The Whole

A person in a steady place-
us all sometimes-

is averse to a story of faltering,

finding little in being slow
and dragging to the start

of a long, looming day.

Yet the whole faces each.

It can be forgotten
and drunk and slept on

only illusorily.

The whole cannot be digested.

It returns double force
at its leisure.

It may become necessary

to call your mother

and keenly listen

to find your step.

* * *

In time I will turn
the grind of my teeth-

the grind
of my organ blood
as though infiltrated with sand-

into a whetting wheel.
I seek to spark a fine steel

blade, then brandish it and slash
down the whole,
carving a monstrosity
into clutchable moments

to walk through
in normal breaths.

Whether it be tree-dressed
mountains I craved,

or the harmless relentless paved
way I'm unable to blame,

it must be broken down.
One enormous scene is too cruel.

Questions of loves
and places and years

become a tornado-
a storm unbravable.

Only by stopping
to form my whetting words

can I halt the train of whirling winds
that rattles my tongue

like an unfurling flag of chaos.

* * *

Each faces the whole
and knows it is of earth.

The all of nature within us
begins to sing.

We make sense
thru furious need-

and in the crash of worry-
at the scent of death-

we know a miracle.
Close then we stay


to the day path of humanity,
refilled and wise,

seizing the universe
by doing,

rinsing our miracle
in action,

hearing a soul beat loud
at every turn

and inviting what we know
to be unending.

The Manyself, Thirty

You see you are not twenty.

Some of the adult
concerns have
become yours.

They say 30 is young
for a poet. Is it young
for dreaming aloud?

If you’re five, 30 is wild
and ancient, capable of defeating
a dragon or dying any day.

If you’re 65?
30 is a bastion of youth
to well preciously.

The man just emerging
from the tumult and lust
of his twenties sees a world

of guitars
and cash registers singing
a life to obtain.

* * *
How much can a dream

Be a response
to being shaped? The shape
of a true response?

What of a man touching
the edge of dreams he’s made?
there was an old message:

Hold your dream.
No one spoke
of more than one;

that detail skirted because
having the dream- wanting-
is easy. But more follow,

the struggle stands tall
with age, wishes collide
as the heart stretches

to encompass each friend
of the soul, each living word
cast in silver,

to clutch every laugh and song
before it tastes of the past-
and the heart's torridity

fuels from wisdom
to be not oneself but
the Manyself.

Each sliver deserves its journey
and plan for sweet becoming,
just as the countless flowers

for autumn to embrace-
who go hurdling into October knowing
only their own beauty- shining still-

to drop dry and forgotten.
A child of three decades
knows far too much

to drop peacefully.

* * *

Thus settle it simply.

Walk along one path
which winds
to each love in turn,

on a crashing morning
cresting to sunrise,
eyes on a life

of joyous expansion.

I Nurture Wonder By Way of Regions

I think of Vermont
with her purple-green horizons,
her misting midnight falls
over tumbled granite smoothes,
her bearded workers trudging
to greet the trailbound youth;

And South Carolina
in all her beleaguered love,
her sands warm
under the paws of summer ocean,
her sun a fierce soul
calm then raging;

And Colorado my new kindred,
a rising respite
of aspen-through rambles
and hot spring caves,
rife with the Truth
found or missed
by its many seekers;

And old New York
that racing child of art and lust
still gentle somehow,
teaching with asphalt
and smoky rooftops
the freedom of solitude.

The Time I Turned Thirty In Love

During dinner,
somehow she finds me
in the sentences
I unwittingly italicize
amid paragraphs
of rambling speech.

". . . these great gardens, and wonderful old oak trees
surrounded by acres of woods . . ."

She puts her hazel
directly into my blue-green.
"Oh- you love land!"
she exclaims, knowing
my labor to
sustain love for a city.

I go again,
talking invisible fear,
crying out.

". . . it's something I'm working on, I don't want
to worry about that . . . "

She drapes a soft, tawny hand
over my thigh
and reminds me in her cool
womanly way:

". . . It's you and me baby, moving forward . . . "

Long Weekend

We began with jazz-
a wicked slapping bassman-
to ales and burgers
and cool mountain air.

The lovemaking began anew.

We rose for bacon and coffee
and lay again, gleefully unwilling
to allow a day- needing an endless
morning to fill our fallen days
and swell our hungry souls.

