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.

poetic response to bucher's monster 161

a whale eye
left from the whale tale
once told
over a campfire made of
golden gold
a tongue got a waggin
and that made it happen
the legs of three
the dream of me
i start the journey
riding onward
thoughts of you
push me ever goneward
this the wind of
what has been
i see my spiral way
beyond the wait of wit
and thought of spit
i clobber long
beyond this song
of one six one
to know the fun
of one just where
one grows.

who knows tomorrow
what i'll do
or who will come
along with poo
to show the shoe
just what to do
when it is third
put
on.


see http://344design.typepad.com/344_loves_you/

up

up
early
before the sun
before the dawn
of the day
just making itself
inside this darkness
a blanket
of dreams
to cover up with
to cuddle under
i am here
awake
typing these quietudes
these shallow breaths
turned deep
i am in it
this night
about to become
mourning
in the morning
and i know
it, too,
is a kind of
birth
of what cannot
be born
on this side
of dawn.

love

the patient, kind, kind
the enduring, never fails kind
the kind i have
the kind you are
the kind i always forget i've bought
and go seeking to collect
again
from the wealth you have already
offered me
the not boastful kind
the never self-seeking kind
i forsake
in pursuit of seeking
myself
where do i forget to put
this wealth that has already
been bestowed
where?
in my pile of options
and wreckage
and loss
and failure
do i keep the treasure
of you?

who's dream are you?

oh, my expanding soul
unrolling at the edges
to spread, again,
out.
i am lost in my need
desperate and deep
calm and assured
for this love
showing
powerfully
up
in my rich, wide life

i have waited
without waiting
i have walked
each solitary step
of my own journey
to arrive here
with you
in this place
of new beginnings
to begin, again,
the walk i have made
alone
this time, together
and i long to come to
the end of the journey
i have known alone
and go on
up
to the precipice
of highest heights
where i have only dreamed
of going
one step
at a time
but of course
one can't get to the
place of flying
by walking
no matter how many
share the journey
to get where i long to
one must use wings
and not words
to float on currents
of air
to get to the place
of dreams
come
true
and you
must know this
fellow seeker
and so
for as long as it
feels good
we'll share the walk
and when we are called
each to our individual
flights
it is inevitable
we fly
off
alone

with the nesting dolls of hearts
each
inside the others
in the eternal soul
of souls
whose dream
we live
to bring
true

this

this moment
recognizing
in these seconds
the deep
rich
fulfillment
of months
and years
of dreams
yearnings
toward this
recognition
i am here
with you
this
is
home

collaboration

the art of the every moment
the standing in line
the coming together in life
the sitting, each to himself,
in the quiet of the self-obsessed
shattered by connection
a word
a color
a spark
of recognition
of the sameness
of the differences
of the impulse to share
shared
a covenant of two or more
gathered in the name
of more than one
together
sharing the limited supply
of endless possibility
and taking
tearing
speaking
gluing
taping
decorating
making something special
in this moment
in this presenting now
in the company of others
for as little
for as long
the exchange, now permanently bound
by a shared memory
can become, again, in the distance
of cutting ones self off from the
togetherness
a single, solitary, one-sided obsession
but the moment
the time shared
the words exchanged
the *seeing* of the same set of seconds
in time
oooooooooooooooooooooooooh, then
if we might string those together,
might we have a better look
at the totality of our togetherness?
of the face of god?
of who we be to one another?
of what we look like?
of the world we make?
that can not, does not, will never exist
ever again
without some moment
some intersection of shared?

here

still
quiet
in the cinnamon morning
on the nutmeg couch
saying yes to everything
yes
yes
yes
yes
yes
discernment clouds my open mind
i want the healthy joy
of yes
and i look at my pilings up
of yesses
my long absence caused by excess
and wonder
aloud
what to do with all this?
it is time to cut away
to clear a path
to move on
out the door
into the wider world
of unknown
and yet
i cannot
truly
let go
of all that goes
with me

and so i sit in the afterglow of crumbs
and taste the dregs of mocha longings
and feel the swell of spice
inside my nasal passages
i am going on a journey
across tempests and droughts
and i will be okay
as soon as i can
let go
of the
shore...

