The Muse

I'm telling
this to the sky -
where the focus
falls soft and


where you stand
wilted at an open
window posing
with far-away looks


and a young dove
captured by
no  more than
a piece of string


and where you are
surrounded by the
thorny branches
of a reluctant spring


as you wonder
if the divine
is no more or less
than you are.

 

the perfect circle

i feigned sickness
to be close to my mother
the days long and gray
the mountains slatted
with cold spring rain
and the clanking trains
on the winding tracks
that ran along the river


canvasses strewn
sticky with paint
and the strong smell
of turpentine on rags
laying in the corners
of the smoky room
made me drowsy
and faint


and always
out the window
through the mist
a witness tree
a solitary sentinel
on top of the hill
its lacy branches
forming a perfect circle
against a willing sky

Miracle

The Virgin Mary
appeared to Eddie
when he was
ten years old.


She appeared to him
in his father’s tool shed,
late one spring afternoon,
on an ordinary day -
it wasn’t even Sunday,
Eddie would later say.


But, there she was,
with her modest smile,
wearing a crown of stars,
standing amongst the
hammers and saws,
and coffee cans and jars
filled with ten penny nails,
and various nuts and bolts.


No one believed
Eddie had seen
the Mother of God,
in the tool shed,
while he was there
working on his bike.


No one believed
that it happened -
not his family
not his friends -
even Eddie, after time,
wondered if it had
really happened,
or had the sun
been in his eyes.


But, still…I can’t help
thinking -
after all these years,
that no one
thought it strange
that on the very day
Eddie claimed
to have seen the
Virgin Mary,
his father found three
dead copperhead snakes
in the tool shed,
just where Eddie said
Mary had been standing.

Who Counts Leaves

or counts owls
on their fingertips

or lost words
on their tongues…

what is the point
they would say –

but, late today
I heard a sound

rise up from the edge
of a half frozen pond

something primitive
yet recognized and

familiar to the world
like the skeletons of

weeds that shook
the sound across the

snow covered fields
in beats and measures

of steady clicks –
groups of two, three

and four measured
beats or perhaps more

nothing tactile
but palpable -

like true harmony
urging on the

next
minute
of
time….

It's All

starting to make sense now.
Just watch how starlight bends
close to the sun, showing
space’s voluptuous curve.
No absolute truths anymore –
time, space, religion,
morality -  all rejected.
It’s only how you take me
into your fractal pointless
prattle that matters now.
And breath becomes absurd -
like imagination itself.
What’s happened to life?
What's happened to the
twist of my tangled tongue?

Response to Oriah

what do you mean…

IF  I AM

a wisher

a liar

and a

magic bean buyer?

Haven’t I been at your fire

for all these many years 

reciting while playing

an ancient shell lyre?

Didn’t I play games

of finding rune stones,

painting fish bones, and

giving the faeries names?

And what of the moon cakes

I made - heavy and sweet -

for the spirit owls that flew

to our dream covered feet

on those mystical mornings

when the spiders’ webs

adorned our heads like

silver and diamond tiaras?

I know we have tales to spin.

That’s why I have come in;

to sit with you awhile -

to be with you again.

How It Is

I live anonymously
between breath and hum
and the erratic flights of crows,
their wings a rustle of taffeta
through which I strain
my Pu-erh tea and dreams –
reaching, breathing, ascending…


I’m mostly behind the trees now -
their branches growing
so close to me, I can’t
see my own arms anymore.


But, at night, I do see
the slow drift of stars
and can’t help thinking
that Astraeus must be tired
of keeping all those fires burning.