On a Clear Morning

The bird swoops downward
Without fear.
He knows a rising arc
Arrives as soon as
Ground is near.

An Ode to York

The Way York Walks, Remembers
The footfalls gather like moths to fire
While stone walls walk canvassing the city:
Entire. Complete. History—as they say—
Repeats.
On Coney Street the masses gather,
Arching forwards towards
A café where they can stay, sway,
Maybe
Share the moment that momentum
Has claimed already.
On Stonegate, purple pencils
The lines of our faces,
Traces each emotion like rain
That fades only after days.
Whip-Ma-what-did-you-say
In an endless chorus of robust
Street performers:
Fire, Drums, and the Beginning of Days
That reach like nights into
Memories that like living,
Always living.
Never repeating.
And York, like a man unadorned,
Finally stands in the deep end of the pool:
School term over,
Harried living ends,
And the messengers in pigeon suits
Gather round the fluted breadcrumbs.
Eating, eating, always eating—
Digesting the history, the you,
And the me.

How We Know

This is the sound a poem makes:
Flapping wings pushing air;
But the air, too:
Fleeing for new space.

A poem aches
With the kind of grace
That arrives only from
Suffering we can taste.

Because our hunger is so acute.
So finite.

In one number,
A poem moves a thousand ways--
Dancing not just for me or you.
It has to: unanalyzed.

We know when we meet it
Because its stubborness
Is quiet, unrelenting--
As our stomachs, hearts.

Charlie McNarry Has a Query

Yolanda Mews has exciting news:
"Anything times zero is zero!"
The teacher nods, munches pretzel rods,
Says, "But don't think you're some kind of hero."

Beatrice Shelly has a pain in her belly.
"I need to go to the nurse!"
The teacher's head shakes, he eats his cakes,
Says, "Not until you're much, much worse!"

Charlie McNarry has a query:
"What makes the sky so blue?"
The teacher sighs and east his fries,
Says, "Does the sky ever ask about you?"

Phil Brigands has a worm in his hands:
"Look, it's so slimy and cool!"
The teacher yells, belches taco shells,
Says, "Touch it again and you're out of this school!"

A few weeks pass; teacher has gas.
"Oh, my poor poor belly is aching!"
He falls to the ground, sees a worm sitting down.
The ache makes him cry, look up at the sky.
He pleads for a hero to make the pain equal zero.

Charlie and Beatrice, Yolanda and Phil
Go down to the nurse and get him a pill.
Teacher says thank you, teacher feels great.
That night, at home, teacher stays up late.
A book lays on his lap as he falls asleep:
The Science of the Sky is one he'll keep.

Alternate Mapping

It's one of those things
You can't control:
What tides bring, how sun sings.

Content to settle with clouds,
To leap from pavement,
Or lay in valleys, pool unproud.

You don't want to, anyway.
You know it's not to know,
But to live the unknown
In ways steady and new--
Dancing barefoot on soft grass,
Rain the only room around you.

Gratitude lives a life hidden.
Old habit, really.
But your knuckles at his door,
Then a warm cup of tea:
Better than knowing more,
Stronger than what you see.

It

We cut our fingernails,
Peel back the sleep from our eyes.

We pull the stray hairs off,
Watch them fall.

Crooked eyes make for
The straightest disguise:

We wear the face of humanity--
Our imperfect noises, ideas, cries.

In the face of despair,
We turn our tired eyes towards

Light.

However dark our lives,
We rise.

Against all logic,
all fear,
all confusion,
all despair.

We rise like rain
That bounces off rock:

Too bold too stay,
Too strong to remain.

Made for more than this,
More than superficial bliss,
We rise.

And while we stand,
The crooked of our pain remains,
But the straight of the sun dances
Like it's new again.

Like it's piercing holes in
Despair.

Like the Nothing that we
Worshipped was a sham.


(I wrote this poem while listening to the following song on YouTube over and over, and over and over, and over and over. And again. Hold Us Together by Matt Maher

Tonight

Sweeping the kitchen floor,
Washing dishes,
Picking pasta remains off my bare feet:
Singing "The Eye of the Tiger."

A new kind of tiger.
A new kind of eye.

Poem to End the Month

On the walk home from this week's Public Speaking class, the words for this poem trickled even though the sky was a rare rainless clarity and the stars were bright, and the air--the air!--was unseasonably warm. So: a poem to end the month.

