Poems

Vernalsong

In case you ever again enter
the winter of forgotten things,

listen-

You are of the transcendent.
You are of the wild and hopeful,
of the beautiful and terrifying Light.
You are of the rising storm.

You are of the running herd,
and hawk on the wing,
and fin cutting the waves,
and the pack-howl at night.

You are cloaked in honor,
you are of the ardent-hearted,
and the sword and the plough
and of the green, growing things.

You speak for those who have no voice.

You are worthy, and I am worthy,
and every single thing is worthy,
and it was deemed so
in the forges of fading suns
containing every single atom
of yourself
and myself,
aeons ago.

In case you ever forget-
are you listening?

Words

What can I say about you
that wasn’t already said
by Monet’s brush,
by Gibran’s pen,
by Carter, opening Tutankhamen’s tomb,
by Einstein’s math,
by my mother’s hands,
or by my dog’s tongue?

What can I possibly describe about you
that wasn’t already given to me
in the absolution of the wild,
that wasn’t felt by my sister
on the first horse she mounted,
by my father
the first time he wandered the woods alone?

What on earth
can my heart not say these days
as it pulses fragments of dead stars
to my eyes,
that I might turn them
on the night sky, itself
half-made of dead stars?

What can you show me
that is not in itself
a miracle?

And what can I say to you
that does not come out
“we are here for the space of a breath,
beloved,
and no more”?

Ámō

I wish I had answers.
I really do.

I wish I had the secret
to a good night’s sleep,
or that I knew what you mean by
“the best hiking trail”;

I wish I knew how 
to look the devil in the eye,
how to visit all 100 places the magazine says to 
before we leave this world,
how to eject the tape in your head;
or the one in mine;

how to learn the language 
of the horse in summer,
or the wolf in winter,
or how to dance
like they do in the movies;

how to exhude the proper passion,
how to fix the brokenness,
or at least clear the wreckage;
and, perhaps,
why folks bring swords to the dinner table.

(There is a reason, you see,
why I’m on one knee 
when talking to dogs,
or children. 
Do we not all in some way bow
to wisdom and grace?)

So, yes, I wish I knew the secret
of the method
of the madness
of the song
of the soul
of the fire 
and the rain;
or that of your your finely-gathered pain,
which is a gift only to be offered.

Ah. Never mind me.

Here.

I found a piece of driftwood
while walking.

It’s yours.

Gnarled, 
old knots and curves,
scent of earth in spring;
water and wood at last
consummating their affair.

(How else do I explain that,
to me,
your whisper is thunder?)

Praésperō

She was sitting on the couch,
dying.

Well, not really dying, per se.

She was staring out the window
at the darkness fallen across the land.

“I hate winter.”

She shivered, even with the blanket.

The dog wandered over,
hopped up,
sat down next to her.
Opened its jaws, grinning.

{Hey.}
“What.”
{Know what I like about winter?}
“What’s that.”
{Spring’s just around the corner.}
She sighed.
“I suppose.”
She stared out the window again.

{Hey.}
“Yeah?”
{Let’s go run around and eat snow.}

She raised her eyebrow.
The dog raised one back.
{Please?}

“OK. Come on.”

{Cool. I’ll wait for you at the door.}

She grabbed her coat.

{Oh. My. God.}
“What now?”
{A small piece of bacon on the floor.
See! Like I told you
when I woke you this morning!
Best day ever!}

Fídō

Have you seen the mud
streaked across 
the hardwood floor?

Or, wait-

Did you watch the cat 
sleeping in the barn?

I see.

Surely, then, 
you’ve been tucked in
by the night sky?
You’ve seen the thunderheads 
crying and spitting lightning
so they could wash the face of the earth?

Well, maybe you’ve met
the white-haired woman
I spoke with in the shop-
who told me of classrooms
and busses full of protesters,
and of her husband, long-gone,
she who outlived 
her mother, father, brothers, sisters?

The one who looked at me, smiling,
who stared then out the window
with a face like a child’s,
and said,

“I swear,
life
is just…
amazing!”

?

Alright, then.

(He waves the pamphlet in the air. 
The world is ending.
“Do you believe?!?”

“I do,” I say,
“yesterday I took my dog to the park,
and stared into the eyes of God,
and was licked by the Buddha’s tongue.”)

The Most Convenient Definitions

“Battling your demons,”
they call it.
Fighting the monsters.
Taming the beast.
Or, perhaps,
rebuking the Devil.

