A SMALL LEARNING

I THOUGHT  IT MEET,

BEING BLESSED WITH PRIVILEGE,

THAT I SHOULD  SING,

BUT I SLOG HEAD DOWN.

COVETOUS,  I STOP AND GAZE UPON

A BLACK CAT’S SLEEK PELT

RIPPLING IN THE SUN

AS SHE CUTS ‘CROSS MY PATH –

FERVENTLY I WISH MY LIMBS

COULD SO SHIMMER AS I STALK —

AH BUT NO SUCH HEEDLESS GRACE FOR MAN,

RATHER SUCH AS A DANCER CAN

WITH HEART AND SWEAT

PUT ON ~~~

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-A-ONE-AND A ONE-AND A ONE-AND A ONE…….

Time is simultaneous; so say some mystics.                                                                          There is a sucker born every minute, says old P.T.                                                                  But it feels like there is no time left for either/or.                                                                     We’ve got ourselves by the throat.                                                                                           Our long knives are drawn and poised.                                                                                  We’ve been born every minute in sync with our death.                                                            How do we unclench ourselves from this dream?                                                                    Caught exposing ourselves in public places,                                                                            We stand accused on the coasts of time.                                                                               The sun rises and sets according to how we face,                                                                   And the two oceans rumple the sands at our feet                                                                                       with recurrent hissing____________

Free, condemned on shores of balanced flux                                                                          In the silence of a thought—                                                                                                         Our hearts also, stilled between beats,                                                                                     Minds go white—-

In the silence of this thought,                                                                                                    All Time Is Simultaneous                                                                                                         (1987)                                                                                   

LOON

Moon’s

Light rays

Out over the loom

Of wind-rippled lake.

Light bars flash in the eye of a loon,

That still shore sentinel watching the sand lapped, slaking

It’s endless thirst, hissing. She opens her long mouth

And boldly hoots her runes into the ear

Of the intimate, feathering wind,

Stately spreads her wings

And flies straight into

The moon’s

Cold

Eye.

(1995)

SYLLABIC CYCLE- Groton, Mass/ 1960

Why do we move at all?

Born we, and some time in

Happiness spend, then dark

Blood begins to move.

Dark blood, bitter love

Of darkness, streams stark

Fears through any stable mien–

Nubile apparitions burst–

Silences exist as null,

And nothing as nothing is.

 

Echos of the question call:

Why do we move at all?

We stir and cease;

And that is all. That is all.

 

WALNUT FALLING & LIVING NIGHT

WALNUT FALLING

Had to shut the tractor down and take a break

in the humid shade of the orchard,

And in the buzzing, ringing stillness

heard

The first nut fall…

KEE KEE KEE

calls the she-hawk,

coursing for the kill;

And black and white magpies

Flit through the floppy walnut leaves-

A wind of mad noise;

But I,

in the ringing stillness

Heard,

The first nut

Fall.

LIVING NIGHT

Open the box;

Take out a match.

Strike fire from the hearthstone.

Twist and turn the burning stick

With slow fingers and watch

Wettish red turn to crinkled black,

The curl of tortured wood

As flame creeps toward flesh.

cigarette.

Go out to the night

Cut to the wind and misted moon

Twist and curl, burning red and bright

As flame moving through flesh

Go out to the night

Sputter and burn

Though owls quest and dogs harry

And black cats twitch their tails

In wait;

Though moon moves quick to meet the clouds

And mist smokes from the creek

And muted birds delude the ear

With soft songs of the sun;

And though flowers flower

And leaves green

And the looming ridge frowns darkly on the valley

And echo-fingers run searching through the grass,

I pass safely

Wide grey eyes bedded like jewels

In my priestly body of the night.

I turn

And see ‘cross the dew-silvered field

The dark trace of my passage

my eyes wet

with grey regret

On Leaving Port

From Sharon, CTH

Child of My love, lean hard,

And let me feel the pressure of thy care;

I know thy burden, child. I shaped it;

Poised it in Mine Own hand; made no proportion

In its weight to thine unaided strength,

For even as I laid it on, I said,

“I shall be near, while he leans on Me,

This burden shall be Mine, not his;

So shall I keep My child within the circling arms

Of My Own love.” Here lay it down, nor fear

To impose on a shoulder which upholds

The government of worlds. Yet closer come:

So I might feel My child reposing on my breast.

Thou lovest Me?

I knew it.

Doubt not then; but loving Me, lean hard.

–from STREAMS IN THE DESERT, SEPT, 2013