Poetry for Scientists
----------------------------- September Stretching gently, the garden yawns, and shrinks into its bed; with tired eye turned toward the sun it tucks away its head. Apples earthbound plums and grapes all wither in the grass. Worms and insects take their turn; recycled life goes past. Damn September, ever faithful, loyal to a fault, steadily advances on Summer's end.... but the spring you cannot halt. ******* Shadowless April 26, 1988 What is of the sun is the sun. Like shallow flowing waters, the light shines through. Like air invisible and vital, the light shines through. Aflame, you can burn without darkness too. Laugh the Buddha laugh! Throw yourself from a mountain, rise with the sun! ******* September 1988 Is this a perfect world? Since I have to ask, how could I possibly understand? If I didn't ask, would it make a difference? If it's perfect shouldn't we be told? ******* Conversations with a Mockingbird We speak in whistles... birds, dogs, portraits of dogs... compassion... Ideas, books, Oprah's books... These words aren't important, in fact meaningless. Just a stream of consciousness... It's the magic of this shared moment that compels an attempt to mimic a mockingbird. Tears can form without discrimination, neither from sadness nor appreciation just wonder. Art forms from the invisible one, like dew on the field, like birdsong. But why love? No reason. It whistles, we follow. ******* 1997 Where would poems go if we let them? They come from a far off mysterious place of being and then return there. Eventually everything will be said and we can relax. When poems go, they talk about themselves... After what's been said, is it fair that these meaningless words use me to write them down? ******* Colossus Dec 20, 1998 My leg drags behind me ten years long. Can't shake it loose. The weight strains my gut and makes the way hard; like a heavy boot upon one foot, something colossal and square, not made for moving ahead. See the scar it leaves on the earth? It rips the living out by its roots and crushes all manner of bloom. Pretending it's not there, I grow accustomed. Returning is impossible and standing still isn't the way. When my lightness of being is returned to me I will fly away from here. ******* Slow-mo If every thought in your mind instantly came true the good, the bad, the unforseen... It's ok that we create as slowly as we do. A speed slow enough to take back the last thought, before it becomes word, before it becomes deed. We are gods in low gear; masters of a tempered universe. ******* Palindrome A storm is raging. Snowflakes consciously fall to earth keeping the landscape in balance. These clouds love unconditionally. Travelling for millennia they arrive a piece at a time to partner with this night. ******* On Being Here Dec 25, 1997 Confusing isn't it? How all this lies outside us and we do our best with it. I stand over to the side and watch. What were my options when I chose this place? What was I thinking?? What legacy will be asked of us? I'll respond: love is the quality of life's meaning. ******* Numbers Oct 25, 1998 On the way to the ridge this morning I woke up a forest of birds speaking my native tongue, There are hunters out to bag deer. I'm here on this ridge to bag something else. They want to make eight points, I one. I've narrowed God down to the voice inside my head-- but don't be afraid. So if God is everything, isn't everything true? When that voice is silent, I'm left with everything all at once. ******* |
Poems from the Heart
----------------------------- Matters of the Heart 1981 Searched my mind to find a line therein, the kernal of a poem in Spring.. Alas, I stood with empty hand as was the place I searched in vain. With poems and matters of this degree, my heart is the warmer home for me, therein a sense of harmony from which the fruit will grow. Yet, as I rise to write this down, I lose the rhyme, misplace the sound. ******* Lotus Arms and legs tied in a bow. I decorated myself and waited. In love I waited. A patient present was I. ******* Ancient Meditations In the silence listen quietly, carefully. You will hear a distant ancient melody. It will fill and envelope you. Be still. Follow. Onward over worn pathways it will lead you. Heaven and earth don't matter when the heart is played by love. ******* Dreamed June 1983 Somewhere not too far away a dream is forming. I hear its hushed breathing; feel its tug. If I fall asleep or wake completely, it doesn't matter, it will find me. Dreams dreaming dreamers... who is the master of this house? ******* Fully clothed, can we walk naked in the garden again? ******* In a mime's prison we forge real keys and escape. ******* Not Necessarily in This Order I want to wake without reflecting and be sane without trying and write without hesitation and risk without fear and slay without moving and love the world and it love me. And speak without thinking and laugh without stopping. ******* I need to be translated into love. My old language no longer works for me. It holds meaning, but lacks content; images and concepts--I need color. I would trade volumes for one breath of sweet honey. My builder speaks to me of bliss, the alphabet of pure joy. Can I be spoken as your will? What is my worth if my life mumbles? Every