Self-Portrait as Two Halves
No epiphanies in these woods,
no prayers yanked about,
currying favor from the loneliest
god of a fruitless tree, its DNA
unraveling at thought’s speed.
Never having greeted us,
the other world waves good
riddance and this one turns its
back, both torn in equal measure
yet admitting no guilt through
their narrowed eyes. Oh, to be
whole in this splintered self.
“Self-Portrait as Two Halves” first appeared in The Dew Drop in November 2020.
Ro
When this note fades
will it join you in that place
above the sky
or below the waves
of the earth’s plump
body? Or will it
circle back, returning to
my lips and this
hollow day
to aspire again?
Note: Ro designates the fingering required to produce a particular note on the shakuhachi, the traditional Japanese bamboo flute. In this case, closing all holes.
Cardinal
Question: what is air if not
the means by which we
see and feel? Sound creates only
itself, another version of the original
sense. I move from shadows to a deeper
darkness, hoping to find that point where absence
ends. But there is no end, only
continuation, a cry for those
who offer their hands in ambiguity. Sometimes
a cardinal’s call fills our
morning with questions. So
little of all we touch
is felt. We are the air. The air is.
Another poem from the 80s. I was obsessed with birds even back then…
Bent
We’ve seen some version of the nail
curled over, the head angled at 90 degrees
or parallel to its body, just above
the penetration point. Three years ago
a tornado powered a single straw stem
through the oak’s bark and into its trunk,
illustrating the Old English beonet, for
“stiff grass,” and sadly conjuring the image
of a blade affixed to a firearm’s muzzle, the
etymology of which lies elsewhere, in Gascony.
And when we consider mental inclination,
signifying deflected, turned, or not straight,
we might also include an earlier past participle
meaning “directed in course.” But even the
tree’s armor could not deter the twister’s
wrath, and the hammer, no matter my aim
or purpose, seems intent upon glancing off
the nail, twisting it, leaving us, again, bent.
“Bent” first appeared in the print publication Ristau: A Journal of Being in January 2018.
The Art of Flight
What wings accumulate is not air
but space, an exemplar
of restraint defied. I listen
and hear feathers
ruffling in the shadows,
a vibration that swells
until it becomes flight or
regret, the retrieval of our
bodies from this dream of ascent.
The art of flight is one of
disturbance, of angles and lift
and touching what can’t be seen.
What we hold carries no meaning.
The beauty lies in the gathering.
I wrote this piece in the mid-80s, and posted it here in 2015. I’d forgotten about it, until I found the original moldering in a box of old papers. It’s okay, for an artifact from another life…
While Blowing on the Shakuhachi, I Think of Birds
Yesterday’s sorrow
dissipates in joy.
Though you are not here, I hear your voice,
blow a solitary note in response.
Your philosopher bird carries it to you,
two-thousand miles away,
as the wren brings your song to me.
This is love today
and tomorrow,
embodied in birdsong and faith.
Next week I will know your touch
as you will mine.
We’ll follow our lists,
starting with lips, while the universe
surges around us, filling the voids we never saw.
Needs, answered.
Perhaps the world will end.
Perhaps the red-tailed hawk will follow its nature.
Perhaps I will stand on the roof and shout your name.
But today, this little bird nesting in all the unsaid spaces,
is all I have, little mouth flickering, forming moons and
new mornings, new shadows, new light.
* * *
“While Blowing on the Shakuhachi I Think of Birds” first appeared in Voices de la Luna in March 2020.
In Gathering Light
1
I sit in darkness
my back to the words
gouged in stone
and wonder what
phrase the stars will
utter tonight,
what wisdom
one finds in dreams
or the widening circles
of the hole that was
there
in water,
in earth, in the common tongue
of all things.
The tree speaks
a different language.
I hear
whispers, a bone-flute’s
whistle, the sound of metal
striking dirt striking
wood,
but nothing, no words
I can gather.
2
I have lost my shadow
among the weeds
of this place.
Somewhere
it wanders,
a thin, grey shape
waiting for light to give birth
to the blackness
I call friend,
itself, shadow.
My fingertips trace
the lines, hoping
to draw something
from the stone –
an unknown word,
the druid’s
small bag of dreams,
the lyrics of the stars.
* * *
Another poem, another artifact from the mid-80s, rediscovered last year.
Self-Portrait as Window
When you look through me
which darkness illuminates
your vision, outlining the
ghosts of never was and not
yet? Or do your eyes glare
back in silent terror, knowing
the power of liquid made
solid, of light transformed to
electricity and by inference
these words or the shades
drawn by voice command?
Transparent, elusive, evident,
I stand alone, clear. Hidden.
“Self-Portrait as Window” first appeared in The Dew Drop in November 2020.
I Feel the Wind
When evening’s gloom thickens I
rest before your heat. What have
we learned, I ask. Have you heard
via gases weaving their hisses in
your shuddering logs stories of the
people whose bruised voices
no longer register? The burl of
discontent ashes over in the
same way: I feel the wind
but cannot see it. I see the
circumstance but those voices
have felt the brass fists of
memory’s sins. I am my
brother’s keeper, bereft and dim,
starved, lonely. Broken, killed
yet breathing, I await the children.
* * *
“I Feel the Wind” first appeared at The Literary Nest. It is a golden shovel poem, a form created by Terrance Hayes, which uses a line (or more) from an existing poem. Each word in the line is used as the end word in a new poem. Thus if you use a ten-word line, the poem will consist of ten lines. You might read this article to learn more about the form.
The source for this piece was “The Mother” by Gwendolyn Brooks. The great Ruby Dee recites it on YouTube. Her vocal performance is stunning!
My poem “The Flicker” is live at Flying Island Literary Journal. I am grateful to editor Mary M. Brown for accepting this piece.
O at the Edges 