The future,
a fog.
Obscurity promotes fantasy.
Do not be a fool;
thinking that ahead of you
lie greater things
than here and now.
Death Is A Forest At Night
Death is a forest at night;
obscure, quiet.
A person enters it alone;
no guarantees.
The Archer, Poised
The archer, poised;
connected to his breath:
a silent stream,
In. Out. In.
His will is like the Tao;
the emptiness
between too little,
and too much.
Tearing Fall Leaves
The cold gravel
is littered with leaves.
I tear a green leaf;
juicy velvet
like moist frog skin.
I tear a red leaf;
the curled spine cracks,
leathery and strong.
I pick up a brown leaf;
the tattered skeleton
crumbles to dust between my fingers.
Clinging Icicles
The icicles hang
in the afternoon sun.
Drip.
Drip.
Below them lie the shards
that willingly let go.
These icicles cling,
yet despite their effort,
continue to drip.
By evening,
they will be nothing.
The Man Who Wanted To Build A Perfect House
There once was a man who
wanted to build the perfect house.
He took out paper,
and set down to design it.
Lines were drawn
and erased
and re-drawn
and re-erased;
weeks went by,
then months,
then years.
“Nothing less than perfect
will do” he said to himself.
The man grew old
and the edges of his plans
grew crinkled and stained.
Finally, the old man died
and when the people came to take away his possessions,
the sheets of paper were crumpled up
and thrown into the fire
without a second glance.
Rain
The sound soothes me;
massages my tired mind.
I hear the running stream,
filling but never full,
each drop adding itself joyfully,
never asking “Why?”
I Never Held Anything
I hear a knock.
Death has come
not at night
but mid-day.
I look it in the face
not with fear
but with sadness;
not the sadness of having to let go
but the sadness of knowing finally and fully
that I never truly held anything.
Walking
The sound of my footsteps
mingles with falling rain.
The water droplets hang
along the brim of my hood
like diamonds.
Am I any more
than the mud that clings to my boots?
In silence I was knit;
in silence I will be unknit.
Dying Man In Hospital Bed
The river passes slowly,
trees are shedding auburn leaves,
the sun is setting.
A mother walks beside her little girl,
holding her hand.
But I watch high above from my window,
scribbling these words on a paper cup
with the nurses pencil,
waiting.
Underground Men
I saw eternal freedom;
its caves,
where the underground people live.
Belly-down in damp rock tunnels,
they search for crevices and cracks;
smaller, darker spaces.
Cursing the cold,
hard rock;
cursing the darkness,
their own stench.
Unable to go forward.
Unwilling to go back.
With Words I Grow Arms
I write to touch
million things I will not have time to
during my short life.
I yearn for contact.
People,
places,
ideas,
possibilities;
I want it all.
This is why I write;
with words I grow arms
wide enough to embrace All.
Wait In Darkness
Wait in darkness,
within your questions,
growing.
One day, without effort:
crack.
Then no longer able to contain you,
you will fly away.
American Coot eggs hatching
All The Man’s A Stage
All the man’s a stage,
and all the selves merely players,
with their noisy entrances
and quiet exits,
and one man in his time plays many parts;
his acts, stretching to endless ages.
Will To Power
The pine needles,
swept by rain,
have settled like cooled lava.
Irregular arms;
an ancient amoeba,
reaching out towards the world,
wanting only to surpass itself.
One Last Reach For The Sky
Droplets hang
from the eves trough;
a row of tiny light-filled orbs.
One plummets
into the puddle;
as the ripples wave, infinitely away,
the drop shoots back up,
a perfect sphere:
one last reach for the sky.
Writer’s Tension
Writing is the desire
to hide in a cave, alone,
combined with the desire
to stand naked in the light
shouting and waving one’s arms.
Thorns and Thistles
Humans were given thorns and thistles,
that their hands might grow stronger.
Scars are always somehow beautiful;
they cost something.
Suffering is the price tag still clinging
to the wedding dress of the world.
Worlds
The thief’s world is distrust.
The mother’s world, tenderness.
The writer’s world, meaning.
The believer’s world, a test.
The athlete’s world, a competition.
The academic’s world, a conversation.
I see so many worlds;
worlds contradicting
and yet somehow co-existing;
people walking side by side,
but worlds apart.
Wanting
Thirsty plants want rain;
their roots search in darkness.
A river wants the ocean;
pushes its way around, over any obstacle.
A boulder wants to fall,
roars down a mountainside.
Thirsty plants,
flowing river,
falling boulder:
wanting is a natural force,
everywhere, in everything,
driving all things towards what they must be.
A Sad Leaf
One day, the leaf noticed a brown spot on its skin
that was not there before.
Then another spot.
And another.
It realized it was growing old.
And it grew older and older,
until one day,
it barely clung to the tree by a thin stem,
ready to fall.
And as it hang there,
the leaf cried,
for it had never left the tree:
never felt the ground.
The Dance Of Things
Memory Of Sunshine
The mid-day sun
electrifies the leaves,
turns the pond bright white;
in dark places,
dark times,
let me remember this.
Two or Three
Two or three of something is healthy;
ten or twenty of something is not.
Two or three of something is exploration,
enjoyment,
balance;
ten or twenty of something is the ego
reaching for more,
trying to heal.
New Vistas
Each new peak brings further vistas,
thinner air.
And with it,
stronger legs,
stronger lungs,
and a lighter,
better-fitting pack.
Man Is A Fool
Man is a fool.
He knows that he will die,
but instead of living the life he wants,
he waits until death is near,
then says, “If only…”
He knows that his loved ones will die,
but instead of saying what he wants,
he waits until death is near,
then says, “If only…”
He looks back on his life,
wishing he had risked more,
but insists that his children play it safe.
