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'this is what it's like when you're not home'
the air holds still as wood
and the bright grey sky does not appear to move
as i look out the window
'this is what it's like when you're not home'
says a voice inside my head while i am home
with mid-winter craning its neck toward March
'the furnace comes on, the furnace goes off.
a neighbor yawns and birds skip branches
en route to aerial liberties
'but the air is different
(as small a difference as it may seem)
without you breathing me
'your steady breath a lovely rhythm,
a table in a corner of a restaurant
with quiet conversation'
* * * * *
The Nobel Peace Prize Goes To . . .
a child in Iraq a sparrow in Detroit
a polar bear a wildflower the one cell
in Rove's brain that is peaceful
a chunk of ice floating away from the top of the world
the soldiers who have held their gunfire
the soldiers who have left the war
the soldiers who refused to become soldiers
a sparrow in Afghanistan
the Myanmar monks the Australian abos
a Darfur grandmother a Hopi grandfather
a Taoist a true Christian the funniest Jew you've ever heard
the Shakers the Quakers the Pacifists
the half-baked weed smokers
the devotees of Walden Pond
the whirling Dervishes
the drunk in the alley who has only damaged his own knuckles
against the cold brick wall in the heart of winter
a fool in a field in the middle of anywhere
who is feeding a sparrow with one hand
and waving a white flag with the other
* * * * *
SUN SONG
Wouldn't you want me at daybreak
all up into your sky, your hair,
a firecrackered twilight still sparkling in our minds
bells on my moccasins walking like an Egyptian
the taste of every birdsong on my tongue
whether you want it or not, Sun song
whether you seek it or try to avoid it, Sun song.
Nighttime is ungraspable
and so is this ball of fire
but if you let the rays touch your skin
"you are the One, the only One".
* * * * *
YOUR DAY
- with thanks to Joseph Campbell -
When your day was an illusion
the Empire arose and built walls
and called it good, and rested.
Ahhhhh, to kick back like God,
Ohhhhh, to kick ass like God,
and they called it good, and rested.
While the One in eternally busy repose,
the unmoved mover,
the legitimate oxymoron,
flicked a crumb off its shoulder.
When your day was an illusion
you joined ranks and went along for the ride
and there was comfort in this, while the conscience
sat tap-tap-tapping on the wall,
which way to fall?
While the Most High Invisible
the breath within the breath,
sun behind the sun
strolled evenly along the path
you call roadway
and welcomed your conversation.
And did you go?
Did you saunter windward?
Did you unparch your massive regimented tongue
only to find the thin curl of a bird's tongue
licking truth off the hand
of that winged one?
Because there is no name, He sits in silence.
Because there is a world, He speaks in riddles.
Because the sun has come up over the hillside another day
He has put on a pot of water
and is ready to share himself with you.
Because there is no word, i call Him.
When your day was an illusion
none of this made any sense.
When your day was an illusion
you had no idea where the water came from.
When your day was an illusion the wall was God
and you rested,
and you too flicked a crumb off your shoulder.
A vigilant sparrow picked up both crumbs,
intertwined them into one meal
and flew off,
and the rest, as they say, is real myth-making.
And have you gone?
Have you followed windward?
Have you de-programmed enough to sit in silence?
Have you too picked up your dainty cup,
and sipped,
and called this something
far more than good
far more than God?
* * * * *
DEVOTION
my ear to the track for your train coming,
leaning over the cello playing the deep strings,
the meal simmers,
planets orbit,
water from a mountain lake
to a stream to a river to the sea
the path at my feet without moving,
the sky on my ceiling with the shades drawn,
nowhere to go and no one to look for,
yet looking far into the future of your eyes
your smile, warm touch,
the gift and story of our journeys
the unexplainable tears about the illusion of separation
:all is whole:
the unexplainable feelings before your arrival
:all is whole:
the manifestation of some thing or some one
that was not visible a moment ago
and just as soon somewhere else
another thing's or some one's disappearance,
what was there
a moment ago
:all is whole:
in this brightly lit dark place
lack is a state of mind
or else a consequence of someone else's stupidity
someone's greed or fear coveting all the flimsy trinkets
or not allowing the water to flow from a mountain lake
to a stream to a river to the sea
:but you are here beside me and have heard this all before:
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* * * * *
My GOD has an O
some spell G-d
as if there is a risk of insult
a chance for smiting
my GOD has an O
round as an apple
the moon the sun the earth...
this could go on and on
like Os do
like Ouroborous
or standing ovations
or orgasms
Oh! it's nice to see you
once again
my GOD has an O
round as my right testicle
round as a Norweigan's face in summer
as another round of drinks
round as been-there-done-that found another ball to play with
as a merry-go-round or golden ring
or the Nothing they say we all come from
live with
go to when all our rounds are over
(this poem is nominated for a Pushcart Award)
* * * * *
ONE MAN'S MYTHOLOGY - #5
One man has a roof over his head
but no doors,
so he has to stay home most of the time.
With only windows
one man's eyes grow tired from looking
at the sky, the traffic, the sky, the trees.
One man has several doors
so he comes and goes as he pleases
but there's nowhere to hang his hat.
On clear nights, one man, with only a floor
looks up and exclaims
"whatta view!"
One man in the neighborhood
walks around all day
with the finest blueprints under his arm.
One man lives in a tree and calls that home
and when his fruits ripen and go tumbling
toward the ground, one man after another
reaches out his arms for a taste
of home improvements.
© 2006-2008 Walter E. Harris III
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