Monday Poem
A Question of Necessity “Can you tell me a certain thing that is a moral fact?” is a specious question because the fact of the thing exists as something essential to the survival of homo sapiens in creating civilization, though civilization does not always live up to the necessity of its essential thing.(the root of what…
Monday Poem
“Facts are surprisingly delible things.” ………….— Bill Bryson, author “Trump won.” ……….…— Fox Skews Facts Are Delible facts are not indelible after all— imagine that now U S headspace is one of delibility, if such a word exists —but of course it may, nothing moors every word to dictionaries: fresh definition embraced, case closed. now…
Monday Poem
Drinking It All In a long way up Bray Road past the point where the first of two small brooks cross beneath it came to me in a new way that you and I are still breathing four decades after we met at the threshold of the unknown, the part that comes after now, and…
Monday Poem
Walking overlooking a river rife with history that runs along the bottom of an ancient gorge between two mountains autumn rusts. in yellows, russets, remnant greens, drapes of leaves cascade down their opposing slopes liquid as runoff, colors sluiced into the wide wet rush of that streaming source of being boiling white over rocks tumbling…
Monday Poem
Nothing But Light reflections stutter in the picture plane as if Vincent were still alive dragging oils across canvas in French light inhaling the color of things expiring his incandescent translations in spectacular conjugations of frequencies setting fire to a field with crows turning night into pinwheels, vibrations underpinning everything in sight nothing still but…
Monday Poem
Monday Poem
Reply to Ricardo who wrote: How U b? .I b well enough. work’s fairly regular— ’bout 4-5 hours a day at regular pay, plus a couple of side jobs drawing, lucky to have work chug chug keep my hand in the writing game: blogs, two local paper gigs shooting my mouth off at greedy vampire windmills sucking…
Monday Poem
Looking Up the horizon circle, past which I can see no further in any direction other than up, hems me in, but looking up I can see forever or as far as lightspeed allows or until more time passes or, more truly, until now shifts again, but by then I will have passed, whatever that…
Monday Poem
Galleon America the complexity of your crossed purposes, beauty and war, grace and wastefulness, you rest solidly at sea upon a liquid without yet dropping through, a steel log with algorithmic spurs hollow inside of rust and rot, a contradiction, weighty and weightless, floating white swan, Earth burns, black pawns, Jesus weeps, Mars is gloating…
Monday Poem
Too Thin to Spawn an Echo from here the atmosphere is space so vast its depth’s enough to spawn an echo, but seen from the moon imagine a somewhat fat elastic band stretched round a blue ball, or slim mist of sweat evaporating from the crown of a head still clear enough to spawn an…
Monday Poem
Where Buddha Is I thumb down the stack of books: Paper Dance—55 Latin Poets Poetry Like Bread (full as loaves my mother made) subtitled Poets of the Political Imagination and here’s Billy Collins Sailing Alone Around the Room—which is pretty much what we all do to a great extent until, at the bottom: Precise V-5…
Monday Poem
Sacrificial Goat everything unknown snaps to light upon awakening in bed, supine, sun-given day ignites a fire, blankets burn, mind’s the filament of a lamp upon awakening stupidity tumbles down a sheer of chance, small thoughts plunge, they start an avalanche, the ground gives way beneath our feet upon awakening light ricochets from every wall, blind see,…
Monday Poem
Monday Poem
Six years ago at New York’s Cathedral of St. John the Divine, I was standing under sculptor, Xu Bing’s, two Phoenixes. The cathedral is huge and beautiful and so were the artist’s sculptures. Our friend, Bill, who is a warm, personable, and very knowledgeable docent at the cathedral had suggested to my wife and me …
Monday Poem
…..“Time was so huge then. …… It could not fail.” …….. —from a poem by Nils Peterson When Time Was Huge that’s the exquisite difference between then and now— the space in time, the beautiful duration of it, its roominess; its amplitude was great enough to contain many dreams, multitudes —today time is crimped in cramps of years…
Monday Poem
Lolla Rossa in a field behind our house, Lolla Rossa, transfigured in morning light becomes becomes the instant a groundhog just on haunches drops and scuttles under the shed becomes the light that shaped her becomes particles, waves or both which transcendentally show themselves to us here in this room, and there too fifty feet down…
Monday Poem
Requiem . 3:40 am in chair I’m at my sister’s house (like home) swaddled wee-hour early, in an Afghan in a chair (me being at an age that easily chills) a codger reading poems of trees sent by a friend thoughts of climbing them unbidden come: young (youth well spent) amid limbs bent toward light…
Monday Poem
Monday Poem
On Dystopian Ships of State I’m on a big boat (which the nautically savvy call ship) if this ship’s a cocooned load of light atmosphere its steel will float, but it will tip if its load’s unbalanced— if its equilibrium is off it’ll start to list— if not adjusted it’ll end a sacrificial goat, sucked to…