Friday, March 22, 2019

The Gray White Sky



This is the sky I always know
when it comes in a dream
means
“listen up …
something profound
is taking place”
Usually I’m in a lofty
apartment in Boston
waiting for my lover to arrive
or move
or speak
Not always, though
Sometimes we’re in
a basement – a converted
factory with
easels and paintings
everywhere
And not my lover
but my muse
Or not my muse
but my teacher
Anyway, a lesson
is at hand
That colorless sky
is my mind’s blank page
the place where
rational thought
meets improbable
imagination
(It is a dream, after all.)
Or is it?


Monday, February 18, 2019

Sad Sky



I live in the northeast. This morning I went out to add an empty egg carton to the recycling bin before the truck comes by, and I noticed that there was a sheen of ice all over the wine bottle and other items in the bin from the night before. And now it is snowing, adding another layer to the frozen ground. The parking lot is a nightmare.

And I chose this, I remind myself. I always get a bit downhearted this time of year. I have a sensitivity to the lack of sunlight. I tend to sleep too much and eat too much and just generally feel very lazy. And I think this is what makes me appreciate the spring and the first daffodils coming up and the "cheer cheer!" cry of the robins.

Meanwhile, here's a poem for the Sad Sky.

There's a pattern to it
This mysterious ribbon of inescapability
I can't define it really
Or won't
It's clinging to my joy
Like a weight on the foot of a
Drowning man
One minute a weight,
The next a disappearing shadow
I can't fasten my mind carefully
To the ground
Or won't
And how can a poem help
What can it do to bring
Someone back to life
Heal an organ
Feed a child
Mere words
And yet it's all we have
In the end
These magnificent palaces of love
Exquisitely fashioned
By the shimmering
Translucent mind
Behind the shadow
Behind the ribbon
I grasp the pen
With my warm fingers
Breathing in the oxygen of it
Reality vibrates quietly
The only constant
And I'm grateful.



Thursday, October 11, 2018

Where are the women who have had to learn to be human?



One could say the body is a metaphor, but that’s not quite true
It speaks and sings and dreams on its own
And does its call and response on cue
But the being is more than reflection

New pathways in the mind
That space behind the eyes awakened
(Feeling safe, perhaps the trigger)
Colors mobbed for purchase
Dramas playing out
That skimmed moment before sleep

To what do I owe this epiphany
This deliverance from pain

My guide sits quietly
While I stroke the flanks
Of a quiescent panther
And note how its consciousness is out of body
There in the same glen of my meditation
Where a black goose has also come
These sacred animals just visiting
I had to record them for no reason

Whenever the sound, sight, technology
And super-ideas convene
The focus becomes clearer
Love the ocean?
It sings soars, roars, rolls and delivers
Birds fly
Their wings determined
And deft with the sculpting of space

I’m left with the notion
That there is no embarkation
Demarcation or separation
Except for the touch of one being
Upon another