here

in the sun
a blue bowl
with remnants
of silk
soymilk
pink handle
spoon
jutting out
in jousting motion
at the box of
more
i drink the scene
of boy returning
learning
on-line
spanish
doing
homework
alongside
his
poetic
mother
we are both
drinking
each other
a little
bit
in

jungle love

steve miller band sings jungle love from book of dreams
i watch on xm
the floating time and place marker that bounces
from the edges of the screens
i write
poetry
today
i sit
i move between ancestors and alchemy
spirit guides and cleaning up
move through the day following my own impulses
to various soundtracks
downstairs, the dead can dance
upstairs, jungle love
across the room a piece of toast
stands in the toaster
waiting for butter
bacon waits
to be eaten
i have served the dead
and this living one
bounces back and forth
between her facebook life
and her ac-chat
i am here
hearing
the bird calls and bass beat
of jungle love
it's driving me mad
it's making me crazy

day 7

clean

there is something
a blank slate
a white wall
a deep breath of spring
a wash of light and air
freedom

dirty

there is something
a black slate
a white stare
a deep ache of stale winter
a slosh of muck and wear
freedom

words

lonely
muse
hung
poetry
painted
flashing
bard
rushed
writing
feeling
slow
pushed
speaking
night

courtesy of stumbling onto shadow poetry's magnetic word poetry:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/magnet.html

poet's challenge: a poem on something missing

he is somewhere else
my lover
he is on the moon
he is under the sun
he is riding the pollen to
grecian urns of flowers flowering
in sacred circles of elusian
mysteries unfolding
he is gone, off
picking wildflowers from the side
of some other road
he is missing in action
he is out of time
he is gone
and yet
the sun rises
sends its rays to connect me
and the moon, she comes too
and brings all of her universes
of stars
and love spills out from every basket
dripping joy on every floor
the earth sings, sings the story
and joy is mine once more
so is he missing?
is he gone?
or has he sprung from everything?
is he here?
am i wrong?
or is it love that gives these wings
their joy of flight
throughout the night
a flying kind of dream
i go, we kiss, i wake again
back where he is not
what happens now?
to missing things?
when missing is forgot?

is it a poem

if i say it is
if i use my mouth
to form the quiet words
in the silent space
of chirping crickets
and faded tv
from too far away
and music
from somewhere else
with the drum beat of churning laundry
in the washing machine
and the hum of spastic keys
struck with deliberate chi
moving
across the wide and open
space
of soon to be forgotten
is it a poem
if i say it is?
these utterances of moment
trapped in strange american words
spoken in the head of the poet
as she types the black letters
of an unutterable alphabet
is it a poem
if i say it is?
is it my poem?

one day while stumbling...

one day while stumbling i found write rhymes--and this is what i wrote:

here i sit
i be
i beat
here with wit
and need
and feet
i do not walk
along the dock
i still the out
from now
i will the pout
to row
and so the fighting
on it goes
with all the righting
of the woes
i see and sit
i write my wit
with none to share
beyond

tuesday, may 13

here i sit
startled into joy
by the jutting poem
emerging as clear
inspiration
from the granite
sandwich.
i pause in the pausing
place
the bamboo worn
away
by impatient
footprints
wanting to get
closer
to the
miracle
of these
unexpected
words.
i read the gift of them
came from you,
dear tobi earnhart gold
age 9
from my favorite
bolinas, california
a river of words
contest
winner
how old are you
now?
and how did you
know
your
words
would give me
pause
to see this place
this glorious
walnut
creek
and cause me,
as you have
to spend some looking time
seeing, at last,
your grandmother tree.
fallen
as she may be
your words
have brought her
and indeed this
place
finally
alive
to me.

moment momentus

here
sitting
in the
deep
yes
of this
collaboration
i come
to
this
shell
of
moment
momentus
here
i
be
a
poet
in
residence
residing
in
my
own
white
car.

