Into the Mirror

Love rip me away, and speak through my tongue,
tear me apart from my poisoning mind,
grant me forgetting in songs that you've sung,
and bury me deep in songs you may find.
Love tear me in two, that I may not think,
my self and my mind keep distant apart.
If ever before you in terror I shrink,
recall that there's nothing redeeming in art.
If you've the mercy to grant me one gift,
make me a ghost or a husk or a shell.
Render me light, so slight wind could lift
my nothing to heaven from uttermost hell.
Or one other thing I wish you could do:
allow me, just once, to say something true.

The Poet on his Desk

Oh, you wonderful desk of mine!
I've been writing on you for months,
but haven't really looked at you.
I think it's time to change that.

You've got a few scratches on your surface.
I remember coloring them in
with black pen,
back in high school.
The marks are still there;
I hope they don't hurt you.

I couldn't write without you.
Although I guess that's a bit of an overstatement.
Maybe I could write on the dresser,
or the shelves,
the walls,
the coffee table,
or maybe the regular table.
But you're the one I write on.
I really do appreciate your support.

Most of your drawers are still empty,
from when I cleaned you out a couple months ago.
I keep papers and writing stuff in the middle drawer,
and there's the one where I keep my colognes
and hygienic things like that.
(I just checked in another drawer and
found a slip of paper from an old fortune cookie.
It reads:
"Discontent is the first
necessity of progress."
Deep stuff, huh?)
And I won't even mention
what's in that other drawer...

I just realized you don't have a name, desk.
Mind if I give you one?
It should probably be something gender neutral,
since I've never found any nether parts on you.
(Where do baby desks come from,
come to think of it?
Do they start out as stools?)
But anyways,
I think I'll call you Sam, or Jimmie, or Jerri.
Don't really like any of those, though...
I've always liked the name "Veronica."
Not very gender neutral, but really quite
a lovely name. I'll keep it!
How do you like that, Veronica?
(silence)
Marvelous!

Oh, and Veronica? One last thing:
you may have noticed this poem
(if you can call it that—it's a
pretty rough-edged, poorly thought out,
horribly colloquial little thing, ain't it?)
is quite a bit different than what's
come before
in my writing.
You'd almost think... no, but you wouldn't
think that, would you?
Oh Veronica, how scandalous!
But I digress
(you naughty girl!).
I feel, deep in my most deeply-deepest-deep,
that I've reached a creative impasse.
My Inspiration has gone limp
(how embarrassing!),
my Muse will not speak to me
(how dreadful!),
and the most infantile projections
spew from the pen in my hand
(how very messy!).

The point
is this:
the style
I've used
(hitherto)
in these
poetical
scribblings
of mine
has come
(that is,
to seem)
to seem
almost hopelessly
affected in a way
that strikes me as
horribly grotesque
and puerilely (yes,
truly) amateurish.

I should like to remedy this
(no other word for it) defect.
It's a matter of style, you see.
Rhyming quatrains have lost
their fun (for me).
(for now)
Call this an experiment.
I'd really appreciate your
input,
Veronica.

I have a feeling this was a failed experiment,
but we'll just wait and see what the judge says.
The worst they can do
is hang me,
in their mercy.

And now to close it is the time,
with this couplet set to rhyme.

Sample Tray

You stand there, with your tray and smile

(how could I help but watch a while?).

You stand there, leaning on one leg,

your eyes dark

and lovely as a midnight dream,

your phone outlined

in your back right pocket,

your black hair in a bun.

You greet them all (for one example),

“Would you like to try a sample?”

You could sell me anything, I’m sure,

with those deep eyes,

those full lips parted,

the rounding of those hips

in those tight pants.

Sex sells.

Cynical corporate strategy, you could say.

(Why, yes I would like fries with that.)

You greet them all (for one example),

“Would you like to try a sample?”

But you’re not a tray.

You’re not a sausage biscuit

with a toothpick stuck through it.

You have dreams, you have hopes,

you have fears that keep you up at night.

Would you hold that tray so well

without an echoing deep within?

I wonder who you really are.

I wonder if I’ll ever know.

You greet them all (one last example),

“Would you like to try a sample?”

Imagination's Sacrifice

Imagination fuels the fire,

Imagination stirs desire.

And in the windings of dark day

Imagination finds a way.

Imagination burns white hot

With love that like the racer’s shot

Makes all the stubborn stars to move,

The deep truth of their love to prove.

