tiny poems by Grant Hackett
long limbs of light climb
where resurrection leads
white leaves appear on willow trees
new prints in the forest clay
cumulus building a new sky
whose shadow will be 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
water pulls my secret
deep into its pockets
loves the drowning i do not love
i will know it
outside the dream
when it comes
behind the calm
because it breathes
one can heal
and another is healed by being wounded
the way death stands some people up on their feet
an old postcard from the rain kneels
in my hand—
this longing for home when there is no shore in sight
sunset
because i can die i am living
everyone i love but do not know opening in the wind
a monotonous ferry ride
becomes soil beneath the feet of god
where the eyes of the dead open and open
whose gospel has left my heart unread
whose sun
shall leave my eyes
corn and clover
where am i going
the secret never arrives
removed a crushed body from the asphalt lane
killing heat forecast
we teach death our ways
are you one to dissolve
in the salt of a soul
seeking moist and timid sin
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
more shadows in my eye than a universe of eyes—old sky as barefoot as birds
can you sew me a pocket :: filled with answers and doves
always thought water would listen to anyone
mouth of sighs
breath of hearts
stepped into life's water
stone without skin
felt for the first time cold winds
shall my flame weep in the reign of ash
shall i claim the living pine where mountains die
whose voice has raised a shadowed word
against seas of shattered light
glimpsed outside
on a weathered sign—
blood that flows
between two hearts
will never answer to time
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
inside the dying of my apple tree
the rose is old
the dreams are green
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
but follows no road where it goes
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
a crystal drop tips each twig
chickadee calls drift away
i enter a willow at dusk in the rain
does water remember the child in its arms bleeding his beautiful pearls of breath
i set out candles at daybreak to keep some darkness near
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