Blog break

I'm venturing away from my computer for two entire days, so there will be a brief hiccup in this third year of July poems. I will be writing, however. Expect more poems later this week. I have a feeling that stars will align and the muse will be afoot. Thank you for reading.

Hours Deep

It is now, the night

hours deep and the

air a conduit for

train and river sounds

that my body slows

with the day's efforts

in my limbs, my bones,

my breaths coming

deep and without thought

like someone else working

the bellows of my chest,

thoughts and head-chatter

gone slack like a sail

when the wind quiets

and the water stills.

Mountain Spring

Water moving up and out

back to the light again

carrying traces of where

it has been, holding the

taste of glacial rock heaves,

cool, dark earth—the part of

the mountain that only water

sees, as it flows, under pressure

not its own, upward, stronger

than gravity's reach, welcoming

tighter, smaller spaces that

only increase its speed, then

quietly opening to sunlight,

sliding smoothly over silver

rock, welcomed by weary

hikers on their own way

up or down—show me, water,

how you mold yourself,

change shape, fearlessly,

in this journey without source,

from light to darkness

and back again.

Closer

We are imperfect beings,

seeing pinhole visions of

the infinite and eternal--

more than a glance would

wipe us out. We don't get

to see it all, but we do get

windows opening and closing,

a curtain briefly pulled back,

a light flashing on, then off.

These are earned things, through

the movements of body and spirit,

empathy, love, hard work getting

us closer, but always still a

baroque of the ultimate,

apprentice visions, shadows of

a master, an outline of the

weightless dancer, a chorus of

angels carried lightly by breath

through a reed. The tune

is the same.

Star chasers, riding toward

mountains that seem static

but really do get closer.

Base Camp

In my head, sometimes I'm the

climber who stays at the base

camp, soporific and satisfied on the

thick air, deep breaths bringing

calm, but wonder and longing as well

as he looks up toward ledges iced with danger

and then the haughty, arrogant summit,

its silence a dare and a promise

of clear vision, of everything shrinking

beneath the one who dares, standing

strong in the wind and the sharp sun,

knowing that there's no more to be done,

this clear ending point, this last step--

the treacherous route that tells only

part of the story, nothing of the euphoric

missteps and saves and leaps over those

crevasses that lurk deep inside,

the peak in the chest, in the gut,

in the mind, that worry that gets

the last word--All of these thoughts in

the idleness of the base camper, longing

to sink his ax and crampons into the

sheer ice face, to know that if it

is to be, it is he who decides, who

takes those steps as far as

nature and fate allow.

High Peaks Blues

Gonna carry my rock up the mountain,

carry my rock up the mountain,

feel it every step of the way.

Feel my troubles weighing me down,

weighing me down,

for the last time today.

Gonna leave that rock at the

top of the mountain, top of the mountain,

up high with all the rest.

Gonna leave that rock at the

top of the mountain, top of the mountain,

up high and I'll feel blessed.

Leave my troubles when I drop that stone,

drop that stone, drop that stone,

haul it up and let it go.

Now a rock is a rock, and a man is a man--

A rock is a rock and a man is a man--

Simple words, and I know it for sure.

Leave my troubles when I drop that stone,

drop that stone, drop that stone,

won't feel that weight anymore.

When I come back down, gonna

be a new man, be a new man.

Look up at that high gray peak,

can't see my troubles,

from where I am,

from where I am.

Between Blue and Me

Hearts don't grow on trees

beg, and you won't receive

even prose has its thorns

wrinkled as the day you were born

walk the thick ice, slick and strong

know “goodbye” is not “so long”

Cry me an ocean:

all depth, no motion

a teardrop on the sea

just between blue and me.

Snapshot

Within the curling print's white

border his hands say “ta-dah!”

as if producing the little teapot

from thin air--this would-be magician

in his plaid shirt and horn rimmed glasses

under a hanging light in a humble kitchen

his thick hair rising like a dark wave

over his beach of a forehead above

sliver-moon brows

he's here in this ordinary

moment, a man and his tea as

his eyes meet the camera's one,

this time-stopping Cyclops whose

metal-and-glass gaze makes

anyone fall under its split-second

spell--and I guess, then, that it is

magic after all.

Ode to Coffee

My dark, bitter goddess,

pulse-quickener, mind-sharp

miracle bean, sunrise rouser--

it's you I serve—the master

becomes the slave to you,

equatorial, tropical queen,

and I worship every morning--

your siren song, my alarm,

dispelling the fog of my mind

like your misty mountain home,

calling me from sleep in tangled

sheets as the sun streams

and I prepare the chalice for

our ritual, a clumsy acolyte

fumbling through the temple

of a quiet, still kitchen.

Ode to Words

I praise hidden thoughts that loop again,

ideas amorphous and vague given shape,

spinning freely from a liberating pen,

that evolving step between man and ape--

how is it, these lines sinuous and ornate,

can amuse, anger, evoke love and hate?

Shooting like arrows as the mind reloads,

things that calm, caress, hit and explode--

a ticker in the mind, running all the time,

scalding, harsh, smooth, sometimes rhymed,

mercurial messengers under some command--

obedient, insolent, issued from mouth and hand

getting us closer to it—all the way? Not quite.

Dispelling some darkness to light the night.

Magnets

ever have a day like that

when you become magnetic

in the aisles in a store

attracting people and

their laden shopping carts

pulling pedestrians off

the sidewalk without

them even knowing right

in the path of your car

which you of course slow

for the little iron filings

willed by something beyond

themselves to behave this way

not like yesterday when you

pushed everything

away—got a

clear shot up the street

down the road

through the thicket of

an undulating crowd

with your little mysterious

force field working silently?

science says the earth's

magnetic field

(which keeps us safe)

changes poles over time

due to what's deep inside

so why not us too?