Poetry for Scientists
----------------------------- Tangent I carefully choose a stick of wood from my woodpile, while across town a boy stands confused. Meticulously I measure diameters, thicknesses, strengths. His mind is a whirlwind; the young boy remembers all too much, forgives all too little. Pushing the point of my compass deep into the wood, I score a circle. The young boy franticly files a locked chest freeing the rifle. With precise accuracy I scribe a second circle within the first. Loading the chamber, he joins with the demons in his head. I painstakingly cut, drill and file. He devises a web of pulleys. On the table carefully sanded and polished, an engagement band waits on promising forever. Angrily the boy divorces his world and rushes into the loving arms of eternity. ******* Shuttle May 24, 1987 Across the heavens and beyond the stars a magical distance neither near nor far... At the edge of the darkness lies a loom being strung, frayed strands are knotted, creation begun. Threads attached and crosshatched, the intent begins to show. As far as the eye can see, a weave begins to grow. The braided threads are tightly fed through warped and patterned course. Out and back, no slip no slack, the design is never lost. The weave in the ocean, the weave in the tree, the weave in the garden, in the sky above me. The thread is one thread, the tapestry the same. The sun is my mother, the universe my name. Magic is the commonplace: a song, a breath, a sound. Look within the fabric, the weaver can be found. Across the heavens and beyond the stars, a magical distance, neither near nor far. Within my chest is stitched a guest... a common place for a solar star. ******* Half-Moon, Route 2 Rising Feb 22, 1984 To my left the midnight sky backdrops: a stage, an horizon. This scene sets and supports a gathering of old friends. Mars and Saturn have come visiting the reserved waning moon. The road winds out somehwere beyond the squinting headlights. There are those who know exactly what conspiracies are being hatched tonight. Charts reveal the language of prophesy; planets can't lie. Moon and friends join hands in celebration. Their whirlwind dance will eventually entangle us all tonight... Can you hear a vague funny laughter? Eager hands extend and pull me up into the restless air. Endless and endless we spin, faster and faster; unbounded, beyond sense. Signs tell me my turn is up ahead; they can't lie. Over my shoulder in the still night sky, moon and company levitate, and pretend to ignore me. In the distance, close at hand, I'm smiled by a vague funny laughter. ******* Sun Worship Promises Part 2 March 2, 2000 The Spring sky tries to remember, but clouds and cold winds knock the feeling into a seasonal no-man's land. Still, there's a hint. Pretending hesitant lover, the sun flirts and teases, then disappears into a frozen rain. Somehow every year, no matter how gray the world is, no matter how heavy the world is, perennials push up their green antennae, and praise an old lover's return. ******* March 15, 1991 There are flowers that die in the summer rain, some fall to October's freeze; these we call annuals. Others live on beneath the ice and snow, through pounding cold and endless Winter nights. These we call true love. ******* Metamorph April 22, 1998 She turned me into a moth tonight. Gladly I flew to her flame, mumbling and bumbling and fumbling, stupid as could be. That fine disturbing energy is still in me now. The moth never means as much to the fire, as the fire means to the moth.. ******* Gravity as Learning April 19, 1998 This world needs saving. Or is it the world that saves? It teaches some strange and bizarre lessons about ourselves. A mirror? No, a trampoline, upon which we may bounce ever higher, until we bounce right out of here. Learning is gravity. It swells up inside as the ferment for knowing. When we finally become weightless, we launch like living arrows, and every unnecessary thing is left behind. ******* Free Mickey The other day I saw Mickey all twisted up into a pen. I guess someone could come along and straighten Mickey right out of there, and just have a long pen. I'd expect my money back though. Does Mickey mind is my question. I wore his ears as a kid. How did he feel about that, you know, the big ears thing? Ever notice there wasn't a single mouse in his club? Was Mickey allowed to have friends? And Minnie. was she really his choice? Does Mickey get to choose anything at all? And what's with the white gloves? Did they make him a dirty rat? Look at those skinny arms and legs, and bulging stomach... does Mickey get out? Is he on Elvis time? Who will come to save the day? Poor Mickey, free Mickey! Over the edge, smiling all the time squeaking something in falsetto... wearing the same old shorts... will he ever become sentient? Might a mouse manifest his own destiny? ***** June 16, 1997 True love ends. What kind of sentence is that? Can there be a hole in the middle of emptiness? What kind of question is that? Love merchants, they'll buy anything. At the end of all this, there will be questions about real love. that we all have to answer. ******* . |
