Power to the Poet

tincup

2025-11-03T13:54:00.012-06:00

(I can't

articulate)

We say, 'The river is endless.'

This isn't true.

It runs into a body of water.

We say, 'The sea is boundless.'

This isn't true.

It surfs from shore to shore.

We say, 'The sky stretches forever.'

This isn't true.

It extends from horizon to horizon.

// // // // // // //

spider,

speck above my head

- silk strand

- fragile line

Where does it begin

Are my forefinger and thumb

your inevitable end?

How do I measure

it --

squeeze

>> >> >> >> >> >> >>

She's

gone __

<> <> <> <> <> <> <>

(Can grief be contained in a tincup ?)

What is its measure

- an orb

- a silk strand

- a forefinger

- a thumb.

(I can't

articulate)

The sun fizzles

>> // >> // >> // >>

A bleached stone

in a dark sky

>> // >> // >> // >>

I drink from the cup __

It will be a lifetime

// // // // // // //

I will drink it forever

My Brother

2022-05-10T01:27:00.016-05:00

I remember a time when Albert and I were very young. I had read the story of Icarus and the waxwings and told my brother and friends the tale. Albert's eyes were wide with the possibility of flight. Never mind the moral of the story. It was the fantastical, the wonder of flight that captivated him. We were country boys full of dreams and possibilities, and Albert said, "Let's calculate," which was a word he had just learned, but it immediately set the plan in motion.

We found a corrugated crate the railroad workers had tossed by the cotton gin. We measured and cut wings, glued chicken feathers, and attached rope and wire for hand and flight control. We christened the wings Icarus. We used an old outhouse as a launching station and surrounded it with mounds of loose dirt in case of an emergency landing, and we waited for a haboob, a dust storm prevalent in the Texas panhandle.

Weeks later, awakened by the rattling of windows and the smell of dirt, exhilarated by what was about to happen, we jumped out of bed and phoned our friends. A giant wall of dust was rapidly approaching, so we hurried to the Outhouse Flight Station. By the time Oscar and Julio arrived, the winds raged, and visibility and communication were almost impossible.

We prepared Julio, the youngest and smallest, with the wings, placed a bomber's cap on his head for protection, and tied it down with a bandana. He climbed the ladder and desperately tried to stand near the edge, but the powerful winds buffeted him every time he spread his wings.

We began the count down, "Ten, nine, eight." The world was a red and orange haze, and we could barely see each other. "Seven, six, five." The winds were ferocious and howled and grew stronger. "Three, two," Julio suddenly screamed, "I don't want to do this!" I asked, "Did he say, 'I don't want to do this?'" Oscar nodded. We all looked at each other, and then, at the top of his lungs, Albert yelled, "No, he said I want to do this!" He said it with such conviction that we immediately restarted the countdown, "One, zero, blast off!" And Julio, like a good soldier, jumped.

We held our breath, and, in the blinding dust storm, we saw Julio hover above the outhouse and disappear into space. Albert yelled, "He's flying! He's flying!" We hugged each other and jumped and whooped and hollered. We were euphoric and screamed, "We did it," but Oscar grabbed and yanked us around. "There," he said, pointing toward the outhouse. Huddled by the wall, we made out a form. As we drew near, we heard whimpering. It was Julio. He'd plummeted into the soft, loose dirt. It had broken his fall, but he was crying because his wish of being the first boy to soar through the clouds was gone.

While Oscar tended to his brother, Albert and I discussed what had gone wrong. He said, "We have to recalculate." And so we did. Throughout the coming months, we tried again and again. We never flew through the sky or touched the clouds, but the summer of '65 was full of wonder and adventure as we chased the dream of flight.

I know that I am mortal ...

2022-02-09T12:48:00.006-06:00

"I know that I am mortal by nature, and ephemeral; but when I trace at my pleasure the windings to and fro of the heavenly bodies I no longer touch the earth with my feet."

