Saturday, July 25, 2009
What do you remember about that night?
How could you ask me to go back there?
Do you remember that we walked about three miles
And stepped off the trail
That I allowed you to undress me
And that I began to lift up?
Crying 'my god' and swimming in moon,
Bitten, gnawing, bold, glinting,
Merging into cactus and rocks surrounding me.
Then, animals came into my body.
I shivered and flashed teeth in growl and howl.
You pulled me in against your chest and just held me.
Safe here, safe. Hold me, hold me.
You pulled my head up to face the night-smoked valley
And reached around from behind,
Taking my arms by the wrist, spanning them wide-
Wings shouting ‘I am here, I can fly’.
I poured out tears and shouted new words.
Your voice sounded far off and earthbound.
Then came the descending slide of irreversible laughter
Draining into the hot night.
I can remember everything to that point -
And here you are asking me to go again-
So when I tell you I can never go back
I say so not for the reason you may think.
You have been with me everyday since then
I can't go back because I never left.
July 25, 2009
An older man shifted in his chair and looked to the younger
His beer filled cup listing toward the left
Spilling for the fourth time in the sand
He mumbled messages that decayed in the onshore breeze.
Memories merged and poured out
Adding to the pool at his feet.
The second of these men
Rose from a crouching position to stand -
Facing into the wind that whistled in his still-wet ears.
He opened his deep blue coat
Accepting the wind and sun on his chest
Filling with the fresh whip of autumn by the lake
His face said ‘Let me get started’
Neither man, even while witnessing the other's shadows,
Noted out loud that light, too, would return -
Neither spoke of the soft chill that swept between-
Or that gems and stones, once held tight, that would have to drop -
It was as it was in the beginning.
July 25, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
By cupping my hands, I form a whistle
And send notes lifting through three smoky valleys
Round notes are my messengers and my measure of distance
As they glance the top of each ridge.
Next to me, you stand watch-
Side by side we listen to the sounds flying out
And then look into the warming orange of cypress treetops
As the deepening reds of the sky bleed to chilled blue.
Your breathing, with mine, punctuates this passage-
Way off, a small plume cloud ignites in spiral reverie.
Lifting in silent increase and marking this passage.
It is our turn to rest in peace.
July 7, 2009