Poems from the Heart
----------------------------- June 7, 1987 I smile at God and God smiles at me. I blame God and God blames me. I pray to God and God prays for me. I extend a finger to touch and God touches me. As I am we are. ******* Real Estate Buddha pointing to his heart: "If you lived here, you'd be home by now." ******* September 18, 1996 This teapot in which we steep... we draw our lives out of our lives, to sip another cup, to drink ourselves away. ******* Cause Rivers of melting snow rushing to the motherland-- home, the pond. Glistening in the sunlight, the distant ocean tides are calling too. Happily you melt and melt again into the arms of your beloved. ******* Whispers Nov 22, 1988 Sacrifices have been offered to you for skill in the hunt. We dedicate the four directions to you so that our families and homes will be protected. We've danced for you so that our children and crops will prosper. We've paid homage to you so that you would think well of us. We have fought for you so that you would keep us free. We have killed for you so that you may save others. We have prayed to you so that you would fulfill these wishes. We have cared for others because we know you want us to. We have meditated in you so that we may feel the grace.. We have always whispered to you, because you are the one who always listens. ******* Mission to Now the effervescence of being is where we truly become and in this constant becoming we can learn to know ourselves as radiant and complete and accomplished ******* To Bring the Sun Sept 24, 2000 This is such a tiny garden everything can be seen from here. You could touch it all from here. All this pruning for such a small expression. A time ago the gardener became a gardener. What is picked and planted depends on the season. Something is always growing here. The gardener spins like a dervish-- the center of the wheel--- the axis of the earth, where there's nothing left but the sun. ******* Shadowless April 26, 1988 The light is light in all directions. Forms make shadows, darkness, hidden places. Transluscent bodies catch the light. What is of the sun is the sun. ******* Volution Who lights the candle burning in the heart, burning burning through the dark? Who can reach the soul buried deep within; turning turning turning... feel it spin. ******* The Path Performed Feb 10, 1989 Old dirty garage dog sniffing the air. looking dumb at the traffic going by, but smart enough to stay out of it. Big black crow looking for what no longer moves, and waits for that which glitters and shines along the turnpike going south. A kitten, its mind fixed on the inside of a wall, tracks that which scratches and scurries. She bats her mouse that has no will of its own. These wise creatures know what pushes the wind and what glitters, scratches and scurries. And that's why wherever they go they take the path with them. ******* Koan Deaf Jan 19,1990 The window's clear, but the shade is down. The shades are up, but the shutters are closed. Everything in the open appears locked. Everything speaks, but only the deaf can hear. When time is finally and completely filled up with thoughts and deeds, it will stop. No horizons nor boundaries, behind or next to. It will all be at once. I can hear! ******* August 9, 1999 A battalion of wildflowers has come to protect my home. In rows and columns they flank my castle. Standing tall, yellow helmets blazing in the sun, only the insane would take them on. A volunteer army, they do no harm. They say they defend against attack with joy. They say they're invincible. I try not to laugh; mere dreams. Time alone will defeat them. They hear my thoughts and become silent. I'm expecting them to gather up and march away. Instead, they slowly turn their faces toward the sun. ******* Surrender to Rescue April 2, 2001 A fly stuck to paper. I try to remove him. I lift his leg, he puts down another. I pull from the front, he digs in at the rear. A moth in a web. I tug here, it flutters there. The more I do the worse it gets. These are "none of my business" traps. The bird that hit the window, the one that fell out of its nest... What the captive need, is to surrender to rescue. When the Friend arrives with the key, don't hide or resist. Release the security of your personal snare. ******* February 21, 2001 What's this mysterious voice that speaks inside us? When we disappear, it gets very serious. It says things that appear to be important, so we listen. I stand by the door waiting to see what's coming next. I hold out my begging bowl. Intently we listen. If I could snatch a phrase like fruit from a tree, or shake a branch.... Is there something that needs watering, burning, pruning? Is there fishing allowed here, or hunting, or trapping? We wait on a harvest. Nothing can be done. We look to grow here. This stream that talks, can't we just float away in it? When we wash away we cut canyons through solid rock. The line this river makes on the canyon wall, is like no other, like them all. The morning light. I look to grow here. ******* |