Let sweet imagination stay,

And be my lamp, and light my way.

Divine dear image, I’ll be true,

For it’s my nature to love you.

Now let me be the sacrifice,

But burn me hot, don’t give me ice;

My baser matter burn away

That only golden ore may stay.

Now let the burning heat intense

My mind erase, renew my sense,

And let the shining metal melt

To glowing streams, as yet unfelt.

The metal ready now to pour,

I fall away upon the shore

Where yet new-molded and yet warm,

I now take on a better form.

Let love alone shine from my face,

And let me be a fount of grace,

And let me see the sights unseen,

And guide souls to what’s never been.

Imagination, don’t forsake

Your servant, for at last he’ll make

Your temple scratched of white and black,

And for his praises you’ll not lack.

Yet let me not forget the day

That from myself I turned away,

Though with the turning of the stars,

Your time at last will heal my scars.

Summer Night

In darkness I sit silent,
spreading salted crackers with tuna.
Boiled eggs, for texture,
mayonnaise, for moisture.
The oceanic scent and savor.

"Crunch!"
echoes in the night.

Around me leaves that rustle through
the gentle summer wind
begin, as surely all limbs do,
to sway, and even bend.

Against the shadows in the trees
dance tiny points of light;
the fireflies upon the breeze
brief interrupt the night.

This shameful little insect can
give light for sweet life's sake;
tell me, woman, I ask you, man:
what shining do you make?

In flowing galaxies they glow,
these flying things that crawl.
With fervor we may never know,
they call, and call, and call...

An Offering

There sits an island, wave-enfoamed

And bright, imbued with day,
And on it certain spells intoned
By the well-intended clay.

From the Seventh Depth unbounded,
Brought once again to sight,
Rises up the barque unfounded
To the showing of the light.

The barque it bears a stranger veiled,
Yet in no sense unknown.
He fills the vessel—never failed!
As a stone fits to a stone.

The barque arrives upon the shore,
The stranger strides the sand,
And to the shining, grainy floor
He giggles his command:

“I come to make my offering
At the shrine of the High Goddess.”

He conjures up a map of signs
And showings of the way.
As for the map and its designs,
It speaks what it must say:

“I am the chart that marks the Path
And in me there is hope.
I clasp against the Day of Wrath
And scurry up the rope.

What came before will come once more,
The not-yet must come true.
This map’s a stream that flows to pour
What you already knew.”

He clasps the map against his heart,
A ribbon in his hand,
And as at last he makes his start,
He utters his command:

“I come to make my offering
At the shrine of the High Goddess.”

Souls lie asleep upon the sand,
And slumb’ring take their watch.
He tickles them upon the hand
With an eye upon the—leaves.

Far up beyond the sandy plain,
Wreathed up in clouds and mists,
There stands a tower like a crane
That stares and ever sits.

He strides light-footed up the hill
Into a forest black,
But knows that darkness is the pill
That brings the sunlight back.

With terrors and with sufferings
He girds the dark trees’ hands,
And with a mind full of forgettings
He mumbles his commands:

“I come to make my offering
At the shrine of the High Goddess.”

Through the bramble’s darkened mess
He idly makes his way,
And the sun he finds in darkness
Has crept to noon of day.

He mounts the tower’s gate, the eyes
That stare into forever.
The crane’s gaze never ever lies,
Nor do its knots dissever.

And through the gate of dark and light
He thus comes into view.
The Goddess knows him by her Sight
And splits him into two.

Now one, now twain, now up the stair
Of the tower in the land,
Ascend they towards the Goddess chair
To recall the lost command:

“We come to make our offering
At the shrine of the High Goddess.”

Now risen to the dizzy height
Of the tower spire’s arc,
Twin brothers scurry into sight,
One shadow and one lark.

They burst into the Entrance way,
To return or to press on?
They run on to the very day,
And right-quick one is gone.

Still with the map and with the ribbon
One presses towards the goal.
The Goddess blessing must be given
If he would save his soul.

Now weary at the final gate,
Red ribbon in his hand,
He pauses to recall the date
And proclaims he his command:

“I come to make my offering
At the shrine of the High Goddess.”

Now heaves away the final portal,
And straightaway he dies,
For no man while remaining mortal
Stares into Goddess eyes.

She mourns him not but takes his flesh
And makes it as her own.
What was unmeshed begins to mesh
In more than flesh and bone.

