Best Poems From
(04/23/52 - xxxx)
On Our Broken Boat The Harsh Light Will Not Break
'Others the same - others who look back on me because I lookd forward to them, What is it then between us? ...What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? ' - Walt Whitman
On our broken boat the harsh light will not break.
We see our day clearly as we can.
Tell the night, now it's here to stay, that
once I glanced the sleeping youth, legs against the wall,
felt a pall descend upon us here,
this boat lancing the bay waters darkly.
Some to books then, the priest to his sad, effeminate stare.
I can no longer envy those of the black cloth
so bend and tie the shoe.
We shod our feet against what long loss of motion,
eyes downcast or boldly returning the stare?
Beneath each eye there's some familiar look we refuse.
We map our way to sleep in the palms of shy or frightened hands.
On the Train, Haiku-esque
For the blind woman
on the train every
journey is inner.
She touches my shoulder,
one seat ahead,
feels her winter coat,
metal ring pinned
to its shoulder.
Smiles when she touches
it, dark rings of her eyes
light up momentarily.
What universes are in the heads all around me.
Our Mutual Confession Invisibly Drawn - Pentecostal Church Ruins
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal,
what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men and
as present as God, my own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in un-storied astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones are
only creases where once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
leaning into changes.
Perservering of Palms
for Karthik, once again,
'The light foot hears you
and the brightness begins...' - Pindar
that salt adheres to the palm
proclaiming only this
that purchase requires both
sweat and the one hidden pearl
of scraped touch
much there is in the hand
beneath the thigh the grit
burns smooth the groove
where you lay
your wonder - that purchase
of kisses, too, with salt,
crystalline, rimed - is hard
Timed little breath-hairs,
inscaped light, red, turned
the more out in layered traces
veins strain the
more for tongues' hard press
tapered fingers flame
that these lips may chaff/
chafe more the love
from the grain which
skin frames from
at last unremembered
tangled limbs arch,
on summit burn
where doffed shoes
obey Flame which
does not snuff nor cinder
do not go out
do not ash hot
nor the colder grow
though each is made distinct,
distinguished, though each
is extended, extinguished in
the other's contradiction
neither brother or lover