— Ptolemy

Praying

2022-02-03T13:35:00.004-06:00

It

doesn’t have to be

the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

-- Mary Oliver

Rest For The Weary

2022-02-02T15:25:00.029-06:00

Several weeks ago, my grandson and I drove to Rest For the Weary. Lost in thought, I passed the road that led to my brother's farm. We ended up going the long route from the opposite side. We snaked along a winding road until a worn and beaten path appeared. We slowly turned onto it. It was cold and wet; puddles were everywhere, and the potholes and ruts rattled our bones.

In the distance, we saw a cluster of trees. As we crept towards the farm, memories flooded my mind, and my skull became a tomb full of ghosts. Echoes of the past reverberated in my head, but Gabey brought me out of my reverie. "I hope we don't get stuck out here, gramps."

"Especially with zombies roaming the countryside," I said, pretending to be frightened. We are obsessed with anything related to zombies, and it helped lighten my mood and ease my sorrow.

Finally, the road opened up to the abandoned farm. I said, "Keep your head on a swivel. Walking dead might amble out of the mist!" Gabey nervously giggled. "Remember," I continued, "when you were four, and I'd drive you to karate class? We imagined undead were chasing us, and we'd wipe them out with our zombie zappers?"

"Yeah," he replied, "and we listened to Hall and Oats on the way there."

"You memorized the lyrics to several of their songs," I said, nudging him. Gabey smiled. It was a good memory. Then I saw The Corn Crib, grew silent, and almost wept. "That's his church," I whispered. This was his dream. He loved the farm. Everywhere I look, I see him. It's as if I hear him calling."

"It's sad," Gabey said as he scanned the farm for any signs of the walking dead.

"Don't worry, Gabey. I'll fend them off until you make it to the SUV, then I'll dash for it. Unless, of course, I manage to wipe them out." We laughed as I reversed the vehicle, getting as close to the front porch as possible.

As we loaded the kitchen hutch, I reminisced about the love that Albert, Shio, and I shared. I recounted anecdotes about the three amigos, which had him smiling and me sighing. I said I felt I could bring Albert back if I wished hard enough. I emphasized the importance of loving our families, respecting one another, and appreciating every moment of our lives. I urged him to let his loved ones know how much he cares for and values them.

We secured the kitchen cabinet before I returned to the porch to clean up the mouse droppings while Gabey waited outside. As I worked, I couldn't help but think of Albert, and I thought I heard his voice. Suddenly, a bell tolled, and I quickly reached the door. G stood before a giant cast-iron bell which was suspended between two thick posts.

"I didn't notice that before," I said.

"Neither did I," he replied.

"I guess we should get going, Gabe."

"Okay," he answered, heading toward the Pilot.

I grabbed the rope and pulled it hard, causing the bell to clang repeatedly. I tolled the bell for Albert. Closing my eyes, I imagined him walking toward me. My heart felt it was about to burst. When I opened my eyes, I saw Gabriel staring at me. I giggled foolishly and quickly yelled, "We better make a run for it, G. I just rang the dinner bell for the undead. They'll be coming soon!!"

We hurried to the SUV, and Gabey locked the door as soon as we were inside. "We're safe now," I said. "This vehicle is impenetrable!"

As we drove away, a profound sense of loss washed over me. I thought about the abandoned farm just a few miles outside of Yorkville, in the prairie state, in the middle of America, where my brother's dreams were buried. I whispered a prayer and said my goodbyes.

Gabey listened to music as he stared out the window. Looking back, I saw the farm fading into the mist, and I realized this would be the last time I'd see Rest for the Weary. I was overcome by a flood of emotions and felt a lump in my throat. I caught my breath, my eyes filled with tears as I grunted, "I'll run over any undead that gets in our way." I cranked the radio and bellowed, "Let's rock and roll!" Gabey chuckled as I turned onto the main road, and we prepared to do some zombie ass-kicking.

To get lost is to learn the way.

2022-02-02T14:02:00.032-06:00

"To get lost is to learn the way. "*

I was chatting with Doug, a 92-year-old neighbor, and towards the end of our conversation, he said, "I wish I'd been a better human being. I have so many regrets."

"Who doesn't have regrets?" I replied. That's part of the journey. It's how we find ourselves, our soul." I sheepishly smiled because I thought, " Who am I to give a 92-year-old man advice? But he nodded and patted my shoulder.

