When every-day concerns cease to matter
and you can only reflect. When you are paralyzed
by hundreds of candles lit with sobs. When
strangers embrace.
When the cold night bites at your skin,
But you don’t notice. When near silence
drapes an arm around you. When tearful voices struggle
to tell their story.
When we question everything.
When we sense all those gathered.
When we feel the enormity of grief.
Perhaps then we can go on living.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Sunset Over Sturgeon Bay
You may think I dim and fade—
A mere illusion and testament to my skill.
The pastel warmth is not a failing,
It is a badge I wear constantly.
But then, you would not know,
You have nothing to mark you.
I might have thought it was below you
To speak to such a terrestrial body.
I am marked; the Skillagalee lighthouse*
Is pinned on me; it is my badge.
I have countless others, attempting to spare lives,
After I took so many into me.
That is no badge, it is a scar.
A feeble attempt to recreate my likeness
When I grow tired of gracing you
With my ethereal presence.
Braggart! You may be life-giving,
But they call me and my brethren ‘great’ for a reason:
We inspire and breathe life through fear;
Through epic fishermen’s tales, and millennia of myth.
Life-giving? You insult me, puddle!
I did not give life like a gift,
I created it. It is my brain-child, my own.
You are too, and I can burn your glassy surface,
Make it blush and bleed.
You can try, lazy orb,
But my depths and my darkness
Will douse your fires
And swallow you whole.
*The Skillagalee lighthouse is on the Northeast coast of Lake Michigan. It was first lit in 1888 and marks a small island leading to the Straights of Mackinac. It is still used today for ship navigation.
Bone Fire
Bright Aurora Borealis dances
in curves and pleats,
but we are too far south,
and with a stark dream of her northerly colors,
she impales herself upon the sliver of a moon.
Pallid fire-light flickers on the sand
and we can see a full dome
of stars because of the darkness,
the crashing lake and the
low evergreen dunes.
The pallet of this landscape
is a tense, brilliant-pale reflection
of what dark-matter must look like.
And we’re on the beach wanting
simply to live, and enjoy, and flick
pebbles into the bon-fire, watching
them crash into embers like waves on the shore
or a star burning itself out.
in curves and pleats,
but we are too far south,
and with a stark dream of her northerly colors,
she impales herself upon the sliver of a moon.
Pallid fire-light flickers on the sand
and we can see a full dome
of stars because of the darkness,
the crashing lake and the
low evergreen dunes.
The pallet of this landscape
is a tense, brilliant-pale reflection
of what dark-matter must look like.
And we’re on the beach wanting
simply to live, and enjoy, and flick
pebbles into the bon-fire, watching
them crash into embers like waves on the shore
or a star burning itself out.
A New Englad Wood
At the edge of a New England wood
there is a crumbling stone wall,
so painstakingly and lovingly built,
or not built but crafted
from boulders dug from the earth
to make room in the soil, barely suitable for
subsistence farming.
Beyond the wood and its aging boundary
is a plush Scotts™ lawn,
chemical turf builder applied in spring,
pots of Miracle-Gro with
grocery store tomato plants,
and a newly constructed
four bedroom, three bath, colonial-style house
with double-paned glass and central air.
The wall seems to pen-in oaks and maples and ferns,
a comically small barrier to hold in such a forest.
Or perhaps it isn’t the wall;
perhaps it is the few trees that escaped,
mocking the walls feeble attempts,
who hold the forest at bay
like soldiers guarding the house.
there is a crumbling stone wall,
so painstakingly and lovingly built,
or not built but crafted
from boulders dug from the earth
to make room in the soil, barely suitable for
subsistence farming.
Beyond the wood and its aging boundary
is a plush Scotts™ lawn,
chemical turf builder applied in spring,
pots of Miracle-Gro with
grocery store tomato plants,
and a newly constructed
four bedroom, three bath, colonial-style house
with double-paned glass and central air.
The wall seems to pen-in oaks and maples and ferns,
a comically small barrier to hold in such a forest.
Or perhaps it isn’t the wall;
perhaps it is the few trees that escaped,
mocking the walls feeble attempts,
who hold the forest at bay
like soldiers guarding the house.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Fox Night
Some things happen just once.
Here, where three roads meet
I turn on a light and look out my bedroom window
For something heard in the night.
And there, running away, three fox
Fan out in three directions,
Drawing new maps with cardinal directions,
They disappear into the woods at once
Leaving only shadows of fox
Where they came to meet.
A car approaches in the night,
Gloomy dash lights shining through the window.
The car slowly rolls down its windows
As it pulls over, pointing in the wrong direction.
I see a man step out into the night
And whistle a tune he remembers he knew once,
Here where three roads meet.
What can he know of songs sung by fox?
He breathes in scat, root, and the musk of fox;
The spray of galaxies reflects on the car’s front window.
A woman steps out, their bodies meet.
They face the same direction,
And I hear his name once
As they stand poised between nights.
