There is a certain summer wind
that blows in
Nebraska
balm of river & prairie
sun rewinding self to young
a summer wind
of
rolled-down
windows & strawberry boone’s farm wine
midnight drives
and
bike rides
high as
fireflies
legion ball & copper-tone sun on the wall
deep purple nights driving the ones
crickets
shallow river
sandbars & love
so much held in this certain summer wind
it has been days that feel like years since i've written any words
here
from that folded cerebellum
to hands that drip broken tea cups full of blossoming blue skies
and space
endless images drip behind my eyes inked--outlined
clouds once white become the leaves of songs
gifted offerings of birds & plastered dreams
what chapter is this?
what lies here with me--within this life?
the bark of summer trees or the borrowed aspects of others
i've gathered to my fragile flowered cups?
delicate presence awakening towards the sun
i have been there
in the space between barely breathing
thistles & vervain cushion my steps
but they have been few
always compassed towards you
yet
the sun shines on me right here with all my sweat & heartache
with all these scars i was told to keep out of the sun
because they will darken & thicken
yet
how thick they become with ignorance & disgust as well
so stand in the Sun
darken the scars
point your thistle vervain compass towards your own heart
towards your own Sky and Sun and Being
each morning rising with an almost unexpected spark
this wonderlife
filled & emptied
filled & emptied
joy to sorrow to pain to stasis to sorrow to joy
each breath a surprise
scraping against the tide
each movement a tender flight
how can we hold such multitudes at once?
our human magic a mystery
unknown to some
celebrated in the smaller things like the blues of a June morning
the slumber of a dog
the smell of a coming storm
becoming lost & found to the empty & full
becoming closer to our younger self . . . so wrapped in the velvet of tomorrows
brushing tangibly viscerally against moments past
(i can smell 1968)
people past
wonder & magic
sorrow & pain past
Oh how the veil thins
Oh the slumber of a dog
and all that remains ...
let go
hello morning . . .
there has been a cardinal chanting in the hackberry tree for forty-seven hours
and i wish to be nothing more
choose my branch
face the sun and sing
songs of warm wind & nests
of finding
of rest
all feathered porous red
summoning the sky
to be cardinal chanting . . .
Of tempest & tumult
of sweeping hills to fields in furious flower
becoming Boann in morning's glow of sun to river reflecting
face fair with emeralds gleaming
from Boyne to Platte--and back!
what power lies here? what child to bear? what challenge?
Oh lies & fear none must taste
but strength in deception's turn
as one is fallow the other ripe as a peach
as alive as this speckled salmon dancing
ah! to command the sun to stand still
summer & youth take root as from slumber one returns
in solstice springs love & poetry plenty
wisdom's wonder there in storms firing
rivers thunder away from winter's chill away from iron rules
away from form & fools
to
the sea and the swallowed depths of aqua longing
of tempest & tumult I will weave of this day a tale of hazelnuts & song
Oh Boann!
to have loved her differently
with more oranges and browns in the
paint box along with the fine-toothed repulsion oh! how
mirrors reflect merely the red buds in Spring along with the bliss as
blackbirds and fire are indifferent to the thrumming noise
and marbles as I am indifferent
to the copper fear tasting of decayed gardens
and a bit of blood
oh! how joy looks so far away from the jacquard window this morning oh! how
i long for sleep sleep sleep amongst cats and rain
oh! how
to have love her differently
with more oranges and browns would have allowed me to hate her
differently too
rain rings drums ridiculously against the roof as distant thunder rumbles
merely midnight or closer to morning?
awake aware
muddy--muddled—some part of me remains in some dreamscape dancing
ridiculous how the rain sounds like 1962
rising
reaching for redemption
i go quietly silently so as not to walk the sleeping ones
to watch
before windows awash in exacting wet tracings of this thunderstorm
lightening backlighting birch & linden trees
so still so quiet except for rumbly rain & thunder quaking
when i was a child i would find my father quietly silently smoking--sitting with a scotch
in his white terry cloth robe
while storms brewed & boiled in the dark
ridiculous how this rain brings me back to 1962
is it merely midnight or closer to morning?
turning to glance at the time across the room
i discover it is midnight
and i return to the waiting dancing dreamscape
the rumbling birth of stars
great horned owls
trains & leavings
from shadows i linger
wrapped in velvet night as familiar as my own breath
from shadow i linger
wondering how we got here and will my death become a sparrow?
from shadows i linger
observing the blackness of secrets as they lie beneath the linden tree
from shadows i linger
listening to the collide of the cosmos
no cloaks no masks
no labyrinths of glass
heroes sometimes come unasked
between the lightening cracks
one smells of lavender
one of larks
one with feathers one with a bark
pearly white--scruffy & wise
heart of a lion with walnut eyes
one comes dressed in flannel true
(that one is you)!
