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.