"I'll talk to you later, Este," he said, "I have to take care of Thelma." His wife is 97. She's sharp, but her body is failing her. Doug walked away unbalanced, bent, and pulled closer to Mother Earth. One day, she will embrace him as she does all of us.

Anyway, that's life, Gloria. That's the journey. There's always conflict between mind, body, and soul. Sometimes you feel you're losing your mind, and other times you feel connected and in tune with God and His creation. The only difference between you and me is that you've just started your voyage, and I'm more than halfway into mine.

An anecdote. Yesterday morning, I woke and felt lost. A deep sadness tortured my mind, my body was in pain, and it ripped my soul apart, but I persevered. I said a quick prayer and forced myself forward step by step. I continued down the path. In the evening, while trimming evergreen bushes, a groundhog raced across the yard as crows dive-bombed him and blue jays chirped crazily. Suddenly, I was aware of the colors, sounds, and scents around me. It was euphoric, and all I could do was thank the Creator for the moment.

You see, we're always between "losing our mind and finding our soul." Somewhere along the path, we find ourselves. Depending on our religious beliefs, we see the "way." It's being spiritual and allowing it to guide you, no matter how long it takes. Just appreciate your life and where it leads.

*African proverb

Mi Abuela Panchita

2020-05-16T14:36:00.001-05:00

At First She Came To Me Pure

2020-05-02T17:30:00.002-05:00

At first she came to me pure,
dressed only in her innocence;
and I loved her as we love a child.

Then she began putting on
clothes she picked up somewhere;
and I hated her, without knowing it.

She gradually became a queen,
the jewelry was blinding ...
What bitterness and rage!

... She started going back towards nakedness.
And I smiled.

Soon she was back to the single shift
of her old innocence.
I believed in her a second time.

Then she took off the cloth
and was entirely naked ...
Naked poetry, always mine,
that I have loved my whole life!

by Juan Ramon Jimenez
translated by Robert Bly

Sister

2020-05-02T16:42:00.003-05:00

Sister,
what should I have done?

Your laughter
unraveled our Master's Lent.
Your Mongolian eyes
shut out the light

(slits of black stone).

(Where was our Savior?
Is this what older brothers
should be?)

As you rose --
the final arc --
day unveiled
the balance of God's hand.
Night scurried
into the thicket
of the wicked world.

(What was its name --
oh, Great God?)

You imbued me
with power.
I became a Danite,
son of Manoah,
and faced him
with an ass's bone.
I would not let him grind.
Sister, not this time,
I would not let him cleave.

On the day of rest,
I brought you home
and prayed for you --
your resurrection.
But you were lost,
entombed in clay,
and I was left
with my laments.

Now,
a man,
full of iniquity,
I await your knock.
Sister,
please don't weep.
Day is done,
and twilight is a thousand candles
God burns for you.

The Bones of My Father

2020-05-02T10:53:00.000-05:00

There are no dry bones

here in this valley. The skull

of my father grins

at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie,

the bones of my father

are buried in the mud

of these creeks and brooks that twist

and flow their secrets to the sea.

but the wind sings to me

here the sun speaks to me

of the dry bones of my father.

There are no dry bones

in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys

young / black / men with knees bent

nod on the stoops of the tenements

and dream

of the dry bones of my father.

And young white longhairs who flee

their homes, and bend their minds

and sing their songs of brotherhood

and no more wars are searching for

my father’s bones.

There are no dry bones here.

We hide from the sun.

No more do we take the long straight strides.

Our steps have been shaped by the cages

that kept us. We glide sideways

like crabs across the sand.

We perch on green lilies, we search

beneath white rocks...

THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE

The skull of my father

grins at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie.

