Hard Surrender

An armor of worry suits this knight-at-arms,

protected from all assaults from outside.

Muted to the potent power of charm,

his stoic stance simply a place to hide.

Hands of mail, fine for striking but stifling touch.

Thick over the heart, hollow under hard steel,

to odd comfort of old pain he will clutch.

On constant alert, he thinks but won't feel.

Here and not here, he stands always alone.

We all fight, all struggle—of that, be assured.

Our forsaken vigils for endless unknowns.

Raise the visor, unshield the eyes, drop the sword.

Opened just so, he would breathe and speak light

to all, the hard surrender after the easy fight.

Armor

I am here now, sheathed in 

armor of my own design and hand

thickest over the heart.

Part of me walks freely, taking in

summer sights, feeling the breeze,

idly considering the stars.

Another part of me is in the hole,

solitary, bullied by a guard who shares

my features of face and manner, backed up

by a corps of anxieties, obsequious 

and pleasing to authority, ready to step up

a rank due to their efficiency and skill.

Somehow the line between warrior and worrier

has blurred, one little vowel sound separates them,

but who is it before you now, 

and how do you know?

Never Stop Listening

Longing for conversation without words,

that language we seem to share with so few.

Not the habitual words we use,

nor the handshakes, shrugs, nods,

smiles, but something deeper.

This language of which I speak

is not being spoken of directly.

The words here point generally,

a broad gesture, a sweeping hand.

All is translated, rough metaphors--

the framing of a house that may be

a barn instead. This occult language

reads not left to right, nor right to left,

but in all directions with no center,

a deep ocean to all horizons,

a vast desert of light and shadow,

a night sky studded with silver light.

The things I say are also said elsewhere,

out of earshot. This soul-talk, this

shadow-song runs day and night,

a flowing creek while I doze,

a whispering wind as my day goes,

and the common talk and silences fill the air.

Find all your ears. Never stop listening.

Speak

Lovers are linguists, tongue masters,

expert translators, patient teachers

and quick studies--

The tilt of your head, and the

lines of your smile say more

than a Victorian novel.

The sound of your step on

the stair brings more repair

than an explicit manual.

Your sleepy touch eloquently

speaks of healing at length,

gentler and more sure than

a doctor's dissertation.

The rhythm of your breathing

is more sublime than Shelley or a

a street-corner Beat.

It's this world of languages, these

polyglots of passion, all speaking

at once but drowning out none,

and under it all, continuous

whispers of yes.

Ocean

Love is the ocean,
leaping, wide, reaching
beyond the hazy horizon,
a deep blue promise
into which I'd gladly fall,
after wading in to the
cold sting, the water's
chill a salty kiss when
the sun is strong--heat
and relief here, now.
Go farther in, an act of
faith, work to stay afloat,
buoyant, our bodies
riding on something bigger,
something vast that
brings shouts and whispers.

Damaged Muse

When evening light will reach and fall just so,

and animated shapes emerge from lines,

with the darting brush's quick, sure flow,

and the artist briefly stops the rush of time,

your incandescent waves of falling hair,

a face that's so possessed of dark and light,

a complexion held in stillness fair,

is captured, held complete—not quite.

The broken smile still has the will to charm.

I give this haunted art what it demands.

It holds me, too, for now I'm free from harm.

This oddly frozen hour--cold paper in my hands.

How I have come to learn the artifice in art--

True seeing comes not from eyes, but heart.

Remembering Roads

Following these sinuous roads,

I recall trips that ended in embraces.

My weight shifts in the corners and

my body feels it. No short strolls

or straight shots: serpentine,

windy ascents over

the pass and the state line;

long straights and steady,

even grades, truck lanes

and deep forests, roads winter-

slippery and summer shaded,

witnesses to my earnestness in

driving to, and satisfaction in

driving from, those houses where

someone brightened a doorway,

the distance an equation of

anticipation and reflection: something,

somewhere, the spending of the now

for some then—or, distance as insulation,

sure as I am safe in a car, immune from weather,

so too my heart traveled safely, my life

sectioned off, little borderlines to cross

to get to and from the center. No way of

knowing now, even though I know each

curve, dip and twist, the ones that

bring belly butterflies and a fluttery chest,

slowing and acceleration, routes now

that are still simply roads even as

memory diverges on its own path.

Ashen Lament (7/16/12)

We threw our wood

into the fire--

we could have

built something

to hold us

or

shelter us,

but, oh,

how that

fire blazed.

Spotted

Love was spotted

naked-eye visible

to any and all

at fifty yards

some time ago

for a while

since then

my armor

has strengthened

against arrows

of all sorts

and my senses

have sharpened

for dangers

not of pursuit

or capture

but the inevitable

release

of an animal

habituated

comforted

grown soft, even

then sprung

lean

wild

and

hungry