- (that doorless doorway)
If there is flavor
in the vegetables
you did not grow,
give thanks —
this is reason enough
to know there are others
as beautiful as you.
If there is nourishment
in the water you drink
but from a well you did not dig,
give thanks —
for this too is reason
to know there are others
as strong as you.
Sit long enough
to discover the gift
bubbling up inside,
the growing bloom
that reaches out,
savoring the journey.
Become the ripe fruit
grown by the One
who spreads flavors
on the quivering tongue,
become what quenches thirst.
While becoming
let raindrops chill the bones
until hot water finds the middle
and warm hands caress
the dimpled, woven skin where
sometimes the mirror takes me
going like liquid with no rough edges,
no bony ankles, no aching
simply melting
into the source of reflected light,
smiles, whatever else the mirror
(that doorless doorway) has to offer,
a physicality without the heaviness,
original memory . . .
We can dance together
and we can sit in silence
embracing the subtle energies
while the jukebox of seasons plays on.
Though the night be dark--
the pathway of stars!
And though darkest before dawn,
let the eyes open to see the light
of this world for what it is,
savoring the journey
until it is time
to melt away . . .
* * * * *
When all Heaven breaks loose
When all Heaven breaks loose
Dick Cheney will have no underground bunker to hide in
watching the news on a black market cable box.
When all Heaven breaks loose
the dandelion will no longer be considered a weed to kill,
hay no longer a pollutant, and food and animals
no longer things to modify.
Scientific windbag explanations
as to the purpose of our existence
will suddenly be silenced
by heliotropism.
National Security does not know how to stop a hurricane
or what to do about earthquakes, but when all Heaven
breaks loose our bare feet will feel
cell-phoneless vibrations of Mother Earth
and all ten toes with adjoining parts will peacefully know
where to go, who to see, and what to do.
Our voices will be heard in the rustle of leaves, faces seen
in the slow-moving clouds, scents picked up on the breeze.
When touching a tree bark i will also touch your skin,
when tasting a wild strawberry also taste you,
and though you may be in another country walking
in the opposite direction to get water from the stream
the prayers will be felt in your pores, songs rise
in your throat, and jokes lighten the stride.
When all Heaven breaks loose
the sweat of farmers, builders, and athletes like ancient Greeks
will rain down on
and drown out all objections
to what is best for this planet and people.
When all Heaven breaks loose
this poem will be used to light a fire
that will warm the tired and decrepit bones
of the Dick Cheneys of the world
who will be found cold, rain-soaked, and weeping
after finally repenting for their atrocities.
first posted at Axis of Logic:
http://axisoflogic.com/artman/publish/Article_63729.shtml
- (also published in The (Un)Occupy Movement)
* * * * *
Say
These words could be meaningless if,
say, you are in need of a printed manual, are in
the midst of repairing, say, electrical wiring and wanting
to know which wire is the ground wire.
Later that evening, though, after you have survived
the ordeal and are sitting back sipping, say,
a brandy, these words might become meaningful,
showing how what you have done today
is as important as what the next person did,
how each little world fills
with its own words and need for paying attention,
making the right connections.
Nature knows, say, the wind, how one little world
slips into the next, connected by some unseen
unspoken presence, say, a god-like being
but those words do not do the presence justice.
Say what you like, remembering that everything
hinges on it — the wiring, the next meal, next line,
though when the day unravels
and night slips into dreams
there will be nothing left to say,
but for the wind
upon the beautifully dank and noble fanfare
of mid-summer leaves.
* * * * *
May Questions
How is it this road stirs in me a thousand memories,
yet still has room for yours
and thousands more?
What kind of blossoms are those?
If i hold up my mirror and you hold up yours,
will we see each other?
just our reflections?
or will the two mirrors spark a fire?
Meditation slows the breath,
orgasm speeds it up —
much of the day treads the middle
but when night arrives
who can tell what will happen?
"Time will tell"
but still the wondering:
what will time tell us
and how will we respond?