BY ETHERIDGE KNIGHT

i hear a stream

2020-05-01T12:58:00.000-05:00

5 am
i hear a stream
birds bitching over the first worm
(been eating sardine for 2 hours
'til it stuck in my throat)

remember
when i first touched my queen's
pink wicked lips
she burned incense & faced mecca
said she loved arab flesh

i adore worldly stuff
don't you know
she smiled crookedly
a nasty grin
i swallowed her brown nipples
black olives

you're a salty fellow aren't you
she pushed me away
i flicked my tongue
rose on my tiptoes
expanded & swayed
bled desire through my eyes
i was horn toad
& she danced on the sharp tips
of my prehistoric horns

my lips ache
she moaned
& scratched her crotch
a smoke signal
dispersed too quickly
couldn't read it

on my way home
almost ran off the overpass
crushed the front right side
of my old ram
sat by the roadside
& watched
the tail of a lizard
wondered
if it was my spirit
frantic to escape

must be 5 am
down a dark ally
between titsworth & seminary
old man jesús
drags his cart of aluminum cans
somewhere
i hear a stream

but it could be fire

Pepe

2020-04-26T17:17:00.000-05:00

saturdays
pepe is suave
with his victor mature hat
tan khakis
brown winged tipped shoes
durango shirt
a camel suspended
between his lips

saturdays
after work
pepe drives to the city
goes to la taqueria
were he eats tacos de lengua
with nopal & queso blanco
drinks cerveza y tequila
argues white sox & cubs baseball
with strangers
plays rancheras & polkas & cumbias
dances with young girls from mexico
guatemala
honduras
colombia

pepe always invites the girls
to el cine
takes in a double feature
of el santo
el santo in the diabolical mind
el santo in the mummies of guanajuato

on saturdays
pepe sits on the bed of his truck
& listens to foreign voices emanating
from the dim lights of blue island
disconnected footsteps
of aliens
exotic smells of the city
of big shoulders
earth settling
into a peculiar rhythm

on saturdays
pepe speaks to the moon
knows how close it is to him & his family
knows how far they are from one another
pepe tells of el enmascarado de plata
of the vengeance of crying women
of killers from other worlds
of vampire women
he speaks of many things
but never of love or family

pepe speaks long into the evening
till twilight falls
his eyes lost on the moon
his heart roaming the cobblestones
of guanajuato

LAST TOAST

2020-04-25T12:43:00.000-05:00

I drink to our ruined house
To the evil of my life
To our loneliness together
And I drink to you—
To the lying lips that have betrayed us,
To the dead-cold eyes,
To the fact that the world is brutal and coarse
To the fact that God did not save us.

by Anna Akhmatov
Translated from the Russian by Katie Farris and Ilya Kaminsky

Sometimes a Man Stands Up During Supper

2020-04-23T13:41:00.002-05:00

Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.

And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead.

And another man, who remains inside his own house,
stays there, inside the dishes and in the glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward that same church, which he forgot.

By Rainer Maria Rilke

translated by Robert Bly

One Day

2020-04-20T15:25:00.010-05:00

He drives 10 miles an hour down Galena Boulevard. Sunlight filters through a canopy of trees, reflecting off the hood like the nervous blinking of an omniscient god. They don't speak, and he plays Dylan loud enough to drown out the heavy silence. She gazes out the window at houses she once dreamed they would one day own. He looks straight ahead, occasionally glancing at the beautiful flower beds lining the street. He remembers the flower poem he wrote for her, adorned with metaphors of unadulterated love, but that was so long ago.

She chews gum and occasionally pops it. There was a time when it was cute, but it became an irritant after a while, and now, it was just part of who she was. She pops the gum twice and smirks. He thinks, I don't give a shit.

It's just as well they don't talk. They are masterful wordsmiths, hammering out the deadliest wordponry in existence. Stiletto knives that pierce to the core of one's being, daggers that thrust into one's psyche, and broadswords that hack a skull wide open. They skillfully parry and strike areas that bleed out nicely and slowly. He reaches over and turns up the volume on the radio to drown out the impending cataclysm.

He remembers a night when the southern wind raided the peach orchard, covering the land in blossoms. The stars appeared like angels peering through the veil of night, envious of man's imperfections and free will. He recalls the scent of peaches, the aroma of wet soil, and the sweet, salty taste of her mouth. He can still feel her hair tangled in his fingers, the warmth of her body, and the enchanting words that made their moment magical. The moon cast its sovereign light over them, illuminating two beings in love.