Poised for endless journeys in the dead of night
Along wooded paths forged by fox.
They sniff the air, remembering how it was once.
The dense warm odor is a window;
His vigilance and her fear pull them in different directions
Before they come back again, and meet.
His foot and a twig meet
The snap resounds through the night:
Waves traveling in every direction,
Startling the hidden fox.
I darken my window,
And he is gone at once.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Enigma of the hour
a testament to ingenuity of ages past
the aqueducts stretch from vantage to horizon
the arches support a once life giving now foot path for tourists
a fountain gurgles decoratively near but something is off:
an all too modern clock adorns the path
complete with roman numerals
to look the time but doesn’t
the aqueducts stretch from vantage to horizon
the arches support a once life giving now foot path for tourists
a fountain gurgles decoratively near but something is off:
an all too modern clock adorns the path
complete with roman numerals
to look the time but doesn’t
if we could see in timely dimensions we’d see in-
side-out flying spinning right-side-in on top of
layers that move but stay constant through time
but linearly moving though space we perceive only
days hours months minutes the clock on the wall
side-out flying spinning right-side-in on top of
layers that move but stay constant through time
but linearly moving though space we perceive only
days hours months minutes the clock on the wall
Petoskey Stone
You said it was magic,
the universe giving us clues,
a spiritual connection to times past,
a myth, and a legend, that told us much.
You said it was the turtle’s shell
glimmering in the dawn sunlight.
You said the earth began on mother turtle’s back,
when she asked the animals to pile mud on her,
and the continents were born, and this stone is a token
a reminder of how things began, and good luck.
But now I read that the stone is a fossil
from an ocean that used to cover Michigan
when it was down by the equator.
the universe giving us clues,
a spiritual connection to times past,
a myth, and a legend, that told us much.
You said it was the turtle’s shell
glimmering in the dawn sunlight.
You said the earth began on mother turtle’s back,
when she asked the animals to pile mud on her,
and the continents were born, and this stone is a token
a reminder of how things began, and good luck.
But now I read that the stone is a fossil
from an ocean that used to cover Michigan
when it was down by the equator.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Window Frames
So small the window frames the whole of it,
but only briefly, driving past;
a fleeting photograph no one would take—
only barren hills in Southern Canada,
as she passes on her way to Michigan.
Just snapshot moments, less permanent
than hills framed by the window in her bedroom
where she slept in her parent’s house.
The family moved when she was seven
and she got to choose first, since she was oldest.
She was first to leave too, with new places waiting.
She’s outgrown twin beds, and the room
that has always been slightly too small
but she liked the family of doves that built a nest
outside and sang in the morning, and she liked
the view of the backyard with hills framed in her window.
but only briefly, driving past;
a fleeting photograph no one would take—
only barren hills in Southern Canada,
as she passes on her way to Michigan.
Just snapshot moments, less permanent
than hills framed by the window in her bedroom
where she slept in her parent’s house.
The family moved when she was seven
and she got to choose first, since she was oldest.
She was first to leave too, with new places waiting.
She’s outgrown twin beds, and the room
that has always been slightly too small
but she liked the family of doves that built a nest
outside and sang in the morning, and she liked
the view of the backyard with hills framed in her window.
Elegy
Sitting in an overstuffed leather armchair, watching a documentary
about Bob Dylan, but also about the 60’s, the ’63 march and
Martin Luther King Jr., Pete Seeger, Peter Yarrow
and Medger Evers and, though not explicitly, Phil Ochs, and
a generation, a movement, and protest and music and my heroes,
and the Newport Folk Festival where Johnny Cash and Joan Baez played.
Thinking about Ginsberg, the Beats and the cafes where everything began
and how sincerely all of them believed that they
could change the world (and did in their way).
Watching Pete Seeger speaking I’m reminded
of another documentary, screened at a protest in Georgia—
high school students interviewing him and not knowing he is an “influential singer.”
But mostly I’m thinking about Mel, who lent me the movie
and gave me a candy apple red guitar and taught me
about the blues and jazz and is dying of lung cancer.
about Bob Dylan, but also about the 60’s, the ’63 march and
Martin Luther King Jr., Pete Seeger, Peter Yarrow
and Medger Evers and, though not explicitly, Phil Ochs, and
a generation, a movement, and protest and music and my heroes,
and the Newport Folk Festival where Johnny Cash and Joan Baez played.
Thinking about Ginsberg, the Beats and the cafes where everything began
and how sincerely all of them believed that they
could change the world (and did in their way).
Watching Pete Seeger speaking I’m reminded
of another documentary, screened at a protest in Georgia—
high school students interviewing him and not knowing he is an “influential singer.”
But mostly I’m thinking about Mel, who lent me the movie
and gave me a candy apple red guitar and taught me
about the blues and jazz and is dying of lung cancer.