Observations
-------------------------------- Once Upon a Poem Feb 20, 1999 The farmer has shaved his cornfield, yet there remains a timeless five o'clock shadow. Any well groomed planter would delight at the open vista from ear to ear. Mother Nature, here the Bearded Woman, views her fallen shocks upon the ground. She runs a breeze over her cheek listening to the bristly sound of a close shave. A writer looks upon the field for something he knows grows there. He's not exactly sure what it is anymore, but it came from an ancient seed. He expects it to reveal itself. He cultivates over and over again with his pen. He plows the same furrows again and again destroying their fabric. His wife understands and knows he waits upon the season of his harvest. When she prepares food for him from this earth, the pouring and cutting are sometimes done by other hands, when she is distant, thick, and lamenting. Walking toward him in the field... ever walking toward him in the field, she sees him lying upon the ground. Is he listening for a stirring, his harvest season? The writer has become a seed. and disappeared into the earth. ******* Abandon Aug 10, 1997 The caterpillars came and ate everything. Trees were baked naked in the summer sun. Slowly a pale green grew along the branches. Slowly a pale green grew along the branches. We come back from abandonment in this way. The man with the silver spade will come at night and shovel out your gut. He will stand over you and kick, and shovel you away. He's a friend, for what is left behind will rot and fester, cramped in your stomach as too much yearning. Those who know know I need say no more. Recovery is a comma in time, a pause; we wait. We hang suspended on a pendulum that inhales long and deep, and expect inspiration to follow. ******* Heaven June 2, 2000 Angels danced last night. They spun like dervishes, like a potter's wheel, like the seasons. They sent kisses to the four corners of the world. Only four!? No, everyone got kissed! They push the earth away with their feet... but angels can walk when forced to. They only pretend to need wings to fly while all they are is heaven. ******* I'm the grandfathers I never had. The grandmothers too. They take me on long walks, make me laugh, and wonder and question. They care for me. I try to unconditionally love them, but I can't. I'm my lineage. When I fall down and bruise myself when I fall down and bruise myself, we breathe in silence. ******* Spark The fenced-in-horse-stands-motionless-staring. It has forgotten something and the way to remember. This statue life is not of his making. Would a dream of the open range be a haunting? Could he comprehend it? Where are his blessings? Standing-empty-with-his-mate, neither move. Sometimes the power of the spirit just isn't enough. What good, four more legs behind a fence? ******* Babies Nov 27, 2000 One open smile, how beautiful you are. No looking away, we gaze in amazement. A mouth-wide gurgling drool... arms and legs spaz... fingers all tangled up...... not taking an eye off an eye, a spontaneous shout saying: yaa.. This is high drama. ******* Calling 1980's I called to Max our early morning greeting; I called, Big Dog! Big Dog! But he didn't hear me. He didn't move. He didn't jump up and down into the air. No tail wagging till his whole body wagged too. Big Dog! I howled to my dog on his side with his ear to the earth listening. I called to his still eyes taken into the mysterious wonder of life calling. From my aching gut, the earth, wind and sky I howled Big Dog! I woke myself slurring: yannahannyanannyonanhanya... I got out of bed to make sure I was dreaming, and called out the window to my good friend's home. ******* Larry on Fathers' Day June 1994 The old man stands motionless forgetting what he was about to do. He stares past the stacked stuffed boxes that contain his life. He cautiously climbs over the clutter and broken floor boards making it to his bedroom-- pushing open the green tarp door-- was he about to look for his flag collection, or that picture of his old dog? Maybe the thieves have come again to steal away the remnants of his life-- there's that ole Harley, and the missing antiques. He sits down making sure to keep the red, swollen leg up. He thinks he falls asleep dreaming and sees Ruby again. The veils are so thin. Slowly, stiffly he makes his way past the stacks to make a call. The number is in a thick wad of papers stuffed into his back pocket: his last personal file of importance and meaning. 90 plus years of accounting, safe and concise. He's won the Readers' Digest Sweepstakes you know. A letter in the bundle says so. Some sons-of-bitches threw him out of the house when Ruby died. His two sons come up to visit now and then. A retirement home is out of the question; he's only 93 and he wants to keep his freedom. He stirs the soup warming on the kerosene heater. I think about Larry sometimes and smile as my heart breaks. ******* |