She gives him a quick glance, chews another stick of gum, and rapidly snaps, pops, snaps. She flicks the wrapper away, eases into the hot vinyl seat, and allows her thoughts to drift.

He remembers a day on a ridge, where the lush green landscape unfolded, disappearing into the infinite blue sky. He recalls the cacophony of hawks, bluejays, robins, ravens, cardinals, cicadas, and crickets and how it mystically transformed into a symphony, a wondrous gift, from an unknown realm. Lost in the splendor, relieved of the emptiness that threatened to consume him, a pearl seemed to drop from the heavens and land in his palm. He was a blue-collar worker, an average Joe seeking answers in a universe too vast to comprehend. He wondered why he was granted such a blessing. He felt he didn't deserve it, but he accepted it. He remembers.

He pulls to the curb and meanders over to a cluster of peach trees. A cardinal is singing, and as he searches the treetop, his gaze falls on a perfect fruit. It dangles at the tip of a limb that seems to touch the clouds. The wind currents seem to lift him and set him on a branch, where he perches like the sparrows that often congregate in his skull and guide him in his dreams. As he plucks it, he tumbles. Awash in light, he is swept onto the lush green and softly comes to rest. He is grateful for everything, for the things in life that make no sense, for the mysteries he will never fully understand.

He ambles across the lawn and, upon reaching the car, offers her the peach. She acknowledges him with a slight nod, accepts the fruit, and cradles it as if it's the last piece of fruit on Earth. He recalls a day on a ridge where the green countryside unfolded and vanished into the infinite blue. He remembers the gift.

The breeze tousles her hair, creating ringlets out of her auburn locks, and he notices how vibrant the world around him is. He drives away in silence, the fragrance of sweet peaches permeating his being, his thoughts streaming into space, his body buzzing. He recalls a day on a ridge and the precious fruit. He remembers the gift.

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood By William Wordsworth

2020-04-11T12:58:00.000-05:00




















There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 



The earth, and every common sight, 



To me did seem 



Apparelled in celestial light, 



The glory and the freshness of a dream. 



It is not now as it hath been of yore;— 



Turn wheresoe'er I may, 



By night or day. 



The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



  



The Rainbow comes and goes, 



And lovely is the Rose, 



The Moon doth with delight 



Look round her when the heavens are bare, 



Waters on a starry night 



Are beautiful and fair; 



The sunshine is a glorious birth; 



But yet I know, where'er I go, 



That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 



  



Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 



And while the young lambs bound 



As to the tabor's sound, 



To me alone there came a thought of grief: 



A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 



And I again am strong: 



The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 



No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 



I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 



The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 



And all the earth is gay; 



Land and sea 



Give themselves up to jollity, 



And with the heart of May 



Doth every Beast keep holiday;— 



Thou Child of Joy, 



Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy. 



  



Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call 



Ye to each other make; I see 



The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 



My heart is at your festival, 



My head hath its coronal, 



The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. 



Oh evil day! if I were sullen 



While Earth herself is adorning, 



This sweet May-morning, 



And the Children are culling 



On every side, 



In a thousand valleys far and wide, 



Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 



And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:— 



I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 



—But there's a Tree, of many, one, 



A single field which I have looked upon, 



Both of them speak of something that is gone; 



The Pansy at my feet 



Doth the same tale repeat: 



Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 



Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



  



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 



The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 



Hath had elsewhere its setting, 



And cometh from afar: 



Not in entire forgetfulness, 



And not in utter nakedness, 



But trailing clouds of glory do we come 



From God, who is our home: 



Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 



Shades of the prison-house begin to close 



Upon the growing Boy, 



But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 



He sees it in his joy; 



The Youth, who daily farther from the east 



Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 



And by the vision splendid 



Is on his way attended; 



At length the Man perceives it die away, 



And fade into the light of common day. 



  



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 



Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 



And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 



And no unworthy aim, 



The homely Nurse doth all she can 



To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 



Forget the glories he hath known, 



And that imperial palace whence he came. 



  



Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 



A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! 



See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 



Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 



With light upon him from his father's eyes! 



