Followers

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Blue Train


Blue Train
To John Coltrane

I heard your blue train traveling by, coolly
As fresh waters of a brook...a cloudless aquamarine sky...
Rhythmic, not marching but a shuffle or a two-step,
Syncopated...bass, undulating river;
Cymbals, soft rain, silver pom-poms shaking;
Saxophone, lead, a composer ad hoc
Declaring a theme one way then another;
Counterpoint, trumpet, sharp, blending;
Piano, lively, solo, answering, dueling with the brass;
Saxophone, brightly, opening doors, closing them,
Mixing it up...wheels slowing, whistle blowing;
Dodging, weaving, a boxer, in and out...drums.

Originally published in Cacti Fur (October 19, 2016)


Blue train, South Africa

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Three Day of the Dead Poems


You walk along shoulders…

You walk along shoulders of bamboo groves,
Starlight treads in your footsteps.

You go forward with shifting seasons,
Summer ghosts are left behind.

You rise as the wind of briefest memory
Pushing shutters gently open.

You arrive, fresh rain at the door ajar,
Softly rustling dry silk.

Your spirit rests in tranquility at table,
Folding itself into a napkin.

You dwell in silence in the deepest part,
Inside there is only silence.

You sleep illumined by the guardian moon,
Windless, the stilling doom.


ALL SOULS’

The day of the dead is short respite for the living.
The tumult of life is stilled by the remembrance of the dead.
The living remembers the dead as the silence of the grass.
The grass is the dead ever present among the living.

The dead have not forgotten that life is breath and water.
They hover in the air, waiting for rain.
Water is the prayers of the living for the thirsty.
The living sometimes forgets, the dead ever remember.


THE COLOR OF DEATH

What is the color of death?
In the West many say black,
Some in the East say white.
Devout Muslims enshroud the dead
In white cotton or linen,
Depositing bodies in graves,
Heads pointed toward Mecca.
Protective white paper encloses
Household shrines in Japan,
Sealing against malignant spirits.
Blue is the sadness of death,
Color of mourning in Korea.
Thai widows mourn in purple,
Same color chosen by Roman Catholics
During Lent to drape in reverence the cross,
Instrument and symbol of the universal death
Of the Son of God.

Those whose livelihood is the dead—
Morticians, coroners, embalmers—might say
Death is gray, cadaver pallor.
Hacking, slicing, packing
Dead animals,
Slaughterhouse workers might say
Death is red, fresh meat.
Buddhists who cremate the dead might say
Death is yellow and orange, purifying flames.
Distant heirs of the ancient Egyptians, or of
South Americans of old—Mayans, Aztecs, Incans—might say
Death is gold, everlasting raiment of the sun.

I say death is multicolored—
Sundry motley opening leaves of a fan,
Forward tumbling acrobats in rainbow costumes,
Multihued children’s picture books,
Mobile animal figure whirligigs,
Variegated wallpaper prints,
Van Gogh sunflowers,
Brazilian toucans,
Australian parakeets,
Octopuses, neon-like, bursting with emotion,
Pendant festival lanterns,
Brass bands marching holiday parades,
Fighting kites flashing ribbon tails,
Tibetan prayer flags streaming.


Day of the Dead skull

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Ocular Migraine


OCULAR MIGRAINE

I heard a headache
Hammering away.
Heavy blows broke off
Block fragments.
Tiny chips scattered,
Peas bouncing away.
Blast set off so loud
I was deafened
By noonday light
Flashing front, center,
Right, left.
Beans rebounded
Inside my skull.
Ball bearings spiraled
Round and round
Inside walls
Of a bowl,
Spinning coin
Settling
Down, rattling.
Now I am
Partially
Blind in
One
Eye.

Originally published in The Penmen Review (May 6, 2016)


I heard a headache hammering away...

Thursday, October 6, 2016

I seek the silence....


