Questions

Why does my eye twitch?

It’s not because of you

It’s because of this universe

What is missing?

It’s the small belongings

How will I measure life?

It’s the sun, it is

well within my soul

The answer is no

It is written

The answer is never

A truth acknowledged

The answer is no

Short story

It is a far

Worthier thing



This poem was composed from Google auto-complete questions and declarative statements.

Marionettes

Boots thumping,

words brush the backs,

of the heads--

savage, convulsed mountains,

fantastic realm of the

immense spirit,

mountains of pain,

terrible fury—

this was the war he

had been handed.

His eyes swept the looming sky--

marionettes led your boy

to death—

It was a good mission

down some dark tunnel,

all the bodies underground,

slamming, warning—

white stone chamber,

white stone doors,

a mound on a grave—

Join the majority.

Composed partly of words found in "Mines" by Susan Straight and The Bridges at Toko-Ri by James A. Michener.

Response to Alan Watts

"If I ask you what you did, saw, heard, smelled, touched and tasted yesterday, I am likely to get nothing more than the thin, sketchy outline of the few things that you noticed, and of those only what you thought worth remembering." -- Alan Watts

Since you asked, yesterday was this:

Awaking to birdsong and sunlight

filtered through a tent's translucence.

The rhythm of the county route and my breath,

improvised music on a road rising and falling.

My feet at the bottom of a mountain lake,

clear water magnifying the roots of water lilies

reaching down from the surface.

Friends' laughter coming across the water

as if on a wire.

The mingled scent of pine needles and sand

opening a letter in my mind sent from summers past.

Woods, wind and water, and a marriage's first hours,

vows repeating like refrains, chants, mantras.

The sharp, malty beer shared with friends.

A nodding off in the passenger seat, Northway reverie,

part of the post-holiday parade.

Overheard in Homeroom

Eyebrows are way down my list

of things about which to be concerned--

as a matter of fact, they

don't make the list at all,

but in room 305 at 7:40 a.m.

they constitute a crisis

as the girl looks at her reflection

in a compact and

brushes and tweezes,

while I, on the other side of 

the large desk, ponder

the difference between an

85 and an 88.

"Eyebrows are sisters, not twins," 

another girl offers, as I mumble

metaphor quietly.

So it goes, different orbits

but still the same

rumination and brooding, 

insistence on what is important,

things that concern us so 

at one point in life making way

for others unpredicted,

as I smile and thin lines

frame my eyes, my pen

loops two green eights,

and I raise one uncorrected

brow (one brother?), if not

in solidarity, then at least

in insight. 

Tanka at Lake Clear

Last night's loons now cruise
half submerged as wind sculpts waves.
They save their song for
the night, when summer stars light
the soft scallops of high peaks.

A Place Beyond All Sides

We all shape the world

to fit our needs

but when we fall, we fall

we all, we all will bleed.

Hide in your screen's dim light

through a wire you channel a fight

anxious fingers shape brittle words

just repeat what you've already heard.

A man with an eye on what he hates

another victim in his oppressive state

Our leaders simply can't be trusted

Your razor sharp thinking has rusted.

Pick the facts you see as ripe

low hanging fruit feels so right

sweetness hides what's rotten

choking on things forgotten.

Why set up in a false dichotomy

put up a wall between you and me?

Rather, recall a place beyond all sides

as deep as an ocean, just as wide.

July Morning

The rider slices

open the thick air, feels a

gentle push of wind

only the birds and he know,

the world breathing and alive.

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.

Haiku

Riding last evening,

the wind subsided and the

peepers' chorus rose.