See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 



Some fragment from his dream of human life, 



Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art 



A wedding or a festival, 



A mourning or a funeral; 



And this hath now his heart, 



And unto this he frames his song: 



Then will he fit his tongue 



To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 



But it will not be long 



Ere this be thrown aside, 



And with new joy and pride 



The little Actor cons another part; 



Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 



With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 



That Life brings with her in her equipage; 



As if his whole vocation 



Were endless imitation. 



  



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 



Thy Soul's immensity; 



Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 



Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 



That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 



Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— 



Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 



On whom those truths do rest, 



Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 



In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 



Thou, over whom thy Immortality 



Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 



A Presence which is not to be put by; 



Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 



Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 



Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 



The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 



Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 



Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 



And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 



Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 



  



O joy! that in our embers 



Is something that doth live, 



That Nature yet remembers 



What was so fugitive! 



The thought of our past years in me doth breed 



Perpetual benediction: not indeed 



For that which is most worthy to be blest; 



Delight and liberty, the simple creed 



Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 



With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— 



Not for these I raise 



The song of thanks and praise 



But for those obstinate questionings 



Of sense and outward things, 



Fallings from us, vanishings; 



Blank misgivings of a Creature 



Moving about in worlds not realised, 



High instincts before which our mortal Nature 



Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 



But for those first affections, 



Those shadowy recollections, 



Which, be they what they may 



Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 



Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 



Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 



Our noisy years seem moments in the being 



Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 



To perish never; 



Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 



Nor Man nor Boy, 



Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 



Can utterly abolish or destroy! 



Hence in a season of calm weather 



Though inland far we be, 



Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 



Which brought us hither, 



Can in a moment travel thither, 



And see the Children sport upon the shore, 



And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



  



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 



And let the young Lambs bound 



As to the tabor's sound! 



We in thought will join your throng, 



Ye that pipe and ye that play, 



Ye that through your hearts to-day 



Feel the gladness of the May! 



What though the radiance which was once so bright 



Be now for ever taken from my sight, 



Though nothing can bring back the hour 



Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 



We will grieve not, rather find 



Strength in what remains behind; 



In the primal sympathy 



Which having been must ever be; 



In the soothing thoughts that spring 



Out of human suffering; 



In the faith that looks through death, 



In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 



Forebode not any severing of our loves! 



Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 



I only have relinquished one delight 



To live beneath your more habitual sway. 



I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 



Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 



The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 



Is lovely yet; 



The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 



Do take a sober colouring from an eye 



That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 



Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 



Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 



Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 



To me the meanest flower that blows can give 



Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

O Little Rooster, O Little Cock

2020-04-02T22:06:00.011-05:00

O little rooster,
O little cock,
your broken song makes me weep.
How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.
A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,
and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"
she says,
"He always made me cry.
He loved Bob Dylan,
the Counting Crows,
the Beats,
Cesar Vallejo,
writing poetry,
and he loved roosters.
I don't get it.
We had nothing in common.
That piece of shit.
Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.
He presses his stomach
against the curve of her back.

"We should never have had any kids,"
she laments.
"He might have been a missionary
somewhere in South America
or a football coach in Texas
or some poor, penniless writer
living in the foothills of New Mexico.
And I might be living in Kentucky
a Baptist minister's wife,
or living in a shack in Durango
a devout Catholic
or living in Pakistan
on a holy journey to Mecca.

"What an ass," she says, clenching her fist.
Her lover sighs
lost in dreams
of bhang fields
and young virgin girls.

The moon presses against the windowpane.
Its sovereign light undresses her;
she pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"
she says.
"We had nothing in common.
He loved Bob Dylan,
the Counting Crows,
the Beats,
Cesar Vallejo,
writing poetry,
and he adored roosters.
He always made me cry.
That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,
and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, dogs bark,
and cowbells clang.
The night slowly withdraws,
and the earth begins to chirp.
In the yard, the rooster crows.
"Fucking little cock," she cries.
"We had nothing in common.
Why did I marry him?"

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

His stomach presses against

the curve of her back.

"We should never have had kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico;

and I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

What an ass he was."

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon pushes against the windowpane,

and its' sovereign light undresses her.

She pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, the dog barks,

and there's the clang of cowbells.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.
"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him.

Santa Fe

2020-04-02T15:44:00.014-05:00

The sky is bluest

in the clean, thin mountain air

of Santa Fe.

