Best Poems From
(04/23/52 - xxxx)
Hymn To Black Mouse
in praise of cold
beauty which cares
not whether one
suffers, cares not
that the mouse may
suffer, and the dove,
that the mouse,
its black fur,
very soft, it
shine as does the
ice shine in
sear (now I know
the flash sure was
that of a tail, is
neither light nor
shadow, nor is an
occasion for blindness
as is the snow
I Can't Close My Eyes, What Wings Also Are For
With this anniversary I accept my
avian better half, though the human
half be allergic to feathers, wedded
to an inhaler, plumage still embraced
in spite of the divided self.
The hard beak gently preens eyelashes
one by one each hair.
The odd eye-stare, the bobbing the
jerky head especially when walking
less so when hopping, do you even notice?
the head tips to one side then
It is all
sound that is out of
I sing to windows from forests,
to rooftops from street puddles.
I bathe in mirrors of sky.
Trite to say it, grand to do it.
Rumor has it that I once was a reptile.
And so too are you, disguised, two legs
thickly meated of the ubiquitous hairs
everywhere inflated eyes up front,
not much perspective or balance,
like a weak pine you fall more than I
and when I do it's on purpose (unless
it's for love) without complaint of the
air which never fails. Air, that is.
Just to be clear.
Just to be clear, I am at home wherever I
land scanning available horizons which are
also always home.
High, low. Vertical is the thing. And spin.
Speed goes without saying.
Greatly fond of drift, I am easy in the
I will not speak of dawn's greatness,
how you quickly forget.
You say that I repeat myself often,
am limited in expression to only a few notes,
clipped patterns in the song, the cryptic
call always an ellipsis. Boring, you say.
Interpretations, really, it's all in the
inflection after all the years now -
There's always the dancing too
in powder blue without shoes or
need of them,
claws nicely do the
deed is done the changeling comes
note that I am singing to you how
the way it's done.
I tell you the weather but do you listen?
For love, shall I say it again?
I shall say it again.
For love I leave calligraphy in guano
but you do not read it much less see that
are its messages all around.
And still I am with you trying
to wake you. I peck. I scratch.
I even dance again, a frenzy brightly
ruffled, boasting to impress:
I can lay an egg. You?
Words only. Brittle sticks
but none to land on, or perch,
standing on one leg,
head beneath a wing.
I am so tired.
I can't close my eyes, what wings also are for.
I have some more thoughts about your dreams of late
The storm has passed.
Was beautiful but beauty
was ruined by the fact
that many there are a river
away without warmth still
or who finally got it then
lost it instantly in the
new storm without name.
Still, the gingko trees on
my block are golding up,
lost few leaves to snow
weight and wind; snow softly
sits accenting a white feather
boa between limb crotches,
winking through powder and
gold glitter over pedestrians
below who feel a sudden heat,
a flush of love,
and don't know why.
Isn't love always above us?
I Once, Your Other Darkness
for two paintings, one by Caravaggio,
'The Conversion of St. Paul, '
the other by William Hawkins, 'Horse'
I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
of seasons of dryness in the bitter pitch midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe intimate, felt in that greater
scape - inner - making poems from orphan woe, from
furtive grace which eludes then storms, in bleakest
place sudden parses in the greener green,
newly, of things while pleading still,
'Lord, send my roots rain.'
In the shorter light, the extended
night, of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or pen but make offering for your own
work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
Caravaggio, (1571 – 1610) , Italian painter,
'in painting not equal to a painter, but to Nature itself'
- from his epitaph
William Hawkins, (1895-1990) , self-taught American artist
'His dynamic, artistic style was forged from his optimistic,
hard-charging, 'survivor' mindset.'