He consumes that which destroys him,
worships that which enslaves him,
and hates that which loves him.
Man is a fool.
I Watch
I watch the steam
rise off the bark
of wet trees in sunlight.
I watch the water drops
that hang on branch tips
like tiny diamonds.
I watch the long beige grass
that sways and shines
like gold.
The Red Table
The red table:
half is dark maroon
because of the shadows of the roof above;
half is bright chestnut
because of the november sunlight.
The dark half looks clean.
The sunlit half: bugs, hair, and dirt.
I Write For You
I write for you:
who believe yourself to be nothing,
who are gentle and kind,
who cry alone.
I write for you;
searching for the words
you were too afraid to say,
and the feelings
you were too afraid to feel.
Clinging
I cling to the bar,
knuckles white,
shaking with exertion.
“Let go.”
I will not.
I squeeze tighter,
strength failing,
will giving way,
emptied of strength,
I let go.
I hit ground,
feet firmly planted,
shake tired arms,
blood rushes in.
“Get back up.”
I will not.
The ground gives way beneath my feet.
I scramble and run until at last
my legs fail.
I reach, grab the bar again,
legs, rest and refresh.
Until finally, I hear once again:
“Let go.”
Balanced
One leaf,
balanced on one stem.
One stem,
balanced on one twig.
One twig,
balanced on one stick.
One stick,
balanced on one branch.
One branch,
held firm by one trunk.
One trunk,
held immoveable by hundreds of unseen root.
Roark
Didn’t you realize that all the world
was playing outside your window
while you were in bed?
Didn’t you realize
that so many other beautiful things
were crying out for help?
Didn’t you realize
that all you did
would come to nothing?
And yet, perhaps you did.
And yet, perhaps still you built.
The Invitation
Life
is the man waiting in a rocking chair,
in his living room by the fire,
looking out into the night;
he invites you to come inside,
warm yourself;
share a meal and drink wine together,
and tell stories;
to receive what every day
you beg for in the streets.
There Can Be
There can be silence in sound,
and sound in silence.
There can be stillness in movement,
and movement in stillness.
There can be order in chaos,
and chaos in order.
There can be ignorance in wisdom,
and wisdom in ignorance.
There can be hunger in fullness,
and fullness in hunger.
There can be death in life,
and life in death.
Writer
Writer:
one who uses words to crawl,
inch by inch,
towards the rain.
My Home
My home
is the snow in sunshine.
My home
is the warmth of blue.
My home
is the place that music lives.
My home
is the smell of summer evening.
Morning Evening
My morning is fresh dew
anxious to drop from the leaf.
My evening is the fallen drop,
lost among the grass,
wishing to be lost.
The Field Never Asks
“Which are better for us:
the things that give us pleasure,
or those that give us pain?”
Asks man.
–The field never asks,
but lies still;
silent in her summer,
silent in her winter.
Gnawing
I pulled the fangs from life,
that it might never bite me.
Then turned inward, hiding.
But now
so cold and turned inside out,
I feel only the toothless gnawing,
somewhere deep inside me.
His Direction
He would sooner break his neck
than submit to the yoke.
He thrashes against the whip
that saves him from the cliffs.
He walks one thousand miles in the wrong direction
if only it be his direction.
This Light
This light that turns
the black page white
and gives the ink its black.
This vanilla-white eye
that cries waxy tears;
beads that dry and harden.
And now this smoke
that swirls to a song beyond ears.
Then fades.
Silkworm
The silkworm twirls,
suspended twenty feet in the air.
Thread glistens white in the sunlight.
Rears its orange head,
front two arms extend together above:
a desperate prayer.
Yanks down.
Rises a fraction of a centimeter.
Adds an armful of silk to its tiny clump.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Pine Needle
Pine needles swirl
in a stream.
One, white,
pulls away from the greens.
Plummets over the small waterfall,
alone.
Walking In Fall
Clean wind nips my nose.
Leaves and branches sway
against the grey sky.
Water hits rock
like a child pouring out a drink.
Numb fingertips.
Leaves scrape branches
like crinkled paper bags.
Joy.
Two Mountains
A poem should stink of its poet.
A poet should stink of his poems.
The writer: bent over a page.
The poem: silent in the winter of nowhere.
Both eternally alone
in their spaces.
The two are neighboring mountainsides,
joining at one common origin,
then rising up,
ever away from one another.
To Choose
To choose this is to exclude that;
to decide is to decide against;
to marry is to divorce;
to love is to hate;
to say yes is to say no.
The Page
The page is the runner’s track;
alone with oneself.
At the starter’s blocks,
trembling with anticipation,
wanting to know what one is capable of.
Wanting to know the pain one can take.
The page is the silent counselor;
it never offers advice,
remains open to any possibility,
demands nothing,
offers everything.
I love you, page.
Sing Strong
Sing strong.
In your own voice;
be it quiet or loud,
sweet, or coarse.
Sing strong.
With your own words;
saying what you mean,
and meaning what you say.
Sing strong.
For they listen
not to your voice,
nor to your words,
but to how strong
you dare to sing.
Extras
To that stranger,
I am a background actor;
an extra,
in the drama of his life.
To me,
that stranger is a background actor;
an extra,
in the drama of my life.
The Other Side
“I’m in pain,” you said.
“I need to crawl back in bed,
need to say it aloud;
name it.”
I, on the other side of a wall.
Never crossed:
the impassable.
There are walls of experience,
between us all.
The roof that keeps out
the rain of others’ pain,
in order that we might be a dry place for them.
Is it not a terrible, and blessed, truth
that on the other side of your seeing there are
gaping wounds;
on the other side of hearing there are
desperate cries;
and on the other side of your feeling there is
pain and cold?
