Just before nightfall
your new leaves
softly sway
in the cool delta breeze,
your limbs glint
in flames
a deeper shade
where rough trunk rises
from clambering vines,
to violet fire.
Oh! Dance with the angels!
Dance with Lord
of the Trees!
His breath will stir you to passion,
His song will lull you
to sacred sleep.
Deep inside my silence
words glow like burning stones
plunging to dark waters.
Share with me my holy fire!
With joyful shouts,
we’ll flood the hidden rivers.
But if you leave
I cease.
My words die
without your eyes,
molder to
faded stains.
So come into my heart
and sing with me
this mystic chant!
We’ll be madmen,
hunting diamonds in the dark.
Wind stirs in expectation; it
softly strokes my face.
The March sun reassures me,
warms pale flesh
through layers of thick sweater
and winter coat.
Under indigo hills
new grass flows,
yellow and green,
as past distant ranges,
to the sky-bright, rounded sea
he flees and sends us
a gift of clouds,
aflame
in glory.
Peace be with the grass of the fields!
Peace
to dark hills and drifting clouds,
and to the sacrificial sun
peace!
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“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will.” Thomas Merton Rushing from shower to sink, I heard the TV And I stopped, all schedules forgotten, transfixed Calmly, the newsman speculated This was no accident,then, this morning violence, and I wondered I wanted to go on with my own day, I saw a suited businessman, I heard the shrill, muffled And I knew in that moment we all are falling into our dark, quiet center The Eternal, as our shattered bodies rise (9/11/2011) |
Photo: Brian Federle, San Francisco Homeless, 2014.
Walking through the dusty grove
we talked of death and empty graves
when a stranger suddenly appeared.
He walked with us and asked why we trembled so.
Amazed that he seemed not to know
of the blood and pain in Jerusalem,
we told him
how dark the day became, how the sun slid down
to shivering night
when, broken, our friend was placed in the cave.
Rebuking us for our lack of faith,
he explained how it was all foretold in the ancient books;
from Adam to David, the inevitable grave
insatiably claims
corrupt humanity
until now.
We heard, eyes cast down,
when at Emmaus he broke
our common bread
and looking up, we saw Him.
His face was blazing like the sun!
We blinked, and then he was gone,
but the bread remained.
But there are so many
To be considered.
The sky, for example,
Is blue today
And white clouds
Are gliding
Over the green continent.
Meanwhile, under the trees
Up Bonny Dune Road
Antennae tremble in the
breeze
While a bird hovers
Momentarily
And dives.
And what about me?
Suppose I’m driving towards Davenport
And I turn too fast
Around the smooth curve
And, seeing the bearded man
Bent over his tripod,
His camera aimed
At the glittering creek
I hear the screaming horn
Of a head-on pickup-truck
And crashing glass
Suddenly fills
My flaring eyes . . . .
. . . . or maybe I swerve in time
And drive on to Davenport,
To the Whaler Inn,
And with my camera
Search for the right shot –
A white church
Against brown hills.
But today I sit alone in the living room
Listening to Mozart , waiting for you
I watch as the cat stretches
By an open window
And stroke her warm fur,
Black silk in silver sunlight
On the dark red carpet.
(1977: re-posted 2017)
I can see it coming,
small in the distance
just a spot at first,
but I know
it’s coming for me
sure-air, clear
cross-hairs
frame my soul,
zero-in
on my languid pen
til, joyfully I bolt
for the house, tear
through dark rooms,
turn on my dim light,
and breathlessly wait
for the poem
to strike.
They came suddenly.and see how new grass
lifts green glory
to absolute blue.
Look how swarming gnats
dash in passion,
vortex of life,
swirling whirlpool
in liquid light.
The jay waits
on shadowed fence,
as jeweled hummingbirds
float
in a sea of roses,
nectar drunk,
May-mad.
(1 May 2011)
poems 