The lovemaking was a savior.

We danced alone and with friends,
twirling and squeezing
two nimble lovers, willing
to dress and foreshadow our moves,
sharpening our rhythms
to sway and roll in time.

The lovemaking was a dream.

We walked for breakfast,
moving together slow;
bicycled hurtling down bridges, past rivers,
learning histories, finding wonders,
perusing and sampling to
fill our open senses. That night
I sang to her the song
I wrote in honor of her.

The lovemaking was spontaneous joy.

We dined as finely
as could be, the drinks
were made exquisitely.
She was a duchess, I the suitor,
vying for a kiss- then another;
dishes arrived
as sweet and rich
as the duchess deserves.

Then lovemaking halted.

I skidded on a slick of insecurity,
felled by her aplomb and beauty;
I lay weak, intoxicated
by fear into self-torture.
Quickly she rescued me,
pushing away my darkness!
Love returned, redoubled
and continued in the greatest-
the strongest- the worthiest

lovemaking I have ever known.

At man : Atman

I am this lover
of a warm stream of rain on the rocks
beneath airy toes. The sprawling stones
of a mountain splattered
in lichen sing brilliant lime tales
of an underwater gala.

I am this climber
of midnight falls: a storm
distilled and roaring- an August lion
baring his gleaming peril-
a flashing swath thru the forest
where we became ninja frogmen- eager
night spelunkers cooled by moss and mud,
sleek in the gushing black.

I am this guide
of children who come reaching
into a world of forms and colors;
they speak about toys and angels
with the same eyes. They laugh
and we grow wise.

I am this brother
to glowing heroes- wild, old,
modern beyond time-
ever on top of time; our mountaintop moments
flesh out the words and pictures
for The Epic.

I am this dreamer.
Of Love. Wanting it
to unfurl from a striving woman
who is strong in my grasp
then stronger standing from it-
to leave me gasping, lunging
for more cosmos hiding
within her, bringing me to her;
I call out as I fall;
her eyes reflect a star
that shines my blues to luster.

Midnight On the Island

To wonder at the wondrous veil

of celestial arrangements
making their silence wash

into night wells of sea-lap

and wild cicada songs,

I stand still.

Stilled as though motion
has taken leave

of my weary legs,

shifting into placidity.

* * *

My mother’s nearby body, once
the house of my incipient soul,

is silent, reposed, to be reminded
with tomorrow’s sun my mystery

contains a man and boy,
intertwined for their ascent.

Worry of love
and slump of labor have ceased,

slipped to the sand and moonlight
on a limb of beach.

The moon is sleekly regal
in her wisp of clouds attending.

Night is enormous, ripe
for jeweled questions to rise

again, the whispers of eons to start
again in my blood


* * *

Doze nation and mother and toil.

I will stay a minute before the stars

to wear their small eternal light,

my bare feet pressing a pose
into the dampness,

cool in cedar shadows.

The raucous symphony of cicadas
is flaring and singing the ocean secrets!

I am lit with intent,

listening

to the falling of starlight
into the sea

like a crashing island opus.

To Those Who Fear the End

And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death
-Walt Whitman



To those who fear the end,

hurrying toward some answer in the sky
that may shield us,

some purpose to carry us forth,

I ask:

How does one come to value Life?

Is it not by knowing
that it may end at any moment?

It is not the soft, raw truth
of human fragility

that leads us to cradle our own hearts,
and caress our tender organs
in precious blood?

Yet we grow angry and despise Death.

No war!- no old age!- no sickness!-
we exclaim.
These ideals are a joy
of the human mind working;

the toil of staying afloat
gives us strength to strive.

Yet, is Death not the looming truth
which fuels such glorious hope and ambition?

* * *
This is not to advocate Death.
Nor to slow in any way
the battle against it.

This is to know,
in no uncertain terms,

that any flight must soar above something;

any win is defined by a loss;

any Love-

such as that for Life and Being
in torrents of Joy-

is the embrace of something precious,

something infinitely wonderful,
seen completely

in the light of its absence.

* *

Facing Death as the loss of Life
makes Life.

Death must be loved
and celebrated

for its true nature and beauty,

for the gift of Love that it offers.

SINGERS OF THE SOIL

Suffer if you like.

A better option is
to sing and SING!

