Sentenced to confusion

all day I've tried
to ignore the vibration
of the floor under my seat

as the senseless hammering
of the jack in the street
shakes all my cells

loose and tumbling
disordered and topsy-turvy
like beads scattered across

the trembling wood floor and
lost among the grain there
I can't collect myself

The light in the dark

down by the river
in the night
the bushes were mostly black
and the water a
long winding wash of silver

and what flowed
between and around
us there
glowed
in the darkness

we rushed home
along the road
where the deer walked
warily

and the flowers
beneath their hooves
suddenly shone
yellow

Next

she said
they found it again
just a little piece
on my lung
which is where it goes
next

she said
but they got it all
I'm fine

she said
he says I'm strong
with my women friends
and then I go home
and fall apart

she said
but you know
I'm doing lots of
yoga and meditation

she said
give me a call
let me know
when you're singing
next

she said
see you
later

If you can't say something nice

don't put that word in your mouth
you don't know where it's been

a verb is not a toy

what if everyone wrote a poem
would you do that, too?

don't run with sentences

don't play with metaphors

and drop that adjective before
you poke someone's eye out

poetry doesn't grow
on trees, you know

Again

begin again:

light emerging
pale pinprick

from a deep well
seamlessly

begin again:

from darkness
from underground

a flicker
of constancy

begin again:

a spark filled seed
a cavity of light

small gesture
of great love

And still

we look eye to eye
deep gazing to bridge the gap
of space and light

we reach fingertip to fingertip
and voice to ear to penetrate
the barriers of skin

and in the end each of us is alone

we turn and try
tempt and touch
we hover and hunger
hate and hold

we stretch and strain
stroke and straddle
we ask and offer
ache and argue

and in the end each of us is alone

and still
I rise each day
as the sun does and

I turn my eyes
in your direction and
hold out my hand

Seen

when the night
opens its darkened door
to dreaming

and the stars
fold over on themselves
to pour down

and the moon
swims a gleaming backstroke
over cloud caps

what seas fill
your sleeping eyes
and bring

forgotten things remembered
things never known
comfortable to be seen

in the soft flashes
and luminous tears
of sleeping memory —

watch how they
scatter at the bright sound
of the gates of dawn

and lose themselves in
the dissipating fog
of waking

Blue rain

on my upturned face
hundreds of fat drops fall from
out of perfect blue

Air quality alert

the radio is
spitting the news between
melodic fragments and caustic
commentary like static interference

outside brittle grass
rubs the steps with an
itch and the sky's still thick and
stirred with smoke and summer heat

distant sirens caterwaul
cacophonic melody to the
old teasing dance of
dry lightning and heat

dingy clouds mound
behind the highest ridge
swearing to fire
in the next valley

brushing away the
throb that creeps in
as the wind shifts
restless directions

I breathe in the
altered air and
breathe it out again
nothing else to do

Summer fires

the clapboard siding glows yellow
in the slow morning sun

above the roofline the thin sky
is restless grey with smoke

a sudden rush of doves
from out of the arching white sycamore

whirling pale on pale on pale
as if they decided this was the day

this was the moment to seize life

Headed home

bouncing through the open truck window
an orange moon hangs strangely large and dark
suspended by glinting strands of cloud
in the sky above the mountains

the smoke of wildfires
casts a silvery sheen
across the few small stars
visible as sparks trailing the shifting winds

our voices are loud and rough
over the truck's engine
rolling down the highway in the quiet night
the breeze hot on our cheeks

we peer out at the ash-colored pavement
watch for deer eyes in the darkness
watch the curving road roll open ahead
under the bleary headlights

behind us, behind the instrument cases,
amps and stands piled in back,
the two lanes snake backward
into smoke-filled forests

In the distance

the grey horizon
rises to the rumble of
incoming thunder

which way the leaves blow
turning in the day's hot wind
may not mean a thing

the hawk's cry cuts sky
wind blows through the cottonwood
distance fears nothing




***
Note: I may have a little difficulty with access the next couple days while my computer is in hospital. (The brand new one, grrr.)
Update: Now that's what I call service! When I sweetly made a stink about the 24-48 hour timeframe, they expedited the repair and I was out of there in 20 minutes. Hurrah!

Rivers of bark

rivers of bark run
creased and folded with time, each
its own confluence

crevices divide
widened by the passing years
flowing, not moving

pushing outward like
stretch marks on a firm belly
exponential scars

charged with an inner
urgent life moving upward
from roots into sky

branches bearing bright
leaves quivering to hold vast
unbearable light

one brilliant, crinkled
leaf unfolds without tearing
and turns toward the sun

The Heard

This band plays only original music, written by one of the four guilty parties pictured above. All four write, sing, play, and enjoy each others' company immensely. One thing we haven't figured out is how to effectively describe the music. Let me know if you do!

The songs in the previous post are written and copyrighted by yours truly. The first song is on the first cd; the second song is on the new cd, just released.

Free song downloads: go here

The new cd (and samples): Bliss:












The first cd (and samples): Instincts:













The band's site: www.theheard.com

Enjoy!
Now heading back to the usual programming....

Singing

You asked.
It's me.
A different one.

Owl feather

If you hear music — dance!
If you don't hear music — sing!
If you walk barefoot
along the path of the heart,
your singing will not awaken
the sleepers nor will your
dancing disturb the self-righteous.
But the birds will follow you
and take from your hand
some crumbs and
sing to you their truth.

— John Squadra, in This Ecstasy


The heat has broken.
The day brims with love.
I'm singing.
Join me?

Night music

as the sun slides down into our eyes
and shadows thicken about our feet
she turns and dives
into a river of sound

singing with mouth gone wild
singing water and strewn stars and white fire
her rhythm cold waves splashing
we taste the salt of our own tongues

on the dark grass we are stung awake
all strung like stars across the night
sparked into awareness and sense
listening in perfect tension

breathing with her every breath
moving as she moves herself
rolling through tempo and tone
like a wave, like a flame

until, at last, she stops, and we move
only to a rocking wake
as we sit breathing in
the wash of black night's silence