i called her
she answered
i must have an in and out
i met her
we had it
i went on
driving away
all the juice of the experience
dripped out of me
and i was left
alone
with myself
and i came home
and folded laundry
and changed the sheets
and made a book for the guest room
and gave up my studio for good
and then i found her
i stumbled onto her
ms. suziblu
and she reminded me
i am
i cannot help but be
i am good for nothing else
but art
and so i zipped my bit of inspiration
across the ether of zeros and ones
and shared what i found
what i stumbled upon
and then i had enough
of whatever i haven't had enough of lately
to show up here
and begin again
again

peace and me, them and free

they're dead now
my uncles
who flew combat missions in korea
and survived what it was to be in the army
when in the army was the thing honorable men
were in
and now
now
whenever i see a man in uniform
a woman in uniform
i want to buy their groceries
want to pay for their coffee
want to treat them to whatever they're
standing in line with me trying to buy
'cause they, like it or not,
are willing to kill for me
die for me
go to war for me
when all i want is peace.
and still, they, these precious humans
who share the same air
in the same line in safeway
risk to keep our country free
for me to pursue peace
while they defend
what they perceive
as free.

how long?

digging through the boxes
the bookshelves
the piles of paper,
fort like,
built up around you,
marking your territory,
with all the important things
you were always afraid to store
out of view
there was nothing from me
nothing from you
about anything
that wasn't work
or money
how long had you lived without love?

digging

deep
down
six feet
in the cold dark earth
the body of my father
lays
eyes forever closed
hands cold
fingernails growing

and i want to dig in the earth this spring
this california spring turning fast into summer
this good green earth browning fast
on all the dried out edges
of not enough rain

and i have not, yet
save for the accidental planting
with my baby girl
as we put her various pea plants
in pots
and watered
what did not sprout
in time for the science fair

but the bulbs we pushed into the ground
are cutting open the earth with their green swords
so anxious they are to grow tall
to grow open

and i am encouraged by their appearance
above the ground
i am encouraged by their sentry promise
six inches from each other in a long straight line
of warning
and i look to them, hoping
i look to them, hoping

and i remember when they sprout
my sister will come
and she'll be damn gladiola to see me
and together, maybe
i'll be brave enough
to again dig in this burial ground

whale watching

and it was an early morning
and a late arrival
and just as everyone boarded the bus
we joined the line
and got on
and rode
and rode
and rode
the bumpy way
to monterey

and arrived
and got out of the bus
and walked in the rain
and boarded the crowded boat
and went in bumpy exuberance
off
toward the great unknown
of the deepest waters
of possibility

and we carried our dreams with us
our great white whales of imagination
and looked to the vast black ocean
and saw ripples and waves
and things that might be
things that could be
things we imagined
things we wanted to see

and when the boat stopped
and the voice on the microphone
told us what time to look at
and what to see
and named what we were seeing
we saw it
her words brought it out of the darkness
and into the seeable

and in the seeing
we saw the spray
and then, a split second later,
the long black bodies
of up to that moment
only imagined great fish

whole whales
from someone else's photographs
were brought into a wider view
by just a sliver of long black length
above the waves
and we saw

we saw

we saw

we really saw
for the very first time in our lives
no matter how many times we've seen them before
these long black moments
of whale

and this miracle of seeing
continued
up and down the rocky waves
of deep, dark water
and with every sighting
we held our breath
and moved, as she called out the hour
from starboard to port
and looked off the bow
toward forever
and saw all our imaginings
realized
in the real thing

the real thing
flanked by others
a pod
a family
breeching and diving
deep
deeper
into the under water depths
of our ignited imaginations
burning
bursting
with what it is
what it was
what it will continue in memory to be

a searing moment
a far lean off the rail
a longing and looking out
with the spirit of expectancy
and the sheer joy
of windy seeing
what was once only an idea
an image
someone else's picture

and in that moment
what had only been a caged beast
was there, off the boat,
in the blubbery black flesh
of the wide, alive water
in glinting daylight
REALLY real
our whales
alive
in the wild
with each of us
seeing each of them
for the very first
unforgettable
time

and so i enter you

and so i enter you
i find you right away
see you as i walk in
know you
you are mine
my soul opens up
in the knowing
you are in this room
and still i walk
the gallery of others
try on the could bes
and almost decide to go
with newer choices
keeping away from my love

but in the end
in the beginning
and the middle
and the end
i claim you
you claim me
with that father’s hand
black skin joy
under yellow sun
all your knuckles
outlined in your
reach
toward
heaven
and i lay down
underneath you
and look up to
reach as you
are reaching
with my hand
that fits in yours
and i
wander
up through
the yellow desert
to the book of love
layed open
and finger your
weary binding
and caress your
rusty longing
and remember
i met you first
in your book
of words
and i look up
up to the heaven
you reach for
i contemplate
the climb
i find
exalted
the red woman
i am
arms upstretched
to an exalted sky
triumph
joy
heaven
we will climb
one day home







inspired by the opportunity to enter mary mountcastle eubank's painting: book ladder tree 2, currently on view at the JFKU Arts & Consciousness Gallery at 2956 San Pablo Avenue, 2nd Floor, Berkeley, CA, through 4/19/07.