In saxophones and clarinets
and history lessons on East Sixth Street
there is a purpose:

driving straight for a note
like a hawk beading a squirrel.

The bird will be joyful
to tear flesh from a furry carcass
and survey his land.

The singer, too, rejoices
to tear from his own damp guts
a testament to his earth.

Earth!
The complete song!

Have you another?

Dream all you like
of heavens and hells,

of otherlands and netherworlds,

yes DREAM! But after,
tell me:

Did you inhale the scent of soil there?
Did you find some other grass below a tree of sparrows?
Where else have you found oceans to swim?
Glorious fruit and fowl and wine?
Where else but EARTH?

I am made for here.

This life, this place.

I will seek no other.

There is no worry of God.

There IS wind on my face,
purple flowers and crackling storms,
boulders rising like woken giants.

There is the human body,
oiled and lithe, tossing itself in the sun.

There is cold liquid to parched lips.
There is the unmistakable moan of passion.

There is the rattle and release
of music through the bones.

Here and now, there is us.

These are answers.

The question of God pales

next to Earth, sweet home,

infinite chance at song,

springboard of every guiltless voice.

RULE

No

one

can

sway a mind

that

is

purposeful.


Focused

motivation

vanquishes

all

fear.


Decide.

Act.

KNOW.

Selfish

Why poetry?

To express in high form!

Why express?

For others to enjoy!

Why give others joy?

For myself.

Accept

The absolute highest-

most perfectly incorruptible-

honest light-shedding-

river of life springing-

golden heart pumping-

dispenser of all and resenter of none:

THAT IS YOU!

Triumph

Yes, TRIUMPH!

A theme that has slipped,
some evenings I’ve seen,
into the traps of sulkers.

Are you in love with pain?
Is suffering sublime?

Give me GOOD!

All this fear of God and Man
is simply fear of GREATNESS.

Desire you the lesser?
Some lack? Some non-self?

I REFUSE it!

What Poet earns no Joy?
What Artist forgets Beauty?
To their gutters they belong!

Shed your complaining habit.
Stand above resentment.

Onward, in greater name,

to tireless work: for TRIUMPH!

On Reading Eliot's 'Preludes' or After the Jam

1.

You spoke of me tonight,
in nineteen hundred seventeen.
I did toss the blanket back
this morning. Now I write
and in the kitchen lean.
Only no cab horse stamps.
I've come home, made quiet
and a half glass of juice.
Unblocking the sluice
a daffodil wind blows
in soft glows over the alley
over voices, smoky, drifting hushed.
No light eager, no hand rushed.

2.

The half glass is orange,
the plants wear earthenware.
My energy's to spare-
thank gOd you came drumming.
The carpet felt my humming!
You brought guitars, whole voices
finally graced my room.
The room where I teach
and have craved the reach
of a new vibration: harmonies
of three- we- a constellation
in blues, making the merry way.

3.

We connected. I read
until my jewel of Indra's net
was still, afire, set
in synch with yours.
My slow city tours
passed cornered men and cats
owning their respective hats.
All fur and ears-
all rattles and cheers! Thank goD
you spoke and heard;
so evenly drummed;
I at last with evening hummed.

4.

The place I toil was beset
with newness of old sound.
A soul clean rising
and voice come around.
All my musical workings
hung like raindrop lurkings
over the day, the green.
There is so much to mean
in a city at rest;
classrooms made holy;
simple eyes
beholding what they see;
night, like words in time,
stealthy, slowly, free.

To Embrace

I cannot predict my next great joy.

Will it be poetic-a subtle flash of ink?

Will it be at school- preparing a child’s question?

Will it be walking upon a ceaseless beauty?


I cannot know.

Nor would I.


* * *


There is no stopping, no end to the push.

For Art, for Work, for Love, I remain

the eager boy. Only a hoper

of endings, a seeker of stoppage,

can I cease to be.


* * *


On we flourish,

rapid, sang-froid, silencing.



No kind of end is possible,

save that of fear.



* * *

From Here

Tonight, silent, calm,

I face rage.

Within me lives
a lurking beast
eager to injure.

It has ushered forth
unhalted

toward lovers, loves,
lost days.

Burned away, shunned,
no pity for the beast
remains.

* * *

From here,
only the hush.

A quiet sinking in.

A silence nearly mistaken for death.

