Why I Weep

I weep because you are so close, and
I weep because I am so far away.

Wet Morning

Mountains smeared across the window glass.
The far shore obscured by mist.
Clouds hang low, snagging in the trees,
branches drip, rain in rain.
My thoughts are slippery from all the water.
Do I go? Do I stay?
The answers run off the grebe's back
and are lost in the sea.

Turned

Damn it!
The world has turned again
and I am suffused with anxiety.
Sure, I can deal with it; live through it.
Done it for almost 50 fucking years.
I just wish it would leave me alone;
the fear is useless and
it has stymied the best of me, and
the best in me, for the better part of my life.

I don't think its a lack of courage, of taking a stand.
The Buddhists would love the reason -
there is no place to stand,
nothing to face, nothing to fight.
How do you stand up to nothing (even as it destroys you)?

I see that I have claimed the world has turned.
That is incorrect. I'm sure its me.
Like a kaleidoscope, rotated by an unknown hand,
and, in an instant,
all things are shown in a new perspective,
in which people, light, and love advance or retreat,
or later, as it seems in this state, never were.

Do you wonder why I reach for your hand?
Do you understand how your warm leg
thrown over mine, your hand on my chest, or
your face pressed into the side of my neck,
brings them all rushing back, brings me rushing back?
At least for a time - a sweet, precious time.
Do you know, love,
of my infinite gratitude?
Do you know, love,
of my infinite fear?

Who Else Would I Talk to?

(a few bars with Rahsaan Roland Kirk's circular breathing)

Some days there is nothing to me but fear and dread,
Some days I grow tired of being a fatalist.

All of us intent;
looking forward,
solitary headlamps peering forward
into the darkness of eternity.
We have ears, but do not hear;
questions, but afraid to ask.
But there is one who listens.
Who else would I talk to?

I guess I've led a sheltered life,
and so only now felt felt the touch of death,
whose metaphors abound:
it's bony fingers tighten around my neck,
the tumblers falling into place one by one,
The slot machine suddenly lining up
cherry. cherry, cherry...
You think to yourself,
they never do that;
I'm never been that lucky
No. Its something else:
betrayed by the flesh. Oh,
there is no doubt,
the flesh betrays us all.
It's easy enough and doesn't need
the thirty pieces of silver.
Still, it wakes me up early,
my feeble brain struggling
to throws it's simple net around eternity;
my halting voice
with a question or complaint.
But there is one who listens
while all of us intent...
Who else would I talk to?

Notes for a Postpartum Letter

I
I'd like to leave this house of sadness,
as you, Edna, have left me and this world,
with so many things left unfinished,
and I, with so many things left unfinished:
Useless.

II
You were the opposite pole,
whose energy sent me out into the countryside and onto the river,
and when your energy faltered,
into the arms of Jesus.
Edna, my love, you have left me, and this world,
yet I cannot say "it is finished."

III
If I think of returning to places we once visited,
I am filled with dread and sadness
(I should look into this),
yet I sleep in the bed where you died;
my spirit sinks sometimes
when I return to that house and that room
after a long day at work.
Yet, for now, it remains my home,
a home of suffering and sadness.

IV
Edna, how could we live together for 27 years
and still know so little about each other?
I blush now with shame.

V
Often, when we tangled,
it was like arguing with a mirror.
You could match me fault for fault;
perfect point counter point.

VI
Now and then I pray at the couch
where you rested day and night,
and I can still smell the chemo
that that seeped from your poor saturated body.

VII
I remember putting a waterproof sheet on the bed
because of what I'd read about things the body does
when it expires.
But it wasn't real; I expected a miracle.

Bad Math

Edna, the loss I feel
just doesn't square
with the trouble we had
with each other.

Too Many Words

Sometimes there are too many words,
and the Muse, heartless bitch,
whispers in my ear:
"Pick out the ones you want;
we'll drown the rest."

Its the Weather

Its the weather.
Its the same old song,
watchin' it rain,
watch it rain,
watch it rain.
Somewhere there's sun,
somewhere skies are blue.
I'll be waiting,
I'll be waiting,
I'll be waiting
if not for God then for you.
Its the weather,
Its the same old song.
Watch it rain,
watch it rain,
watch it rain.
Time to call it a day,
say goodbye to pain,
watchin' it rain.
Its the weather,
its the weather,
its the same old song,
its the same old song.

Pas de Deux (dream)

I met a dark-haired woman;
she appeared suddenly,
as people often do in dreams.
She came close to speak low,
something cool and friendly in my ear.
I leaned forward to hear,
and my cheek brushed her bare shoulder.
When I raised my head,
our lips touched and held,
a kiss!
I nearly fainted from joy.

Sunset Again

Sunset again,
stealing my world
leaving me penniless.
Sometimes I face it down,
but the result is always the same:
empty pockets for the night.
And just before dawn,
takes the last of my mind.

Empty pockets,
they don't make the grade,
Momma may have
(but Momma's in a nursing home),
Poppa may have
(but Poppa's been gone for years)
So God bless the child that's got his own, til
sunset again
takes everything I gave.

Sometimes I stare it down,
but the answer is always the same:
Sunset again
and empty pockets for the night.

What Can I Tell You 10/05/07

What can I tell you about the sunrise?
A red ball slowly rising
behind the leaden tule fog;
the orange haze,
and above in the fresh blue:
the white surprise of a few clouds,
A flock of birds,
testing the cool air of a new day;
the trees, still, and patient for the higher light.
In a moment of distraction,
it will all vanish, and exist only as a memory.
What can I tell you about the sunrise?

Poem and Apology

Last we spoke, you asked my name
and uttered some words I took as praise.

