rain lashed, the lake leads nowhere. direction is the disease

of roads. standing falling naked without speaking. to hear

the whisper. there was in my baptism a stone that i bathed.

 

wild cosmos. silent piano. the self of the space

between us. voice reduced to ash. to mouth.

taste. time feels chilled washing over skin.

 

silence in a poem grows with not one

mystery less than needed. guardian of what

least understands. heart open to all. and to none.

 

moon shining through the corner of an open mouth. a ferris

wheel burning in the garden of night. grandmother looks older

than when she died. the child's eye relives. remembers.

 

leans into the wind examining life for wings.

at the center of being whispers swarm. hands

which cannot stop the little good gone wrong.

 

from a chair in the backyard. a mountain i've never

seen hides the orb that never changes. what happened

to my people who feared the ocean's edge.

 

stars pound on the roof but no one hears.

a lost soul settles to the benthic floor. polished

darkness. weight of silence. have mercy.

 

an oracle's river flows from the sea. water

no one sees. yet i feel a body beneath my feet.

like walking on a snake. cold as the flesh of shadow.

 

bridges crow. morning creeps from 

under. greets that which has been forgotten.

dust yawns with lyric force. peace dozes above the swelling.

 

home. we are one body since you died. lost melodies

bind us. ancient snowfalls hunt the sky. life's 

fragments gather as windows. white hairs. sleeping child.

 

they get there when. dawn is in the bed

of being someone else. borrow me my life she

had said. small boy. paper walls. strong wind.

 

sunset. everything to be done will

be done over. crises caressed. fear

of the straight path.

***

autumn. burn windows and die with

the rose. time of drowning. last

life long chance.

 

butterflies are mating. tortures go on. metamorphosis

at the crossroads has killed peace. streets walk with their heads

held low. the floor of the ocean is no longer a dream.

 

fixed direction is the disease of roads. but whispers

swarm at the center of being. from artists with winged

hands there is much to learn. of wholeness and wild honey.

 

there is a small boat waiting. in the middle

of the page. where a poem begins. and goes

no further. serenity. a map of the heart completed.

 

beneath the old house dim forests grow. black walnut

dreams drop weary shadows. windows flutter and break

against dawn. cold mist frees itself from river.

 

as his lover comes home he thinks about which story.

at the center of a drop of rain is there stillness. is there voice.

the answer is a wound. but so unimportant. and yet he trembles.

 

rain falling through old soles. the empty sees into the

empty. and we've come home again. the shallow of night pulls

off our clothes. under the rusted tongues of bridges.

 

these hands are like brothers. one weaker than the other.

one loved more. one wields the knife. the other cleans

a small church. we have great admiration for their faith.

 

a tree of singular stature towers above

an unpitying field. where a boy begins to know. 

love wears the mask worn by the one who shapes silence.

 

a divided window dissects the sky. cemetery

plots. canceled mind. nothing falls to earth without

emitting light. dark voice. bruised eyes.

 

 

one by one by one by one. men pass buckets.

the hand counts its fingers. the ocean inventories sand.

nights leave without a dream. suns reappear.

 

a fist of clouds burst the heart. everything

in wind became theft. everywhere was music but silent.

creation of the one who was never found. and now there is autumn.

 

kneels to drink. drink your face from the wind.

those waters where absence is kept. deserves the dust

and ashes of your bed. whose night is full of holes.

 

used by pain for joy. by stone and salt for

polish. preferred food of fire. without taking a

backward step. or losing the power to leave one undone.

 

what swims ashore. and what is driven aground.

innocence. balance. the morning star. rainbows

above the wearied dead should not end in gold. tears.

 

some learn to fear the garden. where the rose

was a false flower. messengers enter and leave without

a trace. and the orchid knows in its heart it will be injured.

 

seedling of an exhausted species, whose language can i speak.

word is wind. and sky, windless.

leaves give tongue until their skin burns green.

 

on the first day of life. rain stands alone in the field. and

there is no place that is not someone else. on the first day

of death. the moon begins counting its delicate birds.

