Celestial Navigation
Even dung beetles
know the stars,
how they shape
destination.
Motion ceases with arrival.
This body attracting
that. The heart
losing itself
to the moon’s
pull, another wave
falling.
Does light descend
or rise?
Subtle yet observant.
Like truth, like
destiny shivering
through the coldest hour,
saying Welcome, welcome!
“Celestial Navigation” was first published in Nine Muses Poetry in July 2019.
Self-Portrait as Never
Within the unknown or could-have-been,
this stance requires certainty, the ability
to stand upright, rooted, implacable,
relentless in the is and the no in time.
I dream of faith, despite knowing its
secrets. Atoms swarm, seed heads explode.
Rivers reverse, the galaxy rots, and at the
center, we fold our arms across our chests
and deny or accept at whim, leaving behind
no footprints, only lost words, some dust.
“Self-Portrait as Never” was first published in After the Pause in June 2019. Thank you, Michael Prihoda, for accepting this piece.
Galveston, 1900
First the wind, then a tide like no other
uprooting the calm,
a visage tilted back in descent
as if listening for the aftermath.
And later, the gardener’s lament
and the building’s exposed ribs,
light entering the eternal
orchard, nine children tied to a cincture.
Not even the earth could retain its bodies,
and the sea remanded those given to its care.
“Galveston, 1900” first appeared here in January 2015. Last February it was accepted for publication in an anthology to be published in 2020, but alas, I’ve just been informed that the publisher is unable to move forward on it. Such is the literary life.
Love Song for the Dandelion
When you scatter
I gasp
aware that the windborne
carry truths
too powerful to breathe
too perfect
to bear
What is your name
I ask
knowing the answer
all along
* * *
“Love Song for the Dandelion” first appeared in Rue Scribe in September 2018. Many thanks to Eric Luthi and the editors at Rue Scribe for accepting this piece and several others.
Calm (after H.D.)
I flow over the ground,
healing its hidden scar–
the scar is black,
the bedrock risen,
not one stone is misplaced.
I relieve the ground’s
burden with white froth,
I fill and comply—
I have thrown a pebble
into the night,
it returns to me,
settles and rises,
a white dove.
* * *
“Calm” is included in my micro-chapbook Only This, which is available via free download from Origami Poems Project. It made its first appearance here on the blog in March 2015, and was written as an exercise, using a poem, “Storm,” by H.D. as the launching point. I’ve tried to emulate her diction and rhythm, with mixed success. Still, it’s fun to try these on occasion.
The Most Intimate
How that blue turns gray over green
at a slight tilt of the chin,
and even upside down
anchors the tree.
Some constellations escape language,
stars looming without nouns and adverbs,
the utterances of the planets
caught in the gravity
of their own situations.
Laugh, but the trashcan is full. The lawn is brown.
There are no gods.
Unadorned statements abound.
Even this sky may shift again,
the most intimate twist
turned full.
* * *
“The Most Intimate” first appeared at Poetry Breakfast in May 2019. Thank you, Ann Kestner, for taking this piece.
The Real Question
I ask myself why I mourn
what has not yet
occurred. Will that last fledgling
fly or will a snake swallow
its gravity before descending
to a separate end? Coffee
darkens the carafe and an egg
poaches amidst the scent of basil.
Sprinkling parmesan on buttered
toast, I wonder where to unearth
the real question, when to look
into its eye. How to read its grief.
“The Real Question” was first published in After the Pause in June 2019. Thank you, Michael Prihoda, for accepting this piece.
Bonsai
no feature enhanced
but beauty of
the whole and
its container the
tree is not
deprived and grows
as it must
though slowly like
a wave which
gathers itself for
years there is
no completion only
process a lapse
which presumes the
most delicate design
Originally published in Aileron in 1988, “Bonsai” first appeared on the blog in December 2014.
Landscape
Utterance
within the parameters set
by form
expressionless
save motion
the lone branch
brought to the fore
and in the distance
stock ponds collecting rain
the word is
forget, as in the imperative
as in function, as in
you must have
This first appeared here in December 2014.
Scarecrow Dreams
If by night I move without aid,
what then? Precious flesh, precious
bone, never mine to lose – the difference
between nothingness and no thing. A
pity that my friends fly at the merest
movement, but when the air’s breath
stills, they sing and rattle among the
grain, scribing their days in song
and footprints, seeking the available
on the ground. And what scrolls lower
than the sound of sunflowers turning?
The laughing daughter runs around
my lattice spine, scattering joy like so
many seeds, and when my hollow
fingers clench, the earth quivers, or
so it seems. Then midnight returns
and I disengage and stalk about,
scaring rodents and their predators,
hooting in harmony with the owls
reveling in the night air, remembering
the holy shirt, a yellow glove, corn
silk’s gleam at noon and the warmth
of your fingers against my burlap skin.
I do not breathe, I say, but I exist. By
morning what joins me but the tune
of yet another bird, unseen, melodious,
the pulse of morning’s dew. Eternity.
How my straw tongue longs to sip it.
“Scarecrow Dreams” first appeared in the summer 2017 edition of Eclectica. Many thanks to poetry editor Jen Finstrom, for publishing several of my scarecrow poems.
O at the Edges 