Seven days in the city

of Holy Faith,

but my faith is anything but holy.

It's 3:30 a.m.

The cottonwood's arms scrape the window,

as rain thrums a web

and unsettles a lover in a mad tango.

My woman sighs and says,

"I've always loved you."

I roll out of bed

and, in the dark, I reach for my clothes.

By 4:30 a.m., I'm on the road to Albuquerque.

My thoughts are on the hot air balloon

that, for a while,

will suspend me above the earth,

above the rattle and hiss of the world,

above the candle burning on the horizon.

The clouds are icebergs

floating in an azure sea

carried past Sandia peak.

"How's the weather in Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

"A Heatwave is blasting the city," I reply.

"My brother says the sky is hazy, dirty."

"Do you like the Midwest," he continues.

I shrug, " I love the city."

The roar of the flame drowns my voice,

and the hot air balloon rises.

I think of the adobe house

at the foot of Cristo De Sangre mountains

and the soft, warm body waiting for me.

"I drove by Chicago back in '94," the pilot says,

"So, how do you like living in the Midwest?"

The balloon brushes a treetop,

the Tampa Bay newlyweds squeal.

I shrug, "It's okay."

No one listens.

Coyote yelps, and his brothers begin to sing

and the moon dissolves.

He streaks across open space,

and the young lovers scream with excitement.

He lifts his tail, and excrement streams through the air.

"So, how do you like Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

I mumble, "I loved a woman there once."

But no one cares,

as the hot air balloon descends

and the land of enchantment unfolds

before an ascending sun.

evening notes #2

2020-04-01T13:09:00.003-05:00

"On the riverbank, there's a boat. The path you follow leads to the Jordan River ..."

How amazing is the Creator? Our sun, a perfect size and at an ideal distance, warms Earth as it spins on its axis and circles our life-giving star; it, in turn, orbits our galaxy at the outskirts of the Milky Way, and the Milky Way spirals as it moves through space. It has been going on for billions of years. Everything is moving somewhere, someplace.

Of late, my mind dwells on the grand scheme, or I do it more often. Anyway, the whole time Alice and I converse, I'm on autopilot. I feel I'm in another reality, as if I'm swimming in a river, and its current gently pushes me through space. I'm neither on Earth nor in heaven. I may be in a higher plane of consciousness. All I know is, at this moment, I'm not entirely here, and I feel a presence like a sun's touch on my skin, a warmth that permeates my being. That's what I'm experiencing as I drop Alice off.

Mary is at home. She left work early because of pain in her legs, and It's disconcerting. I hugged her three times. I do everything in threes. It's a dumb superstition like not stepping on cracks or not walking under a ladder, but more importantly, I'm having a running conversation with God. I ask Him for strength as I hug Mary Ann three times. Each time I hug her a little tighter and a little longer. Mac, Jessica, Junior, and Mary's precious granddaughter, Sol, are there. I hug them all as if embracing can remove their fear and pain. In reality, I'm just trying to comfort myself. I say my goodbyes and walk out the door. I smile and tell myself everything is fine. It's all good.

Outside, children head home from school, a mother walks her baby, a couple of guys argue about the Chicago Bulls' weak defense, and a tabby chases a squirrel across the street and up a tree. Everyone and everything goes about their lives as the Earth spins through space, and we continue our journey. I'm overwhelmed with emotion. I get in my SUV and drive away but turn into the first parking lot I see and sob. I'm in a strange state of mind as my sorrow quickly gives way to peace and tranquility. I feel the Spirit embrace me, and I'm comforted. I sit and let it all out -- all the sorrow, all the pain -- until all that's left is the hum of tires on asphalt, the wind rustling leaves, and the chatter of people going about their daily lives. To the West, the sun illuminates billowing clouds. It's ethereal, and I'm calm and serene as I immerse myself in Living Waters.

"Mary, we are burdened by oars we create and carry throughout our lives, but at the end of our travels, they help us navigate across the Jordan River to The Promised Land. The Spirit will be the guiding lamp on your voyage. On the opposite riverbank, mom and dad will be waiting for you. Be brave, my sweet niece, life is just beginning..."

