Sing the Bones

Sing the Bones



I am losing all my bones,
Loosing self and stance,

Heaping like kindling,
Losing all my bones.

Put me to the fire,
Sing me bone by bone:

Croon incus, phalanx,
Pelvis, rib and stapes.

Hum humerus, hum lacrimal
Chant deepest femur note.

open letter to you who inherit the earth

Forgive me
though I know
what I do.
Forgive me
my footprint,
my trespass.
Birds of the air,
field of stunted grain,
forgive me
my time here.
Forgive me
the mask you wear,
the stream, the air.
Forgive me
the memory of trees.
Oh, my children,
find a way
to forgive me
your dead
each day.

In Season

In Season

Dry tongue clicks

On blistered lips;

Sandy soil, stony, sparse,

Knows me by name.

Every numbered hair,

Shallow rooted,

Tumbles in the wind,

Bereft of purchase;

Nothing holds.

Forty days and forty

Frozen nights:

Fast and pray.

In every life, a while,

Mountains block the rain.

Lightening

It's lightening out
not sizzle, electric, flash

but gentle shift, gradual
black to softer grey

trees in relief
against the coming sky

porch rails no color
but moonlit glow

yellow cat grey magician's trick
now you see it

nightime tears
sparkling the grass

morning's breath
greeting you at last

Secrets -- Packed, Prayed, and Otherwise Woven

Secrets ---
Packed, Prayed, and Otherwise Woven




Innocent as an oyster
That holds a seeded pearl,

Tangible as sweltering desire,
Tangy on the tongue,

Simple as a flickering flame
That tosses shadows

To crusty garden walls.

No questions asked.
No permission sought.

No questions asked;
No merciless assault ---

Only secrets served
With simple sauce,

Tangy on the tongue.

Paradise is One

Paradise is One

Let's come back the Keys,
Walk daily Gulf to sea,
Pet the cats in Papa's garden,
Chase the chicks in Truman's yard.
Let's snorkle reefs of coral
With fishes blue and yellow,
Hitch rides on mossy turtles,
Find Neptune's trident there.
You'll promise me by moonlight;
I'll promise you the sunshine.
We'll build a little cabin
Called Paradise is One.

Perspective

This is something I wrote several years ago. I'm reposting it for Poets United. I've always loved concrete poetry.

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all    

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

in memory

you stand

an abstraction

of sensuous delight

however

reverie out

of all proportion

with grim reality

does not withstand

a detailed scrutiny

i write to invent

not re-create

therefore

i must

state

you

are

a matter

of perspective

-->

Joshua Tree

I tried once to write about a Joshua Tree,
How it scrubs the desert air with many arms,
But I who live among the Oak and Maple,
Beside the Poplar, alongside Willow sweeps,
With Fir and under reaching Pine,
Who watch the Tamarack coat the earth
With tiny golden combs, who wait
For Redbud signs of spring,
Whose Serviceberry, Apple, Pear, and Plum
Make drunk the bees, sate the birds,
Then drowse in lazy autumn,
I could not find the term for that
Flintstone desert plant.
I could perhaps try crayon,
Pale yellow, black, some green,
Not this pack of forty-eight,
Not these fat words I wrap my hands around,
Not Sweetgum. Cottonwood. Persimmon.
Not Deciduous. Majestic. Not this ever ever green.

Stigmata

I have carved you on my palm,
Burned you on my breast,
Crossed my heart with golden crosses,
Carved you deep into my palm.
I bleed to bear your losses,
Shed my skin for all the rest,
I have carved my palm with you, love,
I have burned you on my breast.

Yellow Cat Story

Yellow Cat Story



Every morning, before the house awakes,
I sit in the dark with my coffee
In my favorite cup that reminds me
Of other rooms and other doors.
I sit in the dark, save for the light
Of the screen on which I peck out my words,
One finger moving through my mind,
Stirring thought like swirling cream
In a Parisian cup. Anyway, I digress.
I usually do. This is a poem about my cat,
The missing one, the nameless Mister, Mister,
Whose missing name I never said without a lisp.
Mithter, mithter, cat talk, baby talk
For a cat I swore would outlive me,
For a cat now gone by years, not days.
Again. This is a poem about a cat. Not Mister
But the damn big yellow cat that Poppy says
Killed him. We found him under the mountain laurel,
Looking caved in and small, Mister I mean. Buried him
Near the creek in some approximation to Lady.
(Someday I expect to see their bird thin bones
Wash away in a flood.)
This is a poem about that damn yellow cat
That killed Mister and --
Every morning as I sit here
In the dark, me and my screen, mining memory,
That damn yellow cat comes up on the deck,
Causing the motion sensor light to turn on,
So the morning dark, which envelopes me and
Makes me feel like some explorer hunched
Around her fire, the motion sensor light come on,
The morning dark disappears
And that damn yellow cat comes slinking to the door.
Every morning he -- he couldn't be a she, could he?
Every morning for three years straight,
He comes in the dark to my door,
Turns on the light outside, and turns that big
Yellow satisfied face to me.