You must cleanse yourself.
You must take this pill.
You must do yoga.
You must read this book.

You must.

I suppose I can’t lie;
shedding the past is good.

However…

do you remember?
Think back.

Before you were told what to fear.
Before you were told what to hate.
Before you were told what was wrong with you.
Before you were told who to be.

I’ll tell you true,
cross my heart, hope to die-

’cause I seem to recall a boy,

whose demons brought him food,
whose monsters came out from under the bed 
and gathered ’round for story time,
whose beasts ran with him
past the high school lockers,
and who walked the prairies and woods
with Lucifer and Jesus both;

we shared Canadian whiskey,
Dominican cigars,

and harmed not ourselves 
nor any soul,

traipsing the beat
in the heart of creation.

Worthy

​And so I gaze
into the caverns of the night.

I open to the eons
and the windward side.

I praise the Sun,
and run with the storms.

I leap and fly
above the harriers of this age.

I smash my bottles on the brick walls, 
taking note of what escapes.

I kiss deeply and longingly,
and make an offering
at the shrine of the heart.

And I clean my kill,
giving thanks
in front of the fire.

And I am wounded before the altar,
and am drinking deep the blood.

And I unfurl my banners also,
laughing in triumph 
at the marching armies.

But most of all,
I embrace you, and say goodbye,
until again we meet,

and hope we may both find
the table set for us 
in the clearing next time.

The Sun and the Shores of Time

Sitting on the shores of time,
after I’d awakened to the sounds 
of migrations, erosions, tides;
the songs of eons, the pulsing of life,

the voice of the deep-heart
did cull my chaff from my wheat;

and there by the waves
I knelt down and wept,

for I had to throw my mask into the sea,
my only worldly possession,
my inheritance;
and it was fine and well-crafted,
and precious to me;

still I threw it, 
and watched the water devour it.

There were waves of liquid,
and of the temporal,
and there were tears
as the ocean inside me came out
to meet its mother;
even then I went mad.

But after the noontide of this age,
I felt the hand of the Sun
cradle my face,
and I lifted my head,

and the Sun asked:
“My child, why do you weep so?”

And I said:
“I’ve thrown away my mask. I had to.”

“Ahhh, I see,” said the Sun, 
“this must have been quite the mask.”

“There is no other like it,” I explained.

“Then let me tell you why I’m happy,”
said the Sun, 
“for every day, 
for more cycles
than even you can comprehend, 
I reflected off the ocean 
and shone on the shores 
and raised great forests 
from the reactions of my heart. 

Yet only now can I see your face,
and I have missed you greatly.”

And there by the waves,
I laid down and slept.

Sojourners

“What’s it look like to you?”

“A calendar.”

He nodded. That one left.

Another came along.

“What’s it look like to you?”

“A vacation.”

Again, he nodded. 
That one left as well, after awhile.

Time passed.

“So what’s it look like to you?”

“Peace.”

He narrowed his eyes.
“What does it sound like?”

She closed hers.
“The wind says ‘go west, young man’.”

He laughed.
“What does it smell like?”

Inhale.
“Dirt and stone after the storm.”

He nodded.
“Now… what does it feel like?”

She glanced over.
“Perhaps a hawk on the wing. 
Or a horse, chasing the sunset. 
The good kind of pain, 
after a hard day in the sun.”

He tipped his hat back.
“What brings you out this far?”

“Got tired of dying.”

He opened the cooler in the truckbed,
let the tailgate down,
took out sandwiches and beer.

“Here. I was saving these.”

They divvied it up, 
and with feet swinging, 
breathed in deep over the valley
as the dogs chased rabbits through the pasture.

It’s like

listening to cicadas at night,

a child
reading by flashlight under the covers,

a dog,
resting its head on your lap,

the first touch
after time, distance, pain,

the moment between lightning’s flash
and thunder’s crack,

the spaces in between,

the difference between the sound
of a spring rain seeping
and the scent
of a yearning earth,

the hopeless and hated assignment
handed back with an A,

the sound of a wine cork
leaving the bottleneck,

the smell of coffee,
the creak of hardwood,

your feet in a summer creek,

the body
pressed close
on the dance floor,

the tuning of a guitar
before the opening chord,

chalk on the sidewalk;

and now that i think about it,
loving you is very, very much like
a barn, with a hayloft
and a rope-swing.