day I trade my convoluted ideas for light. So gentle and kind, my unbounded stupidity doesn't cause you to erase me, nor silence you. Translate me into that. ******* 1999 You've made a joyless world joyful. an empty heart full you've exchanged a life of yesterdays for right now. The meaningless has become meaningful the loveless loved. This is you strong sweet giver. Lost faces bound for glory; wanderers going home. In this darkness there is sight. This is what I know of you my true friend. The world is unlocked by your touch. In your moment of being we are. ******* January 15, 1999 Empty handed open handed loneliness can lead to sincerity. It's the appreciation of the yearning that's important: waiting on fire with hunger. ******* 1997 It's the fourth day of Christmas and my true love gave to me what she always gives to me. She speaks in whispers deep within. Gently she unfolds herself. I search for her tiny flame... when I remember to go looking. Good she keeps an eye on me, especially when I wander soulless. ******* Stained Glass Oct 17, 1998 Broken windows of a great cathedral sacred colors shattered in the quake and rubble edited scenes fallen leaving gaps in the saga. BIrds have come to nest in the arches. Their righteous music rises into the air. Nature does her best work when plied against our edifices. Shards of jagged glass create dramatic shadows, and new religions are born. Holy water flows from on high with benedictions for all. We were all once glass. Pure clear glass. ******* Luckily there is no source for darkness. ******* |
Observations
----------------------------- Sound in Braille Crickets are talking. They hide nighttime secrets knowing we don't listen. Why code for deaf ears? Silence is when crickets stop. When we close our eyes everywhere is open. ******* A Million Miles to Morning Feb 17, 1988 Again with the night. Inside I turn and walk away from this page: not one true word ever changed one lousy feeling. I laugh the madman's laugh and melt into the snow. ******* Chewing Words. and swallowing ideas, plate after plate, never full my appetite never satisfied. I chew and gorge ever faster. I dip my spoon into a cloudy broth to scoop up a measure of clear meaning. Chewing, always chewing, candlelight for one flickers across the page and upon the line of words I twirl around my fork. Cleaning my plate leter by leter. I lift the book to my gaping mouth to scrape off bits of understanding. My head now large and thick flops onto my back; belched up words gurgle in my ears. and hearing them drip drip drip, I know I've plagiarized. There are accusations of kidknapping. I'm pulled into the margin and fined an opinion of my own. Pulling out I hit a dog who ends up being god. I'm charged with blasphemy on a public right of way. I plead dyslexia and my eyes are towed and impounded. That will cost me an arm and a leg, but they've been taken to the cleaners I take a train of thought home. Finally, at the end of the line, I quietly nose through a book in Braille. My nose runs and I'm left in the dark. Disoriented I vomit wor d frag ments. Convoluted metaphors? Tired, hungry and horny I crawl into bed with a good book. ******* Weighing so softly dawn breaks through the window without a sound. ******* It's always a full moon. ******* That our eyes light on the wings of a bluebird in flight, we are life. ******* The Battalions of Winter Sept 22, 1986 The Winter held down. Heavy blankets of wet snow press and bend the grass, trees and men. The barely living carry the sky on their backs. Green to brown to gray under the weight of Winter, and yet barely Fall. ******* Carnival Den of delights den of delicious disease; familiar tasty disaster. People laughing falling down. If we have more fun than this fun, we'll be sick, again. ******* Guest of Honor February 1989 She works the room like a politician. All eyes on her, someone says, My God, doesn't she look beautiful? She looks the same as twenty years ago. Isn't that the sane dress she wore to the wedding? It still looks perfect on her. Social obligations met, her entourage escorts her to a place of worship. Here she will shine like an Ambassador to God; all the speakers will say so. Stoically she takes her place of honor and tactfully fulfills her religious duties; reticent and modest...a reference for images greater than she. Ushered to her limo, it's business as usual. This will be the last act. Flags waving, lights burning the morning fog, her motorcade follows like a black segmented worm to the graveyard where she disappears into the earth. ******* Our most valuable and rare clairvoyance is the ability to read our own minds. ******* On Becoming Ourselves 1987 Everything fills out in time.; all space takes form.; the idea becomes reality, feelings too, in time. Thoughts brew inevitable outcomes; richer and rounder with imagination, see the lines form on our faces; It all comes dancing through us. ******* The Yankee Swap Thermometer Christmas 1987 Eight rode over valley and dale in search of the wondrous Holy Scale. though tempted were they along their path by lesser treasures and worldly delights, all eight persevered toward the golden sight till all held in hand the mightiest of mights: behold the power of Celsius and Fahrenheit! ******* |