Now as we know he rose again
And fell once more to earth.
In grace abounding or in sin
There came the Second Birth.

The Goddess stands triumphant,
Red ribbon in her hands.
And in majesty resplendent
She issues her commands:

“Now go to make the offering
At the shrine of the High Goddess.”

There is an island, wave-enfoamed
And bright, imbued with day,
And on it certain spells intoned
By the well-intended clay.

To the Seventh Depth unbounded,
Sunk once again from sight,
Descends the barque unfounded
From the showing of the light.

The barque it bears a stranger veiled,
Yet in no sense unknown.
He fills the vessel—never failed!
As a stone fits to a stone.

No barque remains upon the shore,
No stranger strides the sand.
Yet echoing through every door
Rings the Divine command:

“Now go to make the offering
At the shrine of the High Goddess.”

Echoes and Expansions

In the beginning was the Word.

"Let there be Light,"
and there was Light.

While choking midnight covers all
with silence and with doubts,
the infant, far too slight to crawl,
to "Mama!" brightly shouts.

Though winter drowns the earth in cold, and wanders from the sun,
new life begins as spring unfolds, when thawing rivers run.
And if a mind is all itself, and cannot touch another,
what magic draws the sister-flower nearer to its brother?
What gesture in the hand or eye can tell the good from great,
what lilt or echo in the voice can so dear fascinate?
When dawn shines innocent on the hill there's no thing left to chance;
how many knots of meaning are entwined by one "Romance?"

"I show you suffering..."
"The National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning..."
"Sing of the storm-tossed man, O Muse..."
"You are advised not to look directly at the eclipse as it occurs..."
"Philosophers have hitherto only interpreted the world in various ways..."
"After a sudden collapse, thirteen miners in a West Virginia town..."
"The horror, the horror..."
"She could never look at me that way..."
"We hold these truths to be self-evident..."
"They're a very cynical people, they don't trust..."
"What is done from love takes place always beyond good and evil..."
"All roads lead to Rome..."
"... is a tool for concealing the truth."
"... love you."
"... your neighbor as yourself."
"... and I show you the end of suffering."

Speculations for Diana

Because there's shame in being me, and much that I would hide,
I'll talk of what I love in you, try guess at what's inside.
You see, if you won't speak straight out, won't tell yourself to me,
I'll have to trace you of myself, whoever I might be.

There's honey in your kindness and your skill in catching flies,
and patience in your staking out what lives and what thing dies.
With a hand in every project and a hook in every lake,
I wonder you protect yourself from all but one mistake.

You're quick to give a smile, very slow to make a frown;
I doubt the corners of your lips were made for turning down.
So splendidly you play your role and act yourself, right there,
I have a doubt, from time to time, you may be only air.

Authentically you live your life, it can't be with regret,
no thought that long before you're born the board's against you set.
You dropped a hint, just once, recall, to paint yourself a cynic,
but never has it crossed my mind you may be just a mimic.

I love your forthright honesty, the way you tell no tales,
the way your solid character seems more than vapor trails.
And though you dance throughout your days, you leaf without a tree,
your pirouettic consciousness is without irony.

I'd like for you to love me, though I'd rather that you not.
Or did I want some other thing, and simply have forgot?
I fear sometimes that love that's real is less than love that's wanted,
although it leaves me breathlessly, and makes me feel so hunted.

Robin

Baby robin, chirping sweetly

to summer airs above the earth,

feel the moment skipping fleetly

beside the birdhouse of your birth.

Baby robin, high suspended

beneath the limbs of trees that stand;

do you sense a world upended,

or yet surmise a guiding hand?

And should you fall from that high nest,

and flightless crawl among the grass…

What doubts would lodge within your breast

if all the worst should come to pass?

You helpless little flightless bird

that’s fallen on uncertain ground,

although I’d help you, what’s a word

when death and predators abound?

Little bird, I wish you luck,

if wishes have effect at all.

And though you’ve now got sorely stuck,

I hope you’ll more than learn to crawl.

Wounded Earth

Dry, hot, so very dry...
A shadow of falling dust
hovers for hours,
settles on the cracked ground.
Who can remember the sound of rain?

It is years since we tasted water.
So dry, so dusty, so empty...
even our dreams become sand.
Cool, sweet, flowing...
even the words are fading memories.

What is this place?
God... why did you make it?
Are we only your toys?
Or like rats in a maze?
Will you... will you never speak?