and the one that comes last
is of sweet golden prairie grass
heroes come as violets & birds
dogs
people
red buds & earth
to see their hearts & know their worth
playing the game from death to birth
the agate secret one carries inside
these heroes unmasked
become our guides
said the button to the thread
i don't want to be led
not tied & buttoned to a shirt
i don't want this bind this place to lie
unmoving forcibly dead
i am the shape of a wheel, the moon & the sun!
able to roll & tumble & run
i wish to be free from the flannel & form
to be a free button
evermore
said the thread to the button i've no wish to bind
my preference is to be spooled, quiet, inline
no needles no task
i wish to hold fast
to my sweet bobbin paradigm
i've no wish to capture
to sew & enrapture
this task set forth from above
i've no wish to pin you down
to keep you from running around
so flat & bound
i merely wish to be wound
'round my spindle so sound
simple & smooth
evermore
the button rolled free
to seek fields & trees
as the thread wound round its wooden spool
no marriage to flannel
no button sewed, bound & facile
just two things that matter now
better apart than before
button & thread
evermore
Celadon
comes the day from mossy dreams slumber
rising rising
movement wicked--articulated back to leg to arm
beholding a day forecast green-grey
thunderstorms forming unencumbered
by night
by this skin/bone collide (how verdant veins lie
upon outstretched possibilities charm)
seafoam turbulence with crocodile rain
falling in artichoke torrents severity
no brevity
but wicked-articulated rising rising waves of nori destruction
coming coming it is
while all i can do is recall pistachio dreams
of meadow & willow fields afar
wake--prepare
meet the storm with an olive branch of forgiveness
celadon comes the day
fern bright will come the morrow
spirits & ghosts
thoughts grey
the hunting kind
trapped in arbors thick
wild with over-ripe acceptance lined
stay away from the yellow
stay away from darkness binding
oh you spirts & ghosts
the hunting kind
no longer a child susceptible to golden charms & wily ways
with precious fruit awaiting ....
with pearls of amethyst & shells a thousand years old
no longer a child hiding from the hunter behind a pink sky
i am the moon
i am night--part ghost part wild hope
with ease
i slip beneath the bell jar
trapped & separate from the tangible
content in the capture
to rest
so tightly held
so highly removed from the churning of the ordinary
this wrapped nucleus of jade silken despair
rest comes as chrysalis
removed to this dome of glass
to await the mandarin & black of flight
and
the sweetness of milkweed
a place space reachable by a narrow silver thread on a Spring morning
when the wind is out of the north north-west at
8 miles an hour
not a cloud in the sky
there i reside
against the open wings of a sandhill crane
on a track for Calgary ....
there will be blue
tied with white ribbons of silk to the cycles of the coyote moon
a place reachable
an empty space to fill in
with all the spare parts; love, metal, matter & might
no anchor here
only feathered things that take you to blue
where
the sky tattoos your light
Take me there ...
to a land between two rivers
of rubles & tremors
lies a fertile valley wide
mountains to each side
tower to a blue sky undisturbed
flowers grow here in the Fergana Valley
flowers grow;
the crepe myrtle
euphorbia milii
china rose & kalanchoe
pomegranate cotton
oleander
trumpets flowers & cotton
four-o'clocks & marigolds
buttercups
tulips
poppies
flower carpets unroll
from the chul, tau, adyr & yaylau
flowers grow in a valley tucked in .... and we didn't know this before this moment
take me there
The Flower Festival of Namangan
remembering crinoline and softness and smallness the first time touching a pony's nose and the sound of meadowlarks
remembering wonder
remembering the smell of freshly mown grass, rain & my mother's perfume
remembering hats and cigarettes and black and white television and death
remembering feeling treasured
remembering feeling invisible
remembering the wide rive rand friends and school days and new clothes, laugher and love and sex and the fire ring of immortality
remembering feeling invisible
remembering death again
remembering independence and the ability to know more, experience more, touch more and that smell of pine trees that follows you everywhere and striving for the unnamed unknown quotient
remembering discovering Boulder
remembering the day I left the earth for other horizons and what that brought, cost, lost
remembering the dead rattlesnake on the highway from Boulder
remembering how I've known the love of the best dog ever and how the hole never gets smaller
remembering coming home to self
remembering the bright power of a sunrise that shines so canary bright as the dark lightens to an alice blue morning and there are two grandchildren waking to hunger & possibility and newness
remembering everything
remembering is a funny thing painted as it is by perception & age & atmosphere and the dreams one has and the sense of being not born on the right planet not born in oneself exactly and carrying the weight of bluejays and crane migration and importance of matter
remembering the importance of matter
remembering the song of meadowlarks ....