Counting Crows - This Land is Your Land - 7/4/2012 - Codfish Hollow Barn...

2020-03-31T14:09:00.001-05:00

Sam I Am

2020-03-29T17:05:00.007-05:00

My thoughts drift to Molly's plump ass, and how I'd like to spank it, bite it, kiss it, and mold myself around it. That's when Sam comes around the corner and stands there smiling, and I smile back. You know, one of those dumbass grins that say, "OH shit! You caught me." But Sam can't read my thoughts, except that he's a Christian. For a second, I think he might start prophesying, "God told me you're having impure, nasty, nasty thoughts about Molly's perfectly round bottom, and he wants you to know before the rooster crows three times your penis is gonna shrivel and fall." Or something to that effect. Anyway, he stands there with an angelic smile, and I say, "How's it going, Sam-I-Am?"

"Oh, fine," he says, "much better since I had the growth on my tongue removed. Small, really, but it was painful and bothersome."

Then I remember Debbie mentioning Sam battling cancer a few years back. "Oh yeah, didn't you have cancer a while back?" I mumble and think, I'm fucking smooth, a master conversationalist.

"I'm terminal. The doctor gave me five years. If I'm lucky." Well, shit, how do you respond to that? "I'm, uh ... wow." I sputter, but I guess it's better than, "I hope you make it to five."

"No, it's fine. It's a blessing. God has given me so many opportunities to witness. Before, I couldn't see beyond my nose, but now I see the lilies in the field, the sparrows in the trees. Before, I was a miserable human being; now I see His glory all around me."

"Well, God bless you, brother. You know, my old man was a Baptist minister, and I've been reevaluating my life—the spiritual. I mean, at one point, I was really involved in my old man's church and considered attending seminary after graduating from college. I monitored a Hebrew and Old Testament class at Northern Baptist Seminary, but it wasn't for me at the time. You know, where I was at and shi--tuff. Not a good place. I guess a lot of meaning for my life must be rooted in the cross at Golgotha." He wells up, and I stiffen and look away.

"I prayed to God today," begins Sam, "that He give me two people so that I may witness to them. He gave me a brother from my church, and He gave me you." He pauses, then says, "During lunch, may I pray for you?"

"Sure," I divert my gaze, and a ray of light reflects off my sunglasses and bursts at the tip of my nose. The Star of David, I think, as I walk away. "See you at lunch, Sam-I-Am."

Who doesn't need a little prayer once in a while? Who doesn't need positive thoughts now and again? Who doesn't need someone caring for them from time to time? Who in the hell doesn't need a little mothering now and then?

In the distance, I see Molly, and she waves. I watch her strut towards her car. "O, Lord!" I say a quick prayer for myself, then one for Sam. Justification. Sanctification. By grace. Yeah, that's what it is, I think, and I head for the men's room to wash my dirty hands.

Dissonant Bells

2019-05-26T14:49:00.001-05:00

A procession of cars --
A chorus of sparrows --

Their morning spiritual sits heavy on my chest.

The church bell disintegrates my bones,

Extinguishes tongues of fire that dance above my head,

Silences mad utterances that rattle my teeth.

(I recall honey-laden bees --

The hill of shooting stars --
Its' fragrance lost in Irish locks,

And the dissonant bell on the day of rest
That dislodged my skull.)

The procession continues

Towards the Tabernacle of Saints and Sinners.

(And to think, flame at my window,

Once you burned across my world.)

Prophecy 7 plus years ago...

2019-03-31T15:49:00.000-05:00

Nana

2019-03-25T14:23:00.002-05:00

you were 6

i hugged you as we twirled
from kitchen to porch your chubby cheek pressed against mine
we whirled down the steps
across the lawn
the man in the moon grinned
& sprinkled us with pixie dust
i thought you'd ignite
in colored flames
like a catherine wheel
on the day of the dead

then the sparrows sang
& the man in the moon
closed his eyes & i sobbed
till my larynx almost ruptured
& my heart escaped
& vanished
into the cresting light
in the east

Damian "Jr. Gong" Marley - Slave Mill (Acapella)

2018-09-26T23:09:00.001-05:00