* * *

My living is raging.

Wise ones

at a distance unearth

my song.

Heard in me

it seeks a way.

* * *

A tempting sleep may come.

The ease of rest.

Tiptoe of youth.


I will recharge

to rage.


Will it be anger?

Madness maturing?

* * *

Theirs is to uncover,

mine to see.

Mine is to open,

theirs to be.

Reminder

The scar begins like two roads
emerging from my hair,

then intersecting into a jagged "Y"
that slopes below my brow.

The odd feeling of nerves where
there's none is a decade old.

* * *

I remember nodding down, gripping
my snapped arm, then only red.

Must have been quite a gape
before 76 stitches laced

my forehead back together.
I don't remember any sewing

just awful tugging, needles
injecting more as I screamed.

* * *

We were on a bender, I drunkest
in the passenger seat

banging out a song on the dash,
no seatbelt or cares

for an icy night on roads
fortified by granite walls.

April Alyssum

Despite doubts
and cold rains

you came up.

In fact, you were so wild
to join my world

you bunched in, crowding

bodies and heads
like clamoring beasts.

I worried
your many roots
would battle and rob

each other,
a soil box being so
finite.

So I began to thin,

thinking maybe the greenest,
best leaves, or the longest

stems. A few

spunky little ones too.

For the emerging.

The Trouble With People

The trouble with people
is they say what is not

when you think it is.

Or else they say what is
when you think not.

Alone I know what is.
And I have what's not
to frame it.

Which is why

most days

I need people.

A Little Too Cold

I sang about her.

I sunk the seeds.

Wind and partial spring
hold the reigns.

* * *

Smoke.
And quit.
And smoke.

If it were hot
I'd stop.

* * *

April, are you cruel?

Are you merely a month,

and I a man, embryonic

within you, waiting?

Seduction at the Pier

As I move the ocean
moves.
When I stop

it rises, seizing
a chance to bellow,


You must be close!


Unflinching I listen.


Lean! You must lean
to see me!


I bow across the rail.


Now hear me warble!

In your distance I sleep.

You stroll, hardly aware.
Were you?

But of ANYONE
I contain multitudes! The Sea!

My towering body!
My undulating heart!

And these shifting bottoms!
Countless secret chambers-
untold plots sunken!



I contemplate
a wave.

Then rise and turn away.

A lapping whisper
arrests my ear:



And this endless mouth...
These smoothest curves...
All arching up to you,
the dry and watching...

Daylight

The owl's immensity
gripped my morning feet.

A winged cat, sailing

on forest breath,

he soared, swooped,

dove in weaving

silence.

I marveled like a child

when he lit.

I craved a seat

on the long pine arm,

to touch

his tawny crown of cool assurance.

He was a daylight gift.

Forever I stood, he sat.

Then he slipped

his sun meditation

like warm honey.

He unfurled and fell

aloft, dreaming again

of night,

when he is king

on the blue-black wind.

A Chelsea Park in Spring

Fly.

The silent twirls
of diving blossoms
are butterflies urged
to kiss the earth.

Spinning down thru Sunday calm
to lay beneath maternal limbs
held out with shading hands,
they are the lightly fallen.

They are the makers
of white petaled floors,
in final flutter
on tiny wings of bloom.

Stand.

Along the fence, lean glistening,
a silent army holds:
one mauve-tipped lavender,
one rich vanilla cream
licked with scarlet flames:

Tulips! Abounding, airing,
fluid and queenlike!
Outstretched beauty
on sleek fuels of green,
rising up to color cupped!

The hollow fingers
loft each flawlessness,
like damsels parading
before the eyes of a city.

Dance.

Full round fragrant bushels-

bold, heavy swaying blooms!

They bounce and tug,
trying at the arching tines
umbrellaed from
an age-thick cherry trunk.

The tree is a stout woman
in heaven's elaborate hat

drooped pink and wide,

content amid her bounty.
She is rich

as a son who walks
the evening in love;

rich as the summer's sea,
washed and perfumed

brilliant by the season.

Sing.

A soft game
of cloud-then-sun
over the breezy clang
of chains, bikes, buses,

and spiked iron gates
which proudly defend
the bench and flowering day.

Gleed out children
exert their right
to run and yell thru April's tossing.

Quiet men
invoke their right
to sit and sigh
thru April's blessing.