seeing

oh without
camera to
capture this
to spread across
the weight of
white--
to capture the
shadow of hand
holding pen
dancing
its up and down
undisciplined
in the rightness
of its letters
cast as they
are the medicine
of shadows
releasing
their contents
holding still
both writers
hand and
dancing pen
there is a world
a way--a
standing
in the way of
the light
that causes
them
all
to be
here
on this
page
this brush
of memory
this veil
of light
lifted
to expose
itself
in
these
red
words

a glimpse cast
and then escaped
there is no re-creation of this
moment
here.

i notice this

i notice this
the point of entrance
the space of spill
a clear point
a tip
a ball roller rolling
allowing the ebb and flow
of lifeblood
of red ink
to move past that block
that rolling ball
to pointed freedom
the promised land
of the blank
page
littered now
with the
thingness
of this
poem.

i begin

i begin
sitting
in the
art car
waiting
without waiting
to spill the shadow
breath
memory
onto this
waiting
page

are you amy?

it's a weekend of poetry
of course, you come too--
what did you do, say,
tell me? when you thought
this might be the last
moment with your granddaughter?
you knew julie, too--
why no poem for her?

are you amy? born just
as you were buried?
i
stay in the assignment:
an image:

i remember the blue dress
on the doll--the strange
shaped teeth, the eyes
that flapped open and closed
the ringlets of the reddish
hair--the strange covering
of things--the white cloth
body--not white--
aged cloth--even then
as creme like--
yellowed--as this
page of yours i write on.

balls 3, for ms. c. e. moore

it is in the noticing--
the catching glimpse of the world
rolling its way down oregon street
on its way into the lake of merit
of yes, of still and how and in this
moment here and now
that captured wholeness
floating by
the real of wondering
wondering why
that reel of seen
forgotten still
that thing that's not forgot
a sliding foot
unraveling ball
a looking still
without a wall
a wonder not at this be true
a seeing still
through eyes of you
and yet
and still
and round
or flat
or even that the end is that
i wonder, yet,
is this still true?
they eyes of what becomes of you
i love the shadow
pinching
out
the real imagined
here
on out
and words
so luscious
rolling by
the ball to find
and wonder
sigh

just one silence

just one
silence
shimmering
in the space
for maria
in cluded
here as
what could
have been
if the gift
of her
came wrapped
in human
packaging
to this
joyful
saturday
circle
of lovely day spilling inot
remem-
bered
silences
still.

a song begins itself anew

one finds oneself
on an afternoon spin
spinning in
spilling again
the wind
ahhhhhhhhhhh
and the wind
through the reed
does seem to do the deed
the wind through the need
does seem to take the lead
and so the deeper part of yes and no
lead the reed upon its steed
and song, instead
is still misled
in longing wanders
through the sound
of up and down
and down
and down
and long belonging
ringing round
the flutter of some shuttered gloom
released in flight around the room
a song begins itself anew
a world is born inside the tune
and so it comes and blows its go
and off to weary worlds ago
the last of what is only sound
stays deep inside the song
a gentle note sung loud and long
a window to a dream
i know
i know a dream
i know i know
and dream a dream to one day show
the wilting yes just how to grow
a deeper yes to root and show
that seeds that sleep so deep inside
in quiet times can only hide
but once the music calls them out
they stretch, unfurl and bring the shout
oh breath be deep
and note be long
the sound is longing
on to dawn

the poetry is coming

the poetry is coming
i can hear it in my head
the poetry is coming
let me go to sleep instead
the poetry is coming
i am not in the mood for company
the poetry is coming
i am not where i need to finally be
the poetry is coming
not now, i need a job
the poetry is coming
not here, i feel a fraud
the poetry is coming
i'm not ready, not today
the poetry is coming
not to me, not this way
the poetry is coming
i'm not a poet, can't you see
the poetry is coming
no, not to me. not to me.
the poetry is coming
maybe later i will play
the poetry is coming
i'm unwilling to get out of my own way
the poetry is coming
no the poetry is not
the poetry is coming
whether you like it or not.