 

the first dawn is too small to wake

the soul. but an island emerges. eyes

reopen. limits expand to the shape of our hands.

 

water pulls my secret deep into

its pockets. loves the drowning i do not

love. where the words that won't let me write survive.

 

every moon in old clothes finds its way

to my room. every scar learning the way of shadow.

we stand together. arrayed like sunflowers. facing the void.

 

the horse comes back alone. but there is 

no alone. no empty bed. no love that is not 

pain. no time to perfect one's art. no horse.

 

small lake. long journey of sky.

sky that sang at the birth of time...

of a blue eye. of a dark day.

 

when i find you you no longer

have age. one who is yet to come.

hole in the sky with mists and cliffs. pathless.

 

dawn. the blouse of the sky

spreads open. your ear soft

against the mouth of my blood.

 

space in the attic was the source of hush.

then heat, then hands. ages of dust fell from those hands.

dew upon a faultless mountain.

 

sunlight is a room where nothing

is forgotten. a gate left open.

poems one would be glad to have written.

 

like a red corpuscular heart. like the swim

in a midnight harbor. with the strength of curved lines.

spirals. i saw the rings of saturn.

 

who is ironweed. is the holy

motive of wildflower. green begins to rain

inside chrysalis. and within rain's iron interiority. a torch.

 

may your voice be the cord that

lowers my heart. through foam and stone.

into the flow of the ancient green.

 

the blue hills open a window.

i greet the poem with calloused hands.

silence ticking in the walls.

 

our few possessions are weighed leaving the bus.

some clothes, a few toiletries. all we will have.

whether dying forward. whether living back.

 

we stand at the edge of drowning.

the water is small. familiar and unknowingly

deep. silent fish slip through the night around us.

 

the path opens between the eyes of a deer.

a child discovers his indefinite sky.

my hands stroke a wind that has lived out its life.

 

nothing raked the wind. no cry

split the trees. until

what was born fell silent.

 

rusts and weaknesses pool in low

lonely places. where i thought water would listen.

to the mouth of every sigh.

 

not to know stones are alive, i

could not converse with silence.

my shadow would rest.

 

death will remove its shoes. and

the heart begin its return migration

alone. walking on water. breathing stone.

 

the small poem :: knife of brief life

 

another world's end.

dimensions of the box:

silence by silence by silence.

 

lift up the sheet where

sleep spills its blood.

ferns drip in the shade.

 

huge blue wings rise, fly. flow away.

listen and hear nothing.

lake unhurried. clouds fully awake.

 

such turmoil in dreams! so many

souls unliving! psyche's cauldron brewing

ashes, a beginning....

 

we begin our heart        with one wing

 

a hand reaches down, delivers

a postcard from heaven—

carrara marble, stigmata, 1964 world's fair.

 

poets with poets wafting from their mouths—

what's really going on...

my warped flame dances with the dark one's heart.

 

inside the dying of the apple tree

forests shed old rain.

the house of souls stands like haze.

 

sunlight grows lovingly across the ceiling

for the eyes of the infant lying on his back.

the stone i have struggled with finds its place at last.

 

lie down in fire. side with

the defeated. twist the 

sublime and ubiquitous spiral.

 

a deep hole opens in my shadow—

a black umbrella turned to ash.

the breath of one risen from the dead climbs out.

 

first we open newly fashioned eyes.

then we climb with limbs of light

the tree, the branch, the fallen flower.

 

late day. four panes

of rippled glass. sun and self exhausted

by the weight of the task.

 

doorway of the morning i love :: that you bring me back in

 

sweet work, to :: think in songs

 

she is older than when she died.

grandmother is.

i worry she may fall going down the stairs.

 

the child you were whispers something unheard...

i've sown the seed of a galaxy!

sunflowers are stepping into snow!

 

what to do with the box in the basement.

childhood searches for an answer.

moonlight sings on the skin of a breeze.

 

in some lives, windows sleep.

they hide death in yesterday's breeze,

bury silence in a forest of wounded trees.

