waking the mountain









waking the mountain


monostich by grant hackett














calling and calling to the beginning of listening :: dawn














does the light of today remember its birth














spring’s iris let’s everyone know :: my altar isn’t stone














what i was only moments before :: the rain lost its way to the sky














a silent drum :: a darkened lamp :: more sunlight than i can use














i’ll put it back in the earth, soft as dust :: a word too much














in the secret game in the secret room your face is circled














silence into water into blood into light :: to ask a simple question














can you sew me a pocket :: filled with answers and doves














holding a branch of rain :: how many will i be














don’t snow geese and immortality take their shadows from the sea














when i separate from my hands :: whose journey will be done














could the origin of leaves be autumn        and helpless falling














water lilies, lie still :: i overflow














will one leaf on the last tree be time enough














what is the sound of an island at night        in a sea it cannot name














a branch of sky breaks with a whisper














what is the name for shedding a leaf        and having no age














i grow old from living the final verse of the song














when i die, to whom shall i leave :: the one who lived here before














let us kneel down with the mountains :: repairing the wind














what i’ve made in life also dreams














night, i lie silent :: the rain to hear my heart














if you think you know :: come tell me which moth and which rose














through iceworks on maple buds        long walk to the sun














that star that fell up a crooked sky        into the bed where its heart would stop














isn’t the candle a sweet machine :: to fly across the crow-shaped night














how much earth must i lose to claim the moon’s white shoes














poems hanging among the weeds, some :: easy to read














a mind that goes adrift :: make one for me














i look from the monarch without her wing :: into the mystery of sky














who will hold the ocean as it dies














singing to be alone and not alone :: i sweep my aging path














the first sunrise will go on asking an older fire














trillium dies :: that is spring














walking into snow through an inner veil :: i disappear














my geometry is this :: all points are divisible














the moon counting its delicate birds














serenity within the seed :: tell me everything














aren’t the two halves of my life wind, rain :: and a needle going through














before there is knowledge we know :: how the hands and the trees will be broken














we undress together    down to our satchel of lost poems    refusing to be more than alive














does my heart grow old :: because the secret is not mine














a corpse knows nothing about its garden :: the way we live is not even dying














when i block my ears :: a multitude of tiny mortal drums














the land i bought is old and wise :: i farm my nothing on the moonlit side














why do elderberries continue to dream until each drop of blood returns














who among us will hear the child who died before she could sleep














all my life is memory coming closer to the shore














by being a small and simple boat :: i capsize upon a rose














late in our moon        and no one asleep in the barn














some try to hide from their mountain by pushing the sky away














will weeds grow above or within my grave














the girth of an oak in october        growing around my arms














some days i hear the old clouds whispering for a sail














a small poem is not a brief life














waking the mountain to strike a small bell














all night knowing and not knowing        the figure asleep on the shore














even a heart in the hands of its children will grow snowy white














empty chairs in the cornfield where childhood began














with my ear on the ground i am singing this :: what dies in a man when he lives














my life is that glimpse of the sky you have as it chases a small bird into breath














nobody asks me why rain is my shelter














why threaten a singing man with the stones of existence














is it your blue sky when i am young and gathering up the sun














is the sunflower another ignorance














there is a moon in your window where you open














isn’t this a chrysalis :: to be wrapped in green silence














go into the knife :: a cup of black clouds to drink














every true thing i tell you has a flaw in the moon














we meet clarity        when the poem turns dusk














shall i braid silence or chaos with the missing strand














i stare into the trap until the trap looks untouched














rain is not repetition














proof of october is a wind that blows us out to sea














how does one keep company        with a rose from the end of the world














random lines make sense :: make a nest














is forsythia the wrong destination














what makes one        when there are two words left














shadow is the shortest route        to unexpected light














each end of this fallen tree rests on sky














carrying a river tied to my waist :: i love other men who drift














the door to my throat opens :: the only thread shining














if i eat dark clouds :: whose path am i on














whatever my chaos :: i leave clear tracks by the sea














how can the joy of the mountain be smaller than air














a bellflower bent over the flying cloud














dear soul :: how can i tolerate your tracks in the snow














a dark hand reached through you        brought birth in














why the sky wanders has never been born








Acknowledgments


“the door to my throat,” “go into the knife,” “is forsythia,” “proof of october,” “i grow old,” “every true thing,” “if i’m crushed,” “holding a branch,” “if i eat,” “ a candle,” “walking into snow,” “nobody asks me,” “whatever my chaos,” “when i block,” “by being a small,” “will one leaf,” “aren’t the two halves,” “shall i braid,” and “is it your blue sky,” appeared first in Roadrunner Haiku Journal.

“spring’s first iris,” “a small poem,” “poems hang,” “is the sunflower,” “can you sew,” “trillium dies,” “we meet clarity,” “i stare into,” “dear soul,” “all my life,” “if i wander,” and “what makes us,” appeared first in Lilliput Review.

“and don’t snow geese” appeared first in tinywords.


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