Temple Bells

If you believe,

       then the temple bells will ring.

Hold the rock in your hand,

       in quiet, the crystal sings.

The soul is a prisoner

       yearning to be free.

Do not ask others, you forge the key.

The bells, the bird, they are there

       in the earth of your chest,

       in the temple of you, sacred, blessed.

Spires and crosses point to heaven,

       but find your path within.

       Any moment is ripe to begin.

Grief and anger still the bells--

       Lift them off, cut them off,

       free yourself from a personal hell.

Let your spirit like water flow,

       know by going where it is to go.

See what your self-faith brings.

If you believe,

       your temple bells will ring.

Remember Me

Remember me after

the robes are put away,

the candles are snuffed,

and the grave speakers

have had their say.

Remember me after

the repeated oath's

words echo and fade,

when the recessional

music has played.

Remember me when

this group is gone,

all on separate paths.

With your shoes worn down,

remember how I last.

Remember me when

you are bravely alone,

when good truly is sown,

to know and do what's right,

to keep me, your honor,

clear and bright.

Soar

Sometimes I'm the sadistic kid

with the magnifying glass--

     sometimes I'm the ant,

     confused by focused heat. 

Sometimes I'm the home-run ball

flying over the fence--

     then I'm the same ball,

     later, forgotten past distant

     cheers on the green field.

Sometimes I'm the ray of light

piercing deepest darkness,

     at others I am the void,

     inky and indistinct.

Sometimes I'm that voice

across the hall, strange and

detached from myself.

     Then I'm the silence after

     the 3 a.m. phone.

Sometimes I'm the spring song

of birds and peepers--

     and at others the crunch and crack

     of angry ice underfoot, wet enough

     to slip, sharp enough to cut.

Sometimes I'm the jury in my head,

robed, dark and stern—and

     then again the man on trial,

     shackled and humbled beneath

     the high bench.

Sometimes I dig deep, a

blind rodent running on

instinct--

     but then again,

     occasionally, I am

     something else, feeling

     warm air carry me in

     great spirals, a trust

     in the invisible.

Sometimes,

I soar.

Messages (7/17/12)

Lake water stroking

the shore, wind passing over

me like breath, sunlight

flashing on, off through my closed

eyelids, saying all is well.

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.

Adirondack Haiku and Tanka (7/15/12)

A day's talking is

done—now the rain's soft patter

outside is enough.

Inside, low light and

a soft chair; outside, peaks reach

into the dark night.

An unlocked door, a

room with a bed—sleep well, and

pay in the morning.

July, and wood stacked

by the hearth promises light,

heat for short, cold days.

Question after an

arduous climb: insight

or just a light head?

On the peak's leeward

side—moss and flowers cling to

scant dirt on hard rock.

Returning to camp

at night, my light finds five pairs

of yellow eyes that

watch from the pine's boughs: raccoons

beginning the second shift.

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.