 

i don't want new songs with old knees.

learn. listen.

            where burns the fog one must become.

 

peak of summer, firewood mosaic

stacked piece by piece.

the only shelter near, snow white clouds.

 

one can heal

and another is healed by being wounded.

death stands some souls up on their feet.

 

when i was different

hummingbirds stood in mid-air, stared in.

we are living it again.

 

horses lie down beside me, one nuzzles my back.

dream life. july.

strawberries feed from my hands.

 

from whether.com

grievous heat is the asphalt forecast

skies are to remain emaciated by self doubt

while the outlook for death, terminally obese, is congestive failure of heart

 

by what thread will i spin when the sun unravels

will the last of my bodies fly away with the geese

knowing your purpose is the fall of rain

                                                                        how gently can you live

 

another ocean

but the same helpless island.

choice vanishes into a willow at dusk. rain rolls in.

 

a monotonous ferry ride

to stand alone in the wind

waiting for the beginning.

 

bullets of rain.

children will try to fill the holes in their sky.

basement world, weeping walls.

 

whose gospel has left my heart unread.

whose sun

shall speak my eyes.

 

before wisdom comes

we know

hands and trees shall be broken

 

millions of light years

of one bottomless dream

watches over my sleep

 

new prints in the forest clay.

cumulus builds a sky.

whose shadow goes slipping away.

 

the audience calls out a name

the name dies instantly, cries to god

is made flesh, bleeds, dies

joins the audience, calls out a name

i will know it

    outside the dream

when it comes

    behind the calm

because it breathes

 

sunset.

because i can die i am living.

everyone i love but do not know opening in the wind.

 

corn and clover.

where am i going...

the secret never arrives.

 

untied from its willows

the river dies.

stars graze on time in the desert sky.

 

gathered the freedom

to be an anchor

wandering among the waves.

 

restoring the egg to its skimpy nest :: gently closing its eye

 

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

 

stepped into life's water

stone without skin

felt for the first time cold winds

 

peace to the death

which becomes a rose

peace to the heart

which greens you

 

our music preserves the echo :: of stones washing the sea

 

the sky you awakened in the eyes of the rain :: holds the moon the night and the reason to remain

 

let wild seed wake before the rains grow old :: before the moon is shut out of your heart

 

washing my poetry i sweeten the sea :: until the green of your island is saved

 

moon sheds moon

opens an infinite eye

the risk of being reborn throbs through the sky

 

to be water that has not found a well

            to die young

                        fallen from a cloud

 

if there is a gate it will be left open

if there is a border may the dead guide you over

the road follows where you go

 

birth was a drama that one member of the cast does not remember

 

soul

not substance but naked 

            —voice in a mirror with tiny cracks —

where the other face of night is looking

             —kissed by what the poet sees —

resisting all that falls from god

             —nothing else can be so still

 

just enough darkness to forest the world :: then light dawns in one leaf

 

last drops of rain in hands of a breeze    stirring what others need

 

in the throb beneath a drop of blood :: i feel my wounds at war

 

in the oar i've abandoned i long for the sea

 

when its suffering's washed away :: what remains of clay

 

let's awake in the garden others can't see

            naked as the moon turning dust to dream

 

does water remember the child in its arms bleeding his beautiful pearls of breath

 

there is sky in my arrow :: there is no path to my sky

 

can you remember the touch of your hand as it gave you the power to heal

 

is memory the only place the dead are given light to see

 

shooting star with the strangest ending :: eyes of the living

 

hands unravel

wheelbarrow topples

soul rejoices in flame

 

shapes created by the gods of pine—

             ships on a cliff

             a cross without arms

 

on which side of my skin is sky

 

i dream of hundreds of broken windows

and of she who reveals

the stone in my heart

 

will there be a brief moment, infinite,

            to take this in—

i have gone the great distance bound in one skin

 

