Today

I don’t want to write a poem today.

I don’t want to string words together today.

I don’t want to communicate anything today.

I don’t want to find a lot of pretty words for pain today.

I don’t want to be human today.

I don’t want to be anything today.

I don’t want to come up with reasons to be hopeful today.

I don’t want to read your inspirational quote today.

I don’t want to hear your bad news today.

I don’t want to hear your good news today.

I don’t want to feel guilty for starting every line of this poem with the words “I don’t want”—today.

I don’t want to be ashamed of feeling like this today.

I don’t want to feel today.

I don’t want to get rained on today.

I don’t want to be so self-absorbed today.

I don’t want to feel like a toxic burden on the universe today.

I don’t want to sign your petition today.

I don’t want to hear about your religion today.

I don’t want to read one of those insipid poems where you read it one way and it’s all depressing but you read it the other way and it’s “uplifting” or “positive” today.

I don’t want to think about what those poems imply about our society, today.

I don’t want to hear you say, “Oh golly, I sure know how that feels,” today.

I don’t want to have anything in common with anybody else today.

I don’t want to come up with some clever picturesque little way to say, “But maybe tomorrow will be better,” today.

Breaking Pane

They glisten in the dying glint of day,

see so many, so many shining shards

all traced in lines of light that point their ways,

all fallen like the scattered house of cards.

And what a crash of breaking from the heights,

and what the moment frozen in its move,

and how the fragments brush the lesser lights,

and how the passing present fickle proves…

Now would I hold a fragment to the moon,

and now reflect an Eye and call it good?

From what I know of glass I’d very soon

taste sharp the scent and savor of my blood.

If I had any wisdom I would sweep

up all these shards and toss them in a heap.

Lights in the Sky

See it rise in the east;

see where it shines!

See how it touches each little thing,

see the flowers follow its path.

Feel its gentle warmth!

I wandered through the darkness long,

and heard the creatures cry.

The deepest aches they turned to song

that echoed ‘round the sky.

Seen without looking,

found without seeking,

known without thinking,

heard without speaking,

shown without showing.

A song that whirls around the dark,

and rises up in dreams,

can leave a passing sort of mark,

like moonlight’s dewy beams.

It shines for all, and one.

It doesn’t refuse the little creatures.

See them run through light-drenched fields,

hear the laughter and the bubbling brook!

None are ever lost.

And if the silent moon should fall,

or drift behind a cloud…

Still yet blue morning shines for all

and still brave hearts are proud.

See it set in the west;

see the blinding light

on reflecting rolling waves!

See the sea and shining sun,

and think of the moon.

Screen

See the bird, bright feathers plumed,

displays itself because it’s doomed.

For if it’s born it needs must die,

but now how pleasing to the eye!

Screen to sift and screen to see

what shows itself and what might be;

a smoky screen or screen to show,

and what’s behind will never know.

With crossing grids and wire stays

the strangest birds are kept away;

in iron cages fine to see,

but not a thing to be let free.

So if it’s meant to be displayed,

it’s never for its own sake made,

but if a bird could have a brain

it may well think against the grain.

You see if birds with wings can fly,

a bird that’s trapped still loves the sky.

The sorry penguin can but walk,

but clever parrots learn to talk.

So show a bird a mirror and

I doubt it could well understand.

And that’s the lesson for today:

the hiddenness of all display.

See the bird, bright feathers plumed,

displays itself because it’s doomed.

For if it’s born it needs must die,

but now how pleasing to the eye!

Game

To make a move and play a game

‘cross straightened rows of black and white...

To open, close, or stay the same

through silent countermoves of night…

The lines of pawns that move one way;

the knights that leap through light of day;

the bishops wind a crooked course;

the rooks with their straightforward force;

the king with short legs on the scene,

surveying all the crumbling rows;

and swift and nimble, keen of nose,

the deadly distant present queen.

The four and sixty squares, they prove

a game’s no game without a move.

But win or losing, lose or win,

it’s better far to never play;

the game you never quite begin,

ever perfect, each passing day.

The pawns will never break their lines.

Imagined purely grand designs

where nothing’s lost, where nothing fails:

forever waiting never stales.

And should the pieces fall to dust

when the hourglass has run…

imagined games are far more fun,

and nothing ever lost, I trust.

And so I think it’s finally proved:

it’s better far to make no move.

Box

For where it’s locked up in a box there’s something would be free,

and every fine enigma has a certain sort of key.

The quiet and the darkness and the distance hide what’s there,

but breezes blow the scents around for those who sniff the air.

And though I’ve kept my secret, though I’ve locked it ‘neath the lid,

there’s an open mouth in secrets that would speak and not be hid.

There’s nothing very much to say, and nothing much to hear,

but where’s the mouth in all the world that wouldn’t find an ear?

But if I were a mirror I might see it turned around,

and if you were a bird with wings you might not touch the ground.

It’s a simple little riddle, but don’t answer it too quick;

it’s only light and shadow play that always does the trick!

Trickle

Tiny trickle through the cracks,

dammed-up flood that daylight lacks,

the way so long, the hope so dim,

the fish without the nerve to swim.

The rising flood would break the wall,

the tiny nothing would be all,

the dying glimmer would be light

and flow reflected through the night.

But how to hope enough to strive,

to stifle doubt and keep alive,

to burst the gates and smooth the stones

when hateful dullness fills the bones?

