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Archive for October, 2018

 

based on a title by Jack Ridl

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But if you were, you’d hide in your chaps

on your dark stallion, concealed by the saguaro

beside the remote tracks. You’d scan the horizon

for the gray plume of smoke, listen for the whistle

in the distance, lean your ears toward the clackety

clack clack clack of the engine. And you’d wait. Till

you could see the whites of the engineer’s eyes

as he drove by. You’d kick your heels into your horse’s sides

and shoot your gun into the air to show you mean business.

You’d see the resolve set into the engineer’s jaw and you’d smile

beneath your black bandana. Yaw! You’d shout as you

keep pace with the train, your posse coming alongside.

You were made to shake things up. Just take a look

at that sun weighing down the west like

a big sack of gold just ready for the rustling,

and why not take it? The world is yours. And the

way you’re feeling, this good, this rich,

you already know you’ll give everything away.

 

 

 

 

This is the second time this week I am referencing Jack Ridl. If you are not yet aware of this amazing feller, here is his poetry blog:  https://ridl.wordpress.com/

 

and here is a link to his upcoming book: https://www.wsupress.wayne.edu/books/detail/saint-peter-and-goldfinch

 

 

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the world is new again,

white and blank, a page

waiting for us to write

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It’s hardwired, says the instructor,

explaining that all of us tend to identify

more with people who are more like us.

It’s a survival tool from ancient times,

she says, to put people like us in an in group,

and to label the others other.

I take notes. Raise my hand. Participate.

Do exercises that show that although

I say I have no preferences, my limbic brain

has its own opinion. And so

I dedicate myself to finding

the ways we are all alike, uncovering

the ways we all mirror each other—

vulnerable, strong, curious, cautious,

I pledge myself to our common humanity,

to notice my bias and question it.

It’s a survival tool for the present time,

I tell myself. Every one of us, a sliver

of divinity.

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for Jack Ridl and all the rakers

 

 

Pulling the rake through the cottonwood leaves,

I think of Jack in Michigan pulling his rake

through beech, birch, oak and ash leaves.

I stop to lean on my rake and I think

of him stopping to lean on his rake

and talk to the gods. I’m not so sure I believe

in gods, but I believe in Jack. I believe in kindness.

I believe in friendship that grows despite distance.

I believe that these rhythms of raking and making piles

bring us closer together—all of us rakers, all of us

who step into the slow cadence of pull and reach,

and pull and reach. There is something unifying

in this annual act of tidying the world. Every day

the news is full of all we can’t set right. But we

can drag the rake through the yard so that we

can see the path again. And we can set the rake

aside and stare at the sky and think of all

the people we love and all the people

we’ll never know who join us in this simple act,

reach and pull, reach and pull, reach and pull,

the sound of metal tines grating, the beat

of our own hearts scraping against our chests.

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for seven hours

the whole house smells of apples—

even the song I sing

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They are old friends now, these songs,

these raps. I can sing along and snap

 

out the lyrics—and though there is joy

in fluency, I catch myself wishing

 

I could hear them all newly. I remember

the kick in the odd snooty king, the ache

 

in the song for a son who died young, the thrill

as Hamilton helps others rise, the chill

 

when Hamilton duels and dies.

Not that I don’t still cry every time—

 

I do—but it’s not the same as when it

was new. And it makes me wonder

 

how many more firsts there are

awaiting discovery. So much left

 

to find and uncover, every moment

blushing with potential, every

 

interaction the chance to unearth

more reasons, more ways to fall in love—

 

fall in love, perhaps with something new

in the same job, the same walk,

 

the same dish, the same song.

 

 

 

 

 

As a strange PS to this poem:

 

then tonight I stumbled on Joey who has is own You Tube channel, Joey Reacts, devoted to filming his reactions to music video he is seeing for the first time. What a strange concept! But sure enough, I watched him watch Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody and part of me was so jealous, but part of me just delighted in watching someone experience it, the rapture, his speechlessness.

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With Kind Regard

 

 

If I had my druthers,

well, I’d share one with you

so you could have

a druther, too. Though

it’s tough to give you only one—

I mean, we seldom do.

After all, what if that poor

druther gets lonely? So

a pair of druthers, then, and

you know what pairs

are wont to do. And,

while at it, I’d give you

a thank. Or, more likely,

at least two, so they, too,

could procreate and soon

you’d have a lot of thanks

(they act like rabbits do).

 

But what if, perchance,

the druthers and the thanks

begin to, um, cross breed

so you end up with

a drutherank

or a thuther? It’s odd

how things go plural,

friend—they make

the strangest

sisters and brothers.

 

Well, there you have them,

my thanks and my druthers.

Do with them what you will—

if you lose them,

I’ll give you others.

 

with kind regard,

r

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So much to learn from the fallen leaves,

the barren trees, the still green moss,

the skittish deer, the unturned stone,

the smooth gray limbs of loss,

fog hung like garland in the woods,

a secret spring, the brittle grass,

the yet unfurling truth in us,

the path that forgets it’s a path.