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

 

how the cave where we could see really see there are openings

became the star

i hold inside

 

how strange that nowhere should be nearby :: like the wound in my sip of wine

 

my sun is not substance but naked :: to the infinite shadows of light

 

dead wood beautiful failures

forgotten rains

the light that leads my way

 

there are days windows sleep

            there are days when death hides in yesterday's breeze

why is silence peaceful in a forest of wounded trees

 

dream looked around inside the child

            found room    burned

                        a Ferris wheel down

 

rain alone there has never been :: rain on morning skin

 

will all that is stone return to flesh

isn't deep where old snows fall

whose hand understands the genius of its palm

 

a circle of stones

where the circle doesn't close

death comes and goes

 

bound together

            grains of sand begin to breathe

we shall hear the oceans drowning

 

strange to be immortal

            stars tasting my mouth

i shall grow a yellow house

 

first day of life

the moon counting

its delicate birds

 

streets walking with their heads held low :: i climb a distant radio

 

what did blue see from its window before it became an eye

 

a voice for things which don't exist :: i am egyptian in silence

 

are the passages missing from my shadow

written

on a fallen leaf

 

found asleep beside the weariness of spring

your mother when she was young

yet changed

 

a man breaks down

who was it you ask, what

was the weight of the stone

 

keeper of the solitary soul

permit me space

among the flocks of this earth

 

on a day without sound

adrift on a lake

my grave is unhurried

 

my hands cry out all night in their sleep

dawn rises

a hole in its palm

 

lord, why do i grow cold trying to keep you alive

am i a petal waiting

for the sun’s eye to open

 

or the sky who’s chased

a small bird into breath

 

when did i learn that blue

is the planet of our death

 

can i say i love you

when there's no shore in sight

when mystery only mystery

may be all that survives

 

they feed the dead a cold sun :: we in the black beret

 

when you grow up i will have been so many years risen from the dead

 

why has the statue missing one hand :: chosen this morning to speak

 

when the moon is ripe :: why doesn't it fall from its tree

 

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

 

i showed her where i fell home :: she showed me the scar she left on the sky

 

every first sunrise preserves my belief :: a deeper, older fire

 

for love of the ocean floor :: eyes turn to the open sea

 

if i am not certain

of the love of the earth

is it safe to take my life from your hands

 

the compass turns to a lone, dry wasp

in the silence of the alarms

all voices burn

 

what is thirst will find its way

when no one is looking

modest beatings

 

beneath a sky that may or may not answer

i bring out my heart

i begin to read

 

beneath my hands the axe splits open

on which side of death

is rest

 

because there was this inside them

the tea cup cracked

the face ceased

 

when they are the last

and left behind

what will the living waters speak

 

winter

            in a stranger's tongue

no doubt the house

has honest blood

 

life leaves its artist’s mark

small, red—

then weeps that i live, bled

upon the death of the mortal vine :: shall my veins grow new wine

(reposted/revised from January 2021)

 

 

umbrella, old, unclaimed :: endured the attic of my rain

 

in the perfect darkness of what is to become :: who cradles the mother of dawn

 

escape is the timeless lie :: my path never strays from its crow

 

With a piece of chalk, I drew on the blackboard the moon's golden eyebrow.

                                                                                                                    Yannis Ritsos

 

playing in the clouds :: my soul smells of earth

 

the shipwrecked surely shall learn to sing those songs that built the sea

 

With a bird for a pillow, I lie awake every night.    

                                                                                                Yannis Ritsos

 

wind, carry us into my house :: the moon won't open for hours

 

fisherman gather me in :: fall back to your place in the sea

 

winter sharpened

            mortal sky

blood-tipped locust

            thorn, at

the point of joy

 

i hear sighs and silence

            dormant forest

 

dark in the east, my city

                                    laid to rest

 

stone saint

            an engine

     idles

            the sky

        longs to be known

(or)

stone saint, an engine idles :: sky longs to be known

 

there’s never enough earth

            to drink our tears

                                                                        love

 

it takes years

 

white bone

            on the beach

                        where i wanted to walk alone

 

life death

put flame

in an iron box

who feeds

that flame

can never stop

 

music of the lake when it is ice

            rapturous crackings

before and after

 

            the first and last of life

 

some forget to breathe and dream :: ways of seeing fall like leaves

 

journey begins :: 