I seek the silence…

I seek the silence of a secluded lake,
Of a moment in time
When the past is suspended,
Of a mountain valley,
Mists sweeping by,
Where travelers rest and look,
Do nothing more,
Of a sanctuary
Bounded by orotund hills—a body asleep,
Caressed by moist winds,
A world in repose breathing deeply,
A place where solitude refreshes,
The likeness of eons uncountable ago:
The seventh day.

Originally published in Thought Notebook: Anatomy of Illumination (Issue 5), page 71


Asleep on My Shoulder (2007) by Nicola Beattie

Batanes


BATANES

I am a traveler
In my heart
To a place of sky and sea—
A sky so pure,
Deepest blue,
Sea, same color
As the sky—

Not so distant
As the farthest reaches
Of the earth or so
Inaccessible, yet
Sufficiently remote
So that solitude
Is a lone bird
Hovering

And silence
Is the expanse
Between two gray islands
Barely visible
As you stand
Atop a cliff
Dropping steeply
Down to shore.

Breakers whisper
As I breathe in sweet air.
Inhaling to my fill,
I lose all appetite
And dine on the wind.
No longer corporeal,
I am a subsistent soul.
 

Mount Iraya, Batanes, Philippines

Two Solitude Poems


SOLITUDE

If a jar of wine is left in place a long time, the wine in it becomes clear, settled, and fragrant. …So you, too, should stay in the same place and you will find how greatly this benefits you.—Evagrius Ponticus, Philokalia

Solitude has come to roost on the window sill.
Flapping his wings, he alights,
Tilts his head slightly, left, right,
Looking inward, studying the past,
Investigating experience,
Peering at conscience,
Surveying the world.

Peripatetic, he asks the eternal questions.
Thoughts stream in as shafts of light between
Trees standing among truths freckled by shadows.
Answers, always partial
Always come,
Sparkling in a box of stars
Or glowing like the moon.

He attains a brook, freshly, soundlessly flowing
Uphill, roundly wholesome, utterly speckless,
Nestled atop high inaccessible
Mountain reaches. Glassfuls of water
Bring not forgetting but understanding,
Memories revolving slowly,
Uncanny clarity of a magical goblet,
Bestowing peace, oil poured into wounds.

Solitude is a healer…

Solitude is a healer of memories.
Gently, he rubs liniment on bruises inflicted
By verbal assaults, sharp words.
Cooling menthol soothes and spreads.


Bestowing peace, oil poured into wounds.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

Three Coffee Poems


COFFEE

Coffee is a brown man
Made from soil,
Pressed into shape,
Fired shiny,
Waxen as a lizard,
Hat white like dried-out shells,
Pulling at reins of a rearing horse,
Hooves sharp as pickaxes
Kicking up bright clouds of lime.

Dark and fragrant visitor,
He makes his diffident presence felt:
Memories of fresh bread,
Woody nuts,
Heady camphor.
They lighten
Slumbering burdens,
Heavy luggage hauled about
By traveling sleepwalkers.

Swinging open the cabinet,
He hands out syrups to sweeten
Unfulfilled dreams,
Hot poultices to soothe
Unforgotten nightmares,
Tonics for the family,
Ointments for friends,
Infusions for the jaded,
Bandages for the heart.

Sweet fragrant coffee…

Sweet fragrant coffee, you fill me with delight,
You sharpen my hearing, focus my sight,
Waken taste and smell with rich, deep notes…
You waft restful draughts, quell restive seas,
Water vineyards and groves, hoe fruit-bearing trees,
Build sturdy safe homes, tidy cities on the plain,
Turn denizens to work for prosperous gain,
Hoist snappy white sails, launch fresh-painted boats…
You uplift my heart, quicken my feeling!
Just do not invade my sleep and dreaming.

I like my coffee hot and black...

I like my coffee hot and black—
hot hornet stings,
black squid ink—
heady broth of
bitter cumin,
red pine smoke,
dusky forests,
blue lightning.


Coffee, nectar of the gods