High in a colorless sky,
a circling buzzard starts to fall.
Holding an empty pot,
I watch it drop, for hours.
Only ash reaches the earth.

No flower ever blooms here,
no children walk the streets.
We are the children,
the children of twilight,
and we walk into shadow.

Was this the gentle earth,
and those the happy valleys?
Oh, bring back the gentle earth!
Oh, show us loving kindness!
Our cheeks are damp with tears.

Or open the heaven with cloud
and lightning,
bless us with the gathering storm.
Lift us from this phantom world,
and show us the good earth.

Or give us courage
to dream again.
Let us remember the sound of rain.
Is this a prayer?
God, but heal this cracked ground...

A Dialogue

"No, it is a prison without walls.
Have you seen any walls?
Care to show me the tower or gate?"

The echoes and murmurs, the pitiless shout,
there is no way out, there is no way out.

"It took no spring for snapping shut
to bind myself to me;
you never locked me in a hut,
you simply made me free."

The morning breathes sweet daylight on the blades of dewy grass,
the sun's already risen and the time is passing fast.
There's urgency in plenty as the birds tweet all around,
and haunting, flowing speeches to the distant trumpet sound.

"And for that you would destroy me?
You would burn the world to ash!
Why, because you are a slave to what you want?"

The thought of a seed as it bursts from the grain:
all living is pain, all living is pain!

"You make myself to carry me and
so make my burden double;
if there were only I to stand
here, there would be no trouble."

The heaven and the earth embrace in tones of green and blue,
while dampened air enfolds the running speech of one or two.
I cannot say precisely where this heavy talk will tend,
for now it still continues, and it may well never end.

River

Run little river, little run little run,
run little river in the shine of the sun,
run to the swerve in the curve of the land,
run to the desert and dry up in the sand...

Come lie with me in the shade of this tree,
show me the summer of your flowing blood,
show me the grass that peeks through my toes,
and hear the sweet river that laughs as it goes.

And if you smile,
or if you laugh,
or if you brush the hair from your eyes
so graceful, so fluid...
I sigh, I die a little.
A moment is so brief.

Flow little river, little flow little flow,
flow little river, and fill as you let go.
Flow through the curves in the valleys that crest,
flow little river, to an ocean of rest.

Come sit with me in the sighing sunset,
breathe hot on my ear and call me Sweet Nothing.
Take up your flame, set my spine so alight,
and love dearly the river that flows through the night.

Could you be an ocean,
grow as great as the sea?
Oh, to sail on your depth
and trust in your kindness...
Someday, every river
flows into the sea.

Hope little river, little hope little hope,
hope little river, in the sails and the rope,
hope in the hull and the strength of the spars,
hope ever in love that guides even the stars.

Face

There's comfort in the brush,
smoothing strands to a sheen,
relief in the gentle tug,
over and over
at the top of my head.

"Such a pretty little girl,"
Mother would coo, years ago,
brushing soft till I was old enough.
(Oh, to be a child again...)
Ninety-eight, ninety-nine,

aaand, done. They all tell me
I favor her, but it's his eyes
that return my gaze
through the glass.
Or is it the light, not quite right?

Now let's brush powder into cheekbones,
brush dust into shadow and aura.
Rembrandt of Revlon,
the glass is my canvas.
God... is it a masterpiece?

Are those wrinkles on my lids?
How long until, until...
I found a gray hair last week.
(Oh, to be a child again...)
I shuddered as I flushed it down.

Enough. Now I'll define the eyes,
set the stars in their skies.
The lashes, the lines, brush
and color be my form as
I eye the eyes to shape.

The thing's assembled, see it breathe,
more real than the ghost within.
(Oh, to be a child again...)
I reflect on the deep surface,
the abyss that stares back.

How I wish it was perfect!
How I hope that it's good... love.
Oh, is that the time?
Nearly late, I rush out to present
my face, my truth.

Chance and Fortune

Eye the spinning coin,
teach me how to trace its fall.
I know no eye,
but in this twirling see it all.

What guides the turns that make a wheel,
what fortune, blind or free,
could guide us to an evening meal,
or toss us out to sea?

And is there no coincidence
in the flood of fortune's dance?
Or is there truly no defense
in a game that's ruled by chance?

But what if wind or surface
could cajole a whirling fall?
Why should I feel so nervous
to see order here at all?

And could I learn to build a sail
to cross the glassy sea?
I'll navigate, and I'll not fail,
from what is to what might be.