                               bell to wind

 

storm clouds but no storm

three journeys

in last night's dreams

 

rain brings back

the mist, the bridge

the desire to remain in my body

 

the wound is littler

the moon is warmer

since you share salt with me

 

heart

 

white blossom

in continuous rain

eternal dying flame

 

when sparrow knelt inside your heart :: how many were the shadows

 

artist's mark

small and red

i bled

 

whose face on the card you feared to turn over

whose hands are named calm and grief

for whom does the appetite of an empty bowl 

fill the soul with belief

 

wings

to carry this mountain

away from my grave

 

a presence affirmed

but whose—

the empty church follows me home

 

music stands still :: black icicle

 

old man sleeps not knowing his ocean has been swept away

 

it's fall and drunk :: i lean on the praise of a shadow

 

drowning by river

leaping from bridge

shall i visit the same dead

 

yellow moon

3am

hollowness growing, heart of our tree

 

in which of my many lives did i have the strength to die

 

snow falling climb it

 

encased in ice one might glimmer

 

seeds hidden 

in my snow boots

                    —a friend

 

the window of the sky shatters

            with a whisper

                        the boy will never forget

this be symmetry—

arthritic man

ice-bent tree

 

where rocks break

stream's flow

a station of my soul

 

ice:

rooted fire

 

pearls once

were water

 

home of shadow,

bone

 

don't all suns hold inside :: a dawn that was never alive

 

blue lake sleeps

dreams of falling

when i wake up    the desert is real

 

            pace

of   the   moon

            pulse

of eternity      soft

            wrist of the sky

on which    side of death

            is rest

 

to hear again one's given voice

the great oak of infinite possibilities

breathes

 

wisdom when a yellowing leaf

fear of the apple set free

stones thrown or left in sleep

the tongue to my words unperceived

 

hear an owl kill

in the clear mind of night

sleep and silence return

two dancers in moonlight

 

whose gospel have i been carrying in my unread heart

shall the ending be bound

to infinite light

 

read me as a poem in blood

swollen with new light

silence with little to say

 

fences failing

posts gone rotten

pasture teeming with moons

 

unburdened of rose :: thorns bleed

 

howling with kindness :: i awakened the tea

 

every night of our vow i shall love you for rain

love's silence :: we undress in the air

who else set fire to the sun today

 

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

 

what if my father dies

on the day of my child's death

or before i'm conceived

what if he dies

with his back turned to me

 

black truck arrives

as a silence

from a whisper

a story

night

death

its driver

death

its wings

silence

whisper

story

truck

night

 

wind unweaves

soul shapes speech

a new moon's seed

wherever i sleep

awake alone unguarded

 

snow immeasurable

forest kneels

man searches for his heart

 

i wake

finished

it was a long and lovely read

 

as i behold a bell breaking into light    what shall the sleeper hear

 

there is always a voice drinking and dying

            there is always a noisy fountain dying of thirst

there is the naked silence

            of the friend who loves you

a woman releases the raven's feather

            that whispers her name

this Ohio grows old within me

            my body no longer dreams it is a river

 

found a coin

in night's loam

smaller than silver

larger than gold

like you

i am lost

to you

i owe my life

 

in my country there is no longer a straight path

foundations of home study the way of the waters

i share a blanket with the man who has no legs

 

sightless flesh

gathering strength to see

haunted by the moon

am i

 

dawn

the sacred eye closing

dreams journey back to the country of the dead

birds changing place with stars

 

coals burn in cold black sky

cold sky burns within woodstove coals

January

wind

god 

giving birth

to the birth of god

 

reaching the high meadow

clouds making empty music

an eagle 

emerges

 

new snow in winter darkness

death dream comes from nowhere

                    i am a white stone who can climb the sky

 

i remove tarp from woodpile

snow scuds

blue smoke from chimney lofting

into bluer panes of catholic sky