Driving Flashes
it was the deepest black one might imagine
punctuated with brief bright flashes
strobe light semi-colons spaced sentence length apart
driving alone the distance keeps us apart
ghost-like you appear and I imagine
your hand laced in mine then the image flashes
unseen hands scrawl words that stream from flashes
to blackboard-air piling up but apart
answering questions not yet imagined
i can’t imagine—
us truly apart
life without flashes
punctuated with brief bright flashes
strobe light semi-colons spaced sentence length apart
driving alone the distance keeps us apart
ghost-like you appear and I imagine
your hand laced in mine then the image flashes
unseen hands scrawl words that stream from flashes
to blackboard-air piling up but apart
answering questions not yet imagined
i can’t imagine—
us truly apart
life without flashes
Acer Saccharum
It was too early, but the farmer
strung the Christmas lights
on his favorite young maple
bright in the chilly sun.
Soon the lights would be
the only covering it had.
Naked in its least favorite season
passing hikers would comment on
the beauty of snow glistening
on the maple’s slender boughs
smooth like young boys’ legs.
And oh, how jealous the maple was
of the apple trees, producing
such lovely fruit that
the farmer picked it
to make cider and pies.
When the maple matured,
in its fifteenth year,
only small winged seeds
would attempt to laden its branches
spinning like helicopters in the fall breezes
of years yet to come,
When the farmer’s children would carefully
dissect them, and stick them on their noses
pretending to be elephants, giggling in the shade.
It was jealous too of the chattering squirrels
racing up and down the worldly oak,
collecting acorns and building nests,
and ignoring the maple, finding little use
for small branches and seeds.
And though the maple wanted to shed its own bark,
to produce something more useful, or delicious,
what it wanted most was just to reach
its fifteenth year.
strung the Christmas lights
on his favorite young maple
bright in the chilly sun.
Soon the lights would be
the only covering it had.
Naked in its least favorite season
passing hikers would comment on
the beauty of snow glistening
on the maple’s slender boughs
smooth like young boys’ legs.
And oh, how jealous the maple was
of the apple trees, producing
such lovely fruit that
the farmer picked it
to make cider and pies.
When the maple matured,
in its fifteenth year,
only small winged seeds
would attempt to laden its branches
spinning like helicopters in the fall breezes
of years yet to come,
When the farmer’s children would carefully
dissect them, and stick them on their noses
pretending to be elephants, giggling in the shade.
It was jealous too of the chattering squirrels
racing up and down the worldly oak,
collecting acorns and building nests,
and ignoring the maple, finding little use
for small branches and seeds.
And though the maple wanted to shed its own bark,
to produce something more useful, or delicious,
what it wanted most was just to reach
its fifteenth year.
Snow
Mud cakes my sneakers as we
explore the 70 acres of country land
with vast fields of pines, spruces and firs,
but the bulldozer across the street testifies
to its inevitable descent into suburbia.
As I cut down our Christmas tree
I remember a picture in my house:
I am five of six, winter hat too big,
Puffy coat and mock fur lined boots.
We trampled through the snow to find
the perfect tree, tied it on the car
as my uncles threw snowballs.
Piling into the car, my uncle pushes my
grandmother into a snow bank
and everyone laughs, but I am concerned.
In the picture I yank my grandmothers hand
determined to help her up, but I’m too small;
even the snow bank is taller than me.
explore the 70 acres of country land
with vast fields of pines, spruces and firs,
but the bulldozer across the street testifies
to its inevitable descent into suburbia.
As I cut down our Christmas tree
I remember a picture in my house:
I am five of six, winter hat too big,
Puffy coat and mock fur lined boots.
We trampled through the snow to find
the perfect tree, tied it on the car
as my uncles threw snowballs.
Piling into the car, my uncle pushes my
grandmother into a snow bank
and everyone laughs, but I am concerned.
In the picture I yank my grandmothers hand
determined to help her up, but I’m too small;
even the snow bank is taller than me.
Of Soldiering and Fasion*
Her closet is filled with kooky, pretty things:
slinky Missoni sweater dresses
polka dots and
girly illustrated tops from Tsumori Chisato
Chacharel floral frocks
She was selected in the special talent recruitments at 12
To see what everyone was wearing at the Oscars along side
High ranking women in uniform.
She wanted to serve because she loved her country
I look too stiff in Prada she says, sighing, as
congress and the military question whether women are ready for ground fighting
A blight has fallen on the red carpet.
*This piece was created by taking random sentences from a random book pulled off the shelf in the library and a fashion magazine and synthesizing them.
slinky Missoni sweater dresses
polka dots and
girly illustrated tops from Tsumori Chisato
Chacharel floral frocks
She was selected in the special talent recruitments at 12
To see what everyone was wearing at the Oscars along side
High ranking women in uniform.
She wanted to serve because she loved her country
I look too stiff in Prada she says, sighing, as
congress and the military question whether women are ready for ground fighting
A blight has fallen on the red carpet.
*This piece was created by taking random sentences from a random book pulled off the shelf in the library and a fashion magazine and synthesizing them.
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