Oh! 
...see how quickly the hungry trout
rises to the bait!

Trial and failure;
it happens again and again,
and somewhere a monk
rolls up this paper
and swats the inattentive student.

Teilhard de Chardin 10/26/07

(We were meditating on his eloquent statement
of consenting to be diminished in God as he aged and died.)
...
I watched my wife slowly die for five years,
Her death is a terrible mystery I cannot solve.
Her death is my Kaaba, I circle
in reverence and confusion,
anxious for revelation.
But no revelation comes;
the mystery remains.

She left without any dramatic declarations.
I think she was surprised and chagrined
that her prayers, our prayers, would not be answered.
When that became clear, she faced it,
went to bed and quietly finished it.
I faced it with disbelief and anxiety.
It was only later that I also gathered in anger, sadness,
regret, and bitterness.
The disbelief ("help me in my unbelief")
rests on a bedrock sense of inequity:
It should have been me.
She wanted to live, she had reasons to live,
while I live as a hapless reflex, passing the time.
I am uncomfortable in this world,
as beautiful as it is,
and find people vexing.

There is nothing new in these feelings.
Everyone left behind has them.
"I hear you lost your wife" my voice echoes,
"I lost mine, too, just over a year."
(while inside, the time
has become meaningless.
It feels like it happened yesterday,
and like it happened long ago;
it never happened, it's happening now,
and it is eternal).

Her death is my Kaaba,
I circle and circle
in reverence and confusion,
anxious for revelation.
But no revelation comes:
the mystery, and I (for now), remain.

About Words

We are all poets here;
words, sentences, are holographic.
The light that your mind shines through the words
creates their meaning
Seen from one side,
perhaps they are a sliver
that festers under your fingernail, or
a dagger that pierces your heart.
From another angle,
maybe a ledge above the abyss
with a good handhold,
or not,
and you slip away, screaming.
But I don't want to create a compendium here;
we know that even one word
can be all things to all people.
I just want to ask...
What's your angle,
and have you calibrated your compass
and inclinometer?

"Huge Fire in Oakland"

"Huge Fire in Oakland"
the headlines proclaim
in large block letters
but briefly to my eyes
before the pages (and those behind it)
are crumpled and laid in the stove,
where, with some kindling
and a couple small logs,
they will soon provide me
and the room
with a cheery fire
and a modest measure
of welcome heat.

Pebbles in a pond...

The stone soon finds peace on the muddy bottom.
The bubbles vanish in a blink of the eye.
But the ripples...ah, the ripples
circle outward forever
in your mind.

Directed Meditation

Take 10 steps out the door,
in any direction.
Take a deep breath and close your eyes.
Slowly breathe out, open your eyes,
and describe the first thing you see.
My first breath met a wind stirring in the trees,
and my lungs caught it, billowing like a sail,
and I exhaled into night.
Opening my eyes, I saw
before the damp unanimous green
of the trees and grass,
a rosebush in bloom,
each blossom a flame
of cool desire,
and a silent cry of hope.

Sometimes I Wonder Why

Sometimes I wonder why
I don't just sink down into it,
without argument or reproof.
One man's life is as tedious as the next's,
when it comes to the material things.
"The details of my life are quite inconsequential... "
(summers in Rangoon...luge lessons)
Dr. Evil, how right he was!
Repetitive desires, repetitive disappointments.
How consistent it all is,
and how difficult to move beyond it;
or take much of an interest in pushing
this old clay into another shape.
God must be bored out of his mind,
having played this game for the better part of all time.
Or has he put us now on autopilot,
in that eternal 7th day; and now awaits,
greeting the saints,
saints with shining faces,
marching in and out through those flaming doors
every freakin' day of the year.

I'm Bad

Oh I'm bad, yes I'm bad.
I wear Hawaiian shirts,
BUT I TUCK THEM INTO MY PANTS!

Love

Love is a great bird,
soaring high on wings named
"he" and "she."
But this bird cannot soar as high
as the bird whose wings are called
"not I" and "not thou."

Apology

Sentences and paragraphs
we know most often to serve the purely utilitarian.
But when we see the poet's lines,
flush left, supplicants lined up in prayer,
we know we must seek higher ground,
and ready ourselves for the visits
of beauty, and truth, and love.

December 31

I sit crosslegged by your grave.
The sun warms my back,
a little breeze chills my face.
Its the last day of the year,
but it feels like early spring.
Ah Beloved, you left too soon.

Promises Kept

Tucked into a picture frame
that still hangs above our bed
(a watercolor from our daughter)
is a note I left on Edna's pillow,
early on in her last illness.
"Dear Edna" it exhorts,
"Let's grow old together."
And below she had answered
"Yes, let's!"
And we did.
But she grew old too soon and died
while I grew old and live
to wonder why.

Up before dawn

Before the bathroom mirror
I find brief repose,
and these words appear unbidden.
I note the stubble on my face
- though is scarcely compares
to the dark, latin growth
I see on my sons -
it's as if, last night, I had lain down in the forest,
and sometime before dawn
a light dusting of dew
had frozen on my face.

Some days I believe in these words,
some days I don't.
I only know to gather them quickly
before they are beaten incomprehensible,
or buried, or erased,
by the events of the day.

Grief comes sometimes

Grief comes sometimes as an eagle, fierce of eye,
captive in a cage too small.
And inside, I can feel those great wings,
beating against my ribs.

Or sometimes as a turtledove,
held within my heart,
whose fluttering wings
shake my very soul.

Beloved, when I think of you,
grief comes sometimes as a bird
and I wonder where I have left the key
that will set this captive free.