Hear it calling, calling, calling,

tomorrow’s hope is this day’s crawling.

The deepest night gives way to day,

and quiet light will find its way.

The rosy dawn will burst at last,

this blocking dam will be the past;

remember that you’ve come this far

all guided by a distant star.

Tree

The trees are wiser than we.

Silent, tall, self-sufficient.

With only light and water,

they delve into the earth

and reach to the heavens.

They speak no nonsense,

they need no knowledge.

They are too wise to be clever.

Hear them rustle in the wind

(how they rustle in the wind!).

To know nothing…

To know stillness, silence, quiet…

To need nothing…

To want nothing more…

To be, simply to be…

What is a human being?

So much want, so much need,

so much fear and doubt.

But see the trees,

and hear them speaking…

Rinse and Repeat

Let the faucet run.

The water will be hot in a minute.

Start a little music, like a tiny

chorus of angels singing, so sweet.

Can we believe in angels anymore?

Wouldn’t they laugh at us?

Soap and running water, wash,

rinse, and repeat. Breathe.

Listen to the music, sweet music.

See the stacks? A mug, a plate,

a spoon, lipstick stains, a bit of egg,

a piece of bone.

The shower head leaks. Should have

fixed it weeks ago… Wrinkled hands,

floating oils, and suds. And if the plates

should fall? Listen to the music,

sweet music. If only I. If only they.

How long until the sink rusts?

This plate here, with the daisy-chain

on the rim and a chip on the edge:

will it ever stay clean? Listen

to the music, sweet music. Tomorrow.

Always tomorrow. Always already tomorrow.

Wash it all again tomorrow.

Mugs tomorrow, spoons tomorrow, plates

tomorrow. Music tomorrow. Angels.

But no lipstick stains, tomorrow.

Spinner

Crawl along the tile,

scuttle on the floor.

While I’m making coffee

you walk under the door.

The itsy bitsy spider

went up the waterspout…

Eight hair-thin legs so tiny

as you cross the welcome mat.

I begin to wonder

why you look at me like that.

Down came the rain

and washed the spider out…

Black liquid trickling sweetly

as I stop and glance around.

I take a glass and cardboard

and lean over to the ground.

Out came the sun

and dried up all the rain…

I take you out the door

and I set you in the grass.

Though death comes to us all,

I hope it won’t come fast.

And the itsy bitsy spider

went up the spout again.

Shape and Shadow

The land that’s seen in dreams alone

shows the shadow of the light;

the flesh that covers up the bone

does only what is right.

For all do know what none can know,

and none know what all do,

and if the light through dark can show

you’ll see that this is true.

The shadow of a distant soul

cast all in tones and shades,

and voices singing on the shoals

whose music never fades…

And if a heart could have a heart,

a soul its own soul bright,

then neither could one end or start;

a beginning ending, right?

But if a voice that’s never heard

should sing and sing in vain…

if thought’s the echo of a word,

then is a cave a brain?

A path that winds in ways obscure,

like guttered candle-flame

is little less, is little more,

but never quite the same.

To drift from death to life again,

from life once more to die,

what’s left of grace, or even sin,

when from this world we fly?

And if I speak so very plain,

and state it all so clear,

a napkin all without a stain

is left just lying here.

Shell Song

Let out a little mineral and take another turn…

There’s nothing like the sea.

Another layer takes a turn and spins itself around;

the work can keep a mind at ease when death and fear surrounds.

Feel the tide, so gentle, so strong.

If there’s yet time for growing there may be another day,

and since I’m pink and fleshy then I know I may be prey.

So take a turn a layer and forget what’s best forgot,

I hunker in this so strong shell until I start to rot.

How beautiful, how cruel.

How warm the shining sunlight as I make another spin,

and how I work in fever just to end where I begin!

So when I make another run and twist another year,

such dullness creeps upon my soul, that may be worse than fear.

But never give up at the wheel and never say goodbye,

it’s “Take another turn,” I know, until the day I die.

See the fish…

Let out a little mineral and take another turn…

Poets

Now though it calls for sunshine, all to bring the earth to light,

it’s eyes alone and only that can mold a world for sight.

An eye that’s merely looking may well see a surface plain,

or may so far hide abstracted in the churnings of the brain.

It’s fear that makes for fantasies and dreams of better days,

and doubting indecision often misses the best ways.

And what’s a craven mind to do, that’s wrapped itself in rhyme,

but spin out some more verses and in some way pass the time?

There’s nothing in a poem, just a million doubts and fears,

and nothing in a poet, though he’ll last a few more years.

A poet loves a pretty word, and though he speaks no lies,

he’s terrified by meanings and one pair of watching eyes.

The fool they call a poet never knows just what to do;

he’s good enough with words but he can barely tie his shoe.

He hopes that if he’s pleasant and sings well they’ll let him live,

but fears that being born was one crime they won’t forgive.

And if a little poet likes to play a little game,

exposing all his weaknesses and boasting of his shame,

don’t ever give him sympathy, it only draws him on,

it’s a solid kick he’s needing, and a voice that says, “Begone!”

But please don’t kick him very hard, he’s not a nasty sort,

he only piles up his lines to make a pillow fort.

And if a dreamer somewhere knows just what he’s speaking of,

there may be room within a little pillow fort for love.