In Teaching

The way, after a good class,
That learning remains

Stays like rain
That drips after it falls

Wetting the ground beneath
Our feet, on which we stand

In all composure,
Compassion.

Brief Poem on a Slow Evening

Wait for the words
That wake like dew--
Whose origin you never see,
Whose presence is always true.

A Way How

You fear the sun will never rise--
You sleep beneath covered skies
And your mind rages with love's loss, the lies.
Child: be.

Open your eyes where they have not opened before.
Will your heart to see the shining all around.
Stand and speak aloud against
Every despair that crowds
Like an angry leech, like the thundering leak.

Your words can call forth
The most humble of all glories:
They can paint the sunrise
God first gave us.

Woman, Man: tell your stories.
In so doing, cast darkness aside.

Dreaming after Dreaming

In early morning mumbles,
Before reason asserts its measurements,
Allow your heart to playfully tumble
Upon its miasmic sentiments.

Walk softly where the ground has cracked;
Kiss the feet of those who weep.
Their laughter, one day, resembles
All the sleeping visions your soul keeps.

Holding the Moment

The confirmation of a call cannot
Be known in the outcome alone--
Not in reactions,
Not in hungers or satisfactions.

Uncover more soil.
Peer below and roll the roots
Across your soul's fingers.
Imprint the image of a larger view
Upon the sky that blankets you.
Contentment never breathes within perfection,
But dances in what is far more real, true.

When Words Mean

Words without roots
Sometimes flower.
They may pass from
Mind to mouth and back
With all the splendor
Of an hour.

But they carry no power.

In silence, should you
Plant the seeds of action,
The words that grow
Do more than birth faction--
Like food, we feel their weight,
Warming us against despair, hate.

Our Longing

I'm not sure why it is that whenever life grows calm, and quietness saunters all around, I turn to poetry. If I sit long enough in a chair, or on a couch, or on the carpet, or on half of a pillow, or even should I lean (for a long time) against a wall, it's like my fingers start itching and I wonder, Do I need to apply some lotion? Lotion-y goodness? Slimy slippery stuff to the rescue?

And sometimes, indeed, it's true: my skin has cracked a bit from the coldness, and lotion is what it's all about, Home Slice.

But other times, in these quiet moments, when the need for lotion is quelled or calmed, my fingers itch for another reason. And they creep towards that fountain pen Jen bought for me for my birthday, and they whisper, Poetry! Poetry! We want POETRY! (Okay, it's kind of a loud whisper--more like a chanting kind of whisper, I guess).

This morning, they did the itching thing, and here's the poem they crafted:

Our Longing

Power is more parasite than partner--
This, we know.
We don't crave control:
Crushing dead leaves yields
Only the sound of a show.

Longing for voice,
We walk the long way
Round the world's stage.
Should one, even one,
Meet our eyes and hear our words,
We'll spend our lives
Singing that reprise
In a theater where
Power is absurd.

A Morning Poem

Today, Jennifer and I woke to the alarm, trying to start a new routine of waking early, before our little man beckons us arise with the sound of his melodious voice regaling the glory of UPTRUCKS!

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about revision--the hard work of revising writing, rewriting sections, re-envisioning characters and ideas and scenes. But this has led me into pondering the revision of life, too--the hard work of, well, revising sections of our lives, the characters we've become, the ideas we house, and the scenes we people.

So, during this early morning, I scribbled the following poem on revision:

After Birth

First attempts sprout like fire--
Their germination is surrounded
By the warm air of possibility.
But coldness always comes,
And busy hands tire.

Hold the palms you would forsake
Before your very face.
Breathe softly onto them,
Warming them for the task ahead.
Learn to believe again.

Revision does not leap in flame,
But its dream is still the same:
To grow a new creation,
To release it by name.
It will sprout legs and walk to tame
The beasts of doubt, despair,
Fear, and fame.

A Poem for Today

This morning, the sky in York was bright and blue and beautiful. No sight of rain. With an early cup of coffee, I climbed the stairs to our tiny study, opened my old blue pad, and wrote the following poem.

The things that cannot shake
Do not speak in our currency.
Their exchange rate mocks our money--
Of what value is paper, gold, or worry?

The things that cannot shake
Enter through holes we have not plugged;
They surface on the wounds we forsake;
They stand on the moments we might begrudge.

The things that cannot shake
Make love real--
Where the soul, in passion, refuses to break,
When the heart, in humility, will kneel.