togetherness

and on this day
of celebration
with people flying in
i sit this quiet morning
and find my knees to pray
for safe arrival
for glory on the path
for quiet bits of wisdom
for journeys through the traps
and safely, may we sweet arrive
to smile our smiles and grins
together
in this aftermath
of all that we have been
through the dream of healing
we will come and find our way
i had the thought to offer you
i had the need to pray
and now the coming, sweet
together
after all that's come and gone
we come together,
her and i
we come and sing our songs
and so the sewn of sewing
gets our wild oats up and gone
and now, in this sweet middle age
the journey's still the one
i mark the tide with all entitlements
we come to in this time
i sing the song of something's up
and know we'll find the rhyme
to sit and know we come and go
to find our time to now
we give this gift
togetherness
we find our way
some how

empty

at the end
of the
exhausting
day
there is
just the
needle
in the
dangerous left edge
of the glaring graphic
to indicate
you are running
on E
and there is
nothing
to restore you
but sleep
and you pray
it's dreamless
tonight
please,
the inspiration
is better than
any drug
and far
too
hard
to come
down
from
and
getting addicted
to inspiration
is a little
like
being addicted
to foreign oil
and it is
always
so
expensive
costing
your
whole
self
out there
naked
in the lonely
wind
of who cares
and who
does
she
think
she
is
and
it
more than all the trying
is the most trying
the thing that
leaves
you
longing
for dreamless
sleep
for respite
from the
inspiration
and all it
causes you
to try
in the wind
of indifference
caring
leaves
you
empty

her

its a certain shade of burgandy
that reminds me
or a quiet bench
in moonlight
that reaches back
across the years and miles
to another woman
i was trying to be
when i found myself
with myself
on a bench
in the moonlight
in the english countryside
almost wearing
a certain shade of burgandy
reminding me
no matter who i was trying to be
i wasn't what i wasn't
and couldn't be
though i tried
and wanted to
and loved
what was happening
on that bench
in the moonlight
in the english countryside
with her

THIS IS THE HOME WE'VE BEEN CALLING YOU TO

(resulting from Pat Allen's extraordinary offering at the first ever HOLISTIC APPROACHES TO ARTS EDUCATION conference at JFKU)

a black form torn from
wholeness
a hand outstretched with my
little piece of yes
an active bit of movement
finally
legs running
TOWARD MY JOY!
i am she she is me coming
from my darkness
i claim her
torn joy
and
T R A N S F O R M
i raise my tentative hand
higher and higher toward
ability
toward possibility
toward peace
carved from pieces of
myself
i see her, she, *it*, and
finally me
and when i want to
i tear the stitches
from my open heart
and begin
again to
think my
yes yes yes
crowned again
with yes
begin
this knowing
of the dark parts
of my happy self
offering chalkboard
witness
to that which
i must continue
to do
be
move through
i keep showing up
with raised hand and
extended bits of
yellow yes
i bring my valentine
into being
to try
again and again
to run
to stand
to move
to see
to allow
to continue
to be

yes

with the invitation
to dialogue i see

begin again
keep showing up
try again and again
run toward
your exalted yes

it is your royalty
your legacy
your heritage
all impulses and
synapses and
histories of
herstorys
before you
sit with
you in
this classroom
YOU have been
given your
birthright

THIS IS THE
HOME WE'VE
BEEN CALLING
YOU TO

keep showing up
the chalkboard
miracles are on their way

and you 2
and you 2
and you 2
and you 2
and you 2
and you 2
YES!
Still
Yes.
always YES
YES
YES
YES
YES
when you want to
it's okay to
try again and
again
again
YES!

and from that thing
that is your
empty center of
connection--
the vessel and
chords through
which you
have been
nourished
and passed
know--
we will meet
you there--

we will always
call you home
(for dinner)

piles of perfect

and the pile of perfect
sits there
mounting
it's requirements
expecting
in its air of expectancy
the imagined porcelian
is always cracked
shatters and breaks
upon first inspection
perfection is for dreams
and can't withstand the real air
of language
of oxygen
of human sight
and so i step over it
around it
like the dog poop on the path
it is a pile i'd rather not step in
and wish the one who left it
would bend to scoop it up
neatly depositing it
in the specified
containers
don't get your pefect on me
i don't want to bring it in
on my shoes