the lamp,

old man
with his hair falling out

thinking
like a flower.



YOU MAY THINK 


You may think,
foolish poet,

geese don't talk,
but they do.

All things do,
if you listen.



Wednesday, July 15, 2020

WHAT IS THIS 


What is this
emptiness?

A sleep's
dreaming?

Dragon's roar?
The mountains

knowing what
mountains know?



AS IF 


As if
a redtail,

the shadow.



Tuesday, July 14, 2020

TO ASK ABOUT 


To ask about
the meaning

of a poem
is only to

give yourself
something to say.

The poem itself
has no need to

say anything more
than what it offers

in stillness.



A DEER 


A deer out in
the snowy field.

Is there song to
sing this silence?



Monday, July 13, 2020

BRIGHT SUN 


Bright sun, the voice
lifting out of
burning bush.

Hope is shadow
which does not fade.



WINTER WIND 


Winter wind.
A broken sky.

Is there nothing
left here for

the old poet
except some words,

this failing light?



Sunday, July 12, 2020

ONE FINALLY 


One finally
comes to

accept
the silence

before, after,
between

the words, the
stanzas,

the poems.
This is when

you begin
to understand.



LEAF 


Leaf
in wind,
a mouse

escapes
the hawk.



Saturday, July 11, 2020

QUIET AS A MOUSE 


Quiet as a mouse,
the cat's attention.



BIRD 


Bird
on the branch,
or leaf,

promise
of movement
in wind.

Shadow
is what
shadow

holds. You
don't know more
than that.



Friday, July 10, 2020

THAT MOMENT 


It was a sudden
and as silver

as the pulse of
electric fence

and every day
he remembers it.

It was like a poem,
only physical,

as if God could
kiss your last breath

back into you.
I mean, that intense.



SOME POEMS 


Some poems
march, CLOP,

clop, CLOP,
clop; some

poems coil
like rope

at rest;
some poems

spring like
lynx on

rabbit --
we wait

for blood.



Thursday, July 09, 2020

A GREEN DAY 


A green day,
sky, and wind

moving everything
the light touches.


SAY ANYTHING 


Say anything.
You say too much
and not enough.



Wednesday, July 08, 2020

BLACK-BLADED 


Black-bladed
crow waiting

for snow
where in his

sky is joy.


DESERT WIND 


Desert wind.
The smell of
camel, its

slick spit, grime
of the salt
it carries

walking towards
death. You hear,
in the distance,

djinn promising
water, the sweet
taste of dates,

of green shade
and women.
You can almost

see them, before
you turn back
to another

thousand miles,
duty
before love.



Tuesday, July 07, 2020

BEAUTY 


Beauty
leaves one
helpless.

You fall
in and
cannot

swim.
You hold
your breath

and wait.
The gasp
of your

surprise
is what
saves you.



A FARTHER SKY 


A farther sky.
Wind in the trees.

We walk here as
if all this is

ours. Morning,
afternoon, evening.

The seasons, turning.
Life and death.

We walk here,
our hearts saying

we want more,
the earth promising

we can do this.



Monday, July 06, 2020

WHY WOULD WE? 


Why would we
wish to lead

other lives --
drinking sherry,

perhaps, at
a decrepit

hotel in
failing light

on the shore,
where the surge

of waves, that
sound, would be

the only thing
which matters;

that, and what
you feel when

I touch you
there, and there,

oh, and there.



WHO AM I TO THINK 


Who am I to think art
and not art are not so

different? To think that
the frame makes something in-

to something greater. You
take a bare photograph:

is it reality or
is it more? The frame knows.

Composition is pattern
kept in place. Holding on-

to what is sacred is
the secret. The one who

finds it can claim its art.



Sunday, July 05, 2020

TIME IS THE TURNING 


Time is the turning
of the light, now

evening, then to
darkness. Midnight

finds its way towards
morning, an old man

with his clock tick-tick-
ticking. The old man

loves the dawn when
it shows, as if it's

a new beginning.
You know it's the same

light showing the same
page in the same book.

Even so, if that
old man can be

happy with the same
old sun, you can

be happy too.



WHERE THERE WERE 


Where there were
leaves there are

now stars -- this
is how we

know it is
autumn.



Saturday, July 04, 2020

TUG 


Tug does
what push
cannot.



THE GHOSTS 


The ghosts of
the moment
inhabit

us. One breathes
them in slow
if he wants

to know them.
They fill you
with willies,

as if to
know them is
to know too

much, as if
wisdom is
not knowing.



Friday, July 03, 2020

NOT 


Not that
the world
works

the way
it does,
that

we are
not who

we think
we are.



SOME HOUSES 


Some houses enclosed
only a terrible

kind of emptiness.
Their windows blinded,

the darkness reeks
in every corner.

Don't go into such
places unless you

have to. Sometimes
you have to. You might

see a broken doll
on the stairs, torn panties

in the hallway.
There might be blood.

Someone has to
do this work. Someone

has to step into
that awful air. Someone

has to rescue hope.



Thursday, July 02, 2020

IF I HAVE 

If I have
ever said

three real things,
count me

lucky.



TRUE EMPTINESS 


True emptiness
is empty even
of emptiness.



Wednesday, July 01, 2020

WE SAY 


We say
The Singularity.

The Singularity
says We.



DEATH IS 


Death is an
unbroken horse.
All the wind

is wild. The
sun is risen
and we move

on, chasing.
Some day we
will catch it.



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