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The moon was hidden and the scent

of rabbit brush was thick, so thick

a woman could be hypnotized by it—

 

it seemed to come from everywhere,

the garbled light, the sage-sharp scent,

the sound of every step she took, and

 

every step she took felt like

a baptism, though into what, she could

not say—herself, perhaps, but more

 

the world, and yes, it was

the kind of tenderness

one only meets when we’re

 

alone and somehow lost

inside the night, amazed that it

can be so warm, so gentle,

 

shocked that we can be so slight

we almost, almost disappear—

but ah, the sound of every step she took

 

reminded her that she was here—

and sage-sharp scent of rabbit brush

caressed her every everywhere,

 

and led her deeper into night,

soft sound of footsteps, garbled light,

the snarl of squirrel nests in the trees

 

made visible through silhouette,

and every every step she took felt

like a baptism, like a rite

 

though rite of what, she could not say,

the moonlight gave itself away

the rabbit brush said here, here, here.

 

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One Abandon

 

 

drenched in the downpour—

the feet, now reckless,

find a playground in every puddle

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And all at once the field

turns white with froth

as yellow tubes

of chamisa blooms

are lost, their perfect

composition giving way

to lathered dross.

 

The soul takes note—

considers how all patterns

come to naught

before rebuilding.

 

Some part of us resists.

Some part can’t wait

to lose its shape

and weave itself into

the larger cloth.

 

 

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One at the Memorial

 

 

 

between the tears,

a curve ball of joy—

life takes a victory lap

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Kindness is invincible.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 11.18.ix

 

 

And though I barely know her,

she met me on the street to give me

a small bottle of perfume. Scent of rose,

amber, white musk, scent of friendship

just beginning, scent of how we might choose

to meet each other—with the wisdom

of blossoms, opening. Already

I’m dreaming of ways to continue

her mischievous generosity,

imagining how each act will carry

a hint of citrus, rose, precious wood.

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Dear __________,

 

 

 

You are warmly invited to join our conspiracy of joy,

a growing cabal of strangers and friends who collude

to create delight, who initiate random acts of bliss, who

scheme of ways to help all others find authentic jubilance,

who tear down walls that would separate us and them.

If you enjoy such subterfuge, there certainly is room

for you. To be clear, you may be charged with pleasure,

ecstasy, and truth. Next meeting, now. And now. And now

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Preferably Purple

 

 

 

 

I need nothing more today

than a bit of string—not

to hold things together, no,

but to wrap around my wrist

and touch each time I need

to remember to be kind.

Which is all day. The trick

is remembering to touch it,

remembering the invitation

to choose what is kind.

A fierce wind blows.

All day, I imagine I am kite,

that I am the one who holds

it on a slender string,

the one who eventually lets it go.

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all four legs midair

the horse thrusts forward—

loving you like that

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Today I woke in the dark and was busy

making lunches during the sunrise,

though surely it happened. And I drove

 

in the low morning light along

the San Miguel River for half an hour,

not once noticing the color of the water,

 

the scent on the banks, though past

experience leads me to believe

that there were thousands, millions,

 

of tiny beautiful miracles happening

there in that half hour alone. How much

beauty is lost on me every day, every moment?

 

Though as I stepped out of the car

to walk into work, I saw, stuck to my boot, one

brilliant orange aspen leaf outlined in gold,

 

and for a whole minute, I stared at it,

marveled at its symmetrical veins,

its delicate stem, the astonishing intricacy

 

of its edges. How easily gloriousness finds us, sticks

to us even. How wholly available, this art

of meeting the glittering, luminous world.

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Isostasy

 

 

 

Danny says the continent is rising,

it rises as the glaciers melt, it’s rising

for the last ten thousand years.

 

How slowly things change, invisibly

until the time we cannot recognize

the world we thought we knew.

 

How slowly things change, beyond

our ability to measure, but they do, love,

the crust now floating above the mantle.

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Athlete

 

 

 

Fully commit your weight to one foot.

Every skate skier knows this. To trust

the ski. To trust the snow. To trust the inner

balancer that will not let us fall.

 

The commitment allows us to glide,

to fly, to find bright wings inside our weight.

 

And sometimes we fall.

 

And though it’s been years since I had to change

into the blue gym shorts and white shirt,

sometimes when I fall I remember all my fallings,

and a sharp voice returns, You can’t do this,

it says. It dredges up decades

of shame, of dropping the ball, missing

the hit, not making the catch, letting down

the team. You’re no good, says the voice

that recalls what it’s like to be the last one

picked in junior high p.e., how I stared

at the floor, at the far away ceiling.

 

You’re weak, says the voice, but here

amongst the aspen and spruce,

there is no one to let down, but me,

so I untangle the skis and the poles

and rise and breathe and fully commit

my weight to one foot. And glide.

And fly. Become wing. First one foot.

And then the other.

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Revelation

 

 

 

Perhaps when we don’t know what to say

we have at last arrived at the one true thing—

and in our thrill to share it with words, dilute it.

 

It is like the seed, perhaps, that in sprouting

at last understands its purpose, only

now it is no longer a seed.

 

How easy it is to lose revelation.

Not that it is ever gone—more that it

drops its petals, and we are left

 

holding an empty stem, trying

to remember how beautiful it was,

failing to see how beautiful it is.

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