A few I've been working on

Even the Single Stalk

A single stalk of grass,
                        caught a moment
            in the moonlight.

The last drop wrung
            from a hand-towel, resides
                        an instant and evaporates
off the kitchen floor.

            Far from here, two men
walk silently alone
            within the shadow
                        of a mountain.

Last night I fit first
                        my knee and then my upper thigh
            into a narrow crack
                                     in the bark at the base
                        of a redwood.


Oh indeed!
            what a beautiful thing it is

                                                            to be small.



Walking

The footpath before me is thin, time
worn, edged on both sides
by deep grasses.
It diminishes here
and there, disappears
in open fields
and reappears again
as the forest
begins
before me.

I have followed
consistently for days.

Where has it led me?
down low canyons?
through collapsing pine groves?
across prairie wastes?
up the solitary mountain ways?

How can it be
so many topographies live
within such short distances?

Years before, this path was set
by calloused hands
who sought the way
through trees, removing
them when necessary.

They blunted axes, broke saw teeth, watched tenderly
the skin on their hands
recede to a shredded foundation;
rebuilding again each night.

But they have gone,

and I would like to say
                                           the blissful air remembers their wake, the shuffling canopies, the
                               still small voice of grasses wavering;
                               still,
the only things alive now
upon this plain are my two small feet.
They have heard
that slow enchanted metronome
which overcomes
any wanderer
and spirits him away,
each pace becoming
too many
to count.

Here
I have come,
so far,
to this place:
the peak of
the smaller mountain.
Before
me stands
the vast array
of monstrous peaks
dwarfing me,
this peak, my whole
life. They grow
gold bullion in the sun,
plunged behind, a moment more
and I cannot see anything
but golden light. I am now the speck
you see slowly drowned out
whenever you stare
into the setting sun.
A moment
of peace
like this
is all
I ask.


So I have walked
through untamed landscapes
broken by wild men

So I have walked

to the edge
of my own mind.



Ode to Snow.

In Minnesota, we love to complain
about the cold and snow and the cackle
of the winter crow with its dark disdain,
reminding us of nights, shallow, ample

as accumulated blood, discolored
skin or waking to the cold, shivering
world within.
                              In Minnesota, smothered
in snow, we remain frozen, wavering

each morning at the door, we leave to chip
the ice from cars until our fingers go.
We watch clouds and clouds, brimming to the lip,
the cup they carry as they come; fresh snow.

Me, I still find love for winter. Somehow in pain,
the cold, my love, all mingle in a dark disdain.



I Have Mountains

I have mountains
inside me like lightning
climbs inside a thunderhead
I carry them with me
into the city, nightly
fronts build
against the range,
memory fills the cloud-
less sky
with streaks and lonely
holes in the void and that anvil
on which Zeus displayed his hammer
holds back rain.

Once, when I neared the summit,
I saw the world darkened in shadow
then consumed in white.
Motionless, blind,
cut into mountain furrows
carved out by glaciers, I listened
to words no one would ever say,
heard my name, spoken
by the earth itself.
The ancients only knew
gods this intimate
and if they too had names,
they are now this mountain
pinioned in a cloud.

Don't know who cares...

but a year later and I write again.

I found this old thing and will try to post some new shit here.

also, please visit:

happywasteful.tumblr.com

and see some more poems (not mine).

Lamentations in the quiet

In the quiet

like fathers

who leave home 

and forget their daughters' ages

and birthdays, how

can they remember?

in bars

with tears

inebriated, they swear to fix it all

but really, how

can they bear the guilt?

I too

forgot your are, or at least how long

I knew you

I looked for sage advice

on the matter

but there is none 

to be found For a while

I tried

tired to be myself

being a little more passionate...

What will befall us when

we have proved we can end

         up parked drunk 

         beneath an overpass, at last the hail falling harder than

         we want to get home

         and larger than any father's

unanswered question?

where is your presence in this world in the quiet

because when I forget, you disappear

maybe you do

early morning lamenting the dawn

listen, dears,

who dream life out

a new morning

for each

of your anxieties

warm sheets a carved pillow--

cuddled, comfort

generally leers

at us

from the other side of

the bed we were never comfortable in

sleeping on shards

of the sun-

bleached apocalypse tomorrow

morning

          an echo of each former day

          sleeps with us:

we too have seen affliction

we grew accustomed to the darkness

our eyes have not adjusted to the light

#4 There and Back, Again

Lately, I have been on the move. 

Every morning waking to a stiff neck and crumpling back. 

Every morning waking to an old man in a grey

and tattered hat.

                              My mind is an intricacy of winding

roads and I'm coming to realize that even the trees

can be articulate. I hope they can explain my departure.

I hope they can explain it to me.

I grope about in dark tunnels,

alone,

some great power, my burden

brings nothing but my own doom. I want

my bed. My feather bed and a world observed

through closed and half-open eyes.

My eyes have been wrenched to see a world darker

than I imagined, yet some say

I cannot chose my time. 

One day, kings will kneel to me, yet I will never feel at home.

The earth will open up before me like a morning glory

and I will walk aimless among crabgrass

and barren places. I will sit in the comfort of my home and ache,

knowing that at the very end of my journey, I did not bleed

or say a prayer, but looked into darkness, feeling

less fear than I ever felt, I closed my eyes.

When Spider-man Opens His Eyes (revised)

Sometimes, when I fear to be alone,

I entertain the night, the only thing

I can't get out of my mind.

It is Blanchard Lawn.

I have left the city behind,

that contracted darkness.

I wake in the morning. I roll over

and gaze into the sunny eyes

of my magazine-cover girlfriend.

I don't feel much of a hero anymore,

more like a normal man.

I will kiss her on the cheek,

the step out the window.

Buildings in this urban landscape

string out before me 

like the beads of a rosary;

my nightly wanderings

become my most earnest prayers.

I escaped my room again

last night, drifted in a maze

of suburban town homes, the dust

of a million commuters, pilgrims

on the same dismal paths,

to which I have seen no end.

I find freedom in the fight

and the desperate pain

of a forty-foot

fall. Sometimes suffering

gives me gratitude

for life in all its forms-

sometimes I wake in a sweat;

I hear voices over me.

Escape. It is still Illinois

and I don't know what to do.

Those nights, I watch T.V.

to keep myself from sleeping.

#3 When Spider-man opens his eyes

When I wake in the morning, I roll over

and gaze into the sunny eyes

of my magazine-cover girlfriend.

I don't feel much of a hero any more,

more like a normal man.

Sure, I face my daily dilemma, the undisputed 

morality of a vigilant observer,

engaging a life of great responsibility,

envying everyone else.

I will kiss her on the cheek 

and step to the window.

The urban landscape is

strung out before me like

the beads of a rosary

and my nightly wanderings

are the most earnest prayers.

I find freedom in the fight, 

I awaken my mind

to the nearest criminal 

activity and the desperate pain

of a forty-foot

fall. These things

give me gratitude

for life in all its forms-

my girl's eyes,

her morning breath

and the way she holds

my bruised body

when I tremble

and the pain

is too much.