* * * * *
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
(from impeach the monsters: New Dawn)
* * * * *
Independent Bookstore on a Windy Day
driving by the orchard
with its rows of snow, ice,
melted into waters, driving by
colored ducks and snow-white swans
near the shore with the wind-tossed waters
of Shinnecock Bay
made it to the bookstore and entering said
"Boy, is it windy out there"
and the bookstore keeper agrees
as if hearing this for the first time
but in a few minutes it becomes obvious
that almost everyone who enters says
"Boy, is it windy out there"
and the keeper of the books agrees,
as if hearing it for the first time, and each book
that gets opened, gets opened for the first time
"Boy, is it windy out there" the pages say,
shaking the invisible from their February coats
browsing in the Self Help section i am hesitant
to ask for help yet realize we must not only help
ourselves but help others, but there is no section
Help Others, and this is the reason we are in this mess,
another fine mess we are in, Ollie, we need Local Help
and Global Help and Poor Help, Oppressed Masses Help,
Prisoners of War on Indian Reservations Help,
and Independent Bookstores Keep Them Open Help
before exiting i thank the keeper of books
for playing the jazz piano, thank her for the book i bought
with the money from my calendars that sold
near the turn of the year
in the car again, how teary-eyed beautiful the first poem
in Ferlinghetti's How to Paint Sunlight, how to make light
in every dark corner, inside and out, though right now
the wind is wild with the urgency of a sexual encounter
and the trees stand tall though bending at their waists
after the coffee, the leftover crumbs from the scone are left
by the tree by the curb to feed the birds, an offering
to the light of the worlds, an offering to the keeper of books,
an offering to help the orchards grow, to keep the bay afloat,
to balance the scales of the fish of the parallel worlds
and the winter wind is cold outside, come in, my love,
and warm your cheeks on mine, come in, dear love
and tell me once again your name so we can open up
our hearts for the very first time, again
* * * * *
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?
(from impeach the monsters: New Dawn)
* * * * *
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
(from Adam Had No Earthly Navel)
* * * * *
A Room Collects the Essence of Events That Unfold
from a line by A.Molotkov
could not see the forest for suburbia
so i went inside a small room
to collect the essence of events
that unfold inside four walls
one day in winter the idea of sunflowers came to me. . .
in august they bloomed
one day in summer the thought of hot soup. . .
in february the stirring
the ongoing pondering of trees
how they gather as forest
how the trees in suburbia remember this
even those in the city
don't let any thing own you--
ah, the night air!
(from Adam Had No Earthly Navel)
* * * * *
On Behalf of Those Who Speak Different Languages
poet's note: The World Peoples' Conference on Climate Change was recently held in Bolivia. There was mention of the need for a Universal Declaration on the Rights of Mother Earth. To read more: http://pwccc.wordpress.com
and the Winds whispered
"some people don't hear our voices
except if we blow real hard
which tires us out
so please speak for us
who you also call the Air
so we can breathe easy"
and the Earth trembled
"sometimes i get scared too
so please be courageous for me
and sometimes i get angry
so please stay calm for me
and sometimes i get sad
so please pat me somewhere
but mostly i like to be happy
as when a vegetable takes root
and remember to listen
to my sisters the Winds"
and the Waters rambled
"we can't help it
we go where we must
yet sometimes we go nowhere at all
which kinda stinks but the frogs don't mind
but it's hard to bathe ourselves
and sometimes we go up like a fountain
but it's our nature to bow down
so please keep us clean
and listen to my sisters
the Winds and the Earth"
and the Fire said
"look it's simple
i can cook your food and warm you
and i can also send you running
so please respect me
and listen to my sisters
the Winds and the Earth
and my brothers the Waters"
and our brother the Sun said
(but he didn't say it rather he sang
yet the language is so ancient that
hardly anyone could understand
but it has a musical vibration
so ALL the beings can feel it
like how it warms your skin)
what he said was
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
it's all the same to me . . .
but as to what the Birds and Trees
the Fish and Four-Leggeds
the Insects and Rocks and Plants
and ALL our friends say
well you'll have to listen and see
and hear and touch and taste
for yourselves because
the local dialects are so varied
but if you pay attention to the Winds
and the Earth and the Waters and the Fire
they will help guide you in the correct direction . . ."
(from forthcoming book by the same title)
* * * * *
more poems from chapbooks
posted online:
“These Are Fortean Times”
http://axisoflogic.com/artman/publish/Article_62068.shtml
“Whose Winter Ledger?” (with video and links to help the American Indians of South Dakota)
http://axisoflogic.com/artman/publish/Article_57992.shtml
“Oh Say Can You See”
for Jimi Hendrix
http://www.counterpunch.org/poems04242009.html
