The Smoker in the Yard

but for a mouthful
biting the air—but
better a bowlful blowing

like the fallen rain,
in its collecting, sliding
down like blood the grass blades and coursing
as through veins
the weary cracks of stone

but for the secret shaft
that spirals not, but kisses—sifts
upward through pressures in the layering light

but for the smell—
the rank and fire of hell—or
for the dreamed companion
who holds repressions in his hand

but for the smoker in the yard
I would have shut
myself into the black warmed room
but better stopped to breathe with him
who lingers in the might bright light.

Edinburgh Graveyard

Sunken in the softer stagnance
Where the weary earth gathers from the cold
Breathless currents of submerging--
One touch of moss and muddy flowers
To lay a tender bed.
One breath beneath the leaves
The sunken world pours
into the constance
of the city pathways and
and eyes unperceiving--
Fading Eternal repose
Where the holy lay their Head.
And so they shall Ever be with Him.

I.

This brackless beach
Haven of all the fierce and jagged interminglings of man’s respite.
I feel, I bleakly gaze, I stare
I wrap my daunted senses ’round the bar
Unfurled and reaming like the wind
And curl or crack, I dry and heat

And I will slay the dragon
Follow on unstealthfully to his lair
Where I fear every fear
Each robust tinge of whole regret
Behold it, calm,
Beacon over crests and straights

Can you touch it
Feel it

And all the world lies loosely trenched
As opens before us from folds of ever-past
A full and glorious horizon.

II.

Treasure beyond all scope of twilight
Open blackness, restful seas,
Made to forswear all transformation
But to be
Resides in rise of greater light.

Treasure beyond all scope of twilight
Wind-shared sighs or cliff-sung praise
Lies in the light of darkened stare
Were clouds slow shades of hued in beauty
Starry skies contained more black than transient night.

Glory is a sigh to see
And meaning’s whisper to withhold.
What heart of the Creator bends
To hue in beauty with the clouds?
What we see gleam against the rocks
Can spark a sky is full of stars.

Behold the canopy of stillness
Now in the Eternal hold
Which breeds more fully meaning
Than life emergent from its seems

Canopy of stillness
Like life shown from lifeless seams.

III.

God
Light in the dust
Breath of our souls
Son, Father, Spirit
Whom have we save you
Who saves us, redeems
The tide of all creation
Lapping, drawn only to you.

Not every man is a prophet
Our treasure safe in heaven lies
Not every man is a prophet
But all have life to rest in you.

I want to conquer mountains
While the fallen glaciers drain
To cut each cord and break each yoke
And untie every chain.
Those who creep ’round the darkness
Have lost their dark domain.
I must be fast;
The day is past
To settle in the plain.

I wish to fly in labyrinths
Where the sunset breaks the sea
The one who wails upon the crags
Has bound his heart to me.
The embers of the broken
Have lost their will to be.
I need to walk,
Ascend the rock
And think before I flee.

Flee to hidden jungles in the sizzling of the trees,
Bask on glowing beaches, learn to comprehend the seas.
Call beyond prosceniums, indulge humanities
Conquer meanings of the tongue, and settle in their ease.

Flee
To the land of flowing wine
And taste its grapes to see.
Flee to feel the dusky vine
Where dusk creeps tenderly.
Aflame in vernal gardens
Where the tangling moss gives way,
See her who found was hidden,
The perceived as she surveys.
Run the mangled tunnels
Of the mango groves and taste
The flitting bee’s lost honey
With her, whose lips bid haste.
Past arching limbs of orchards
Which the conquered dare to heed
For she whose very cheek guards
From the heartbeat drums she speeds.
She stands upon the fragments
Of the stone’s autumnal spar
Where these the ashen matins
New moon’s smoldered embers are.
We dance below the moonlight
Where earth opens at its purse
One night then morning’s respite
To write wild, tangled verse.
She looks and at a whisper
All my senses, tastes maintain
Let last the fruits and vespers
Let not consummation’s rain.
And glide and glisten under skies
So black but at a glance,
The constellations feign reprise
And I mourn who once did dance.

I need to find a shelter
Let be peace my only rest
To give my soul for whole control
Bequeath my very chest.
The wanderings of my vision
Would not achieve my crest.
I must be bold
And still take hold
Of whom will guide my best.

My home will be my savior
And my power my cornerstone.
My lord will sing and strengthen with
His warmth my every bone.
The wanderers in the darkness
Will eternal light be shone
Your kingdom come
Your will be done
My heart be on your throne.

Sigh

“It’s so nice here,” she said
For when lights shine through the night
Some distinct aurora
Be it the dull accumulation of city pathways,
Or moonbeams or stardust—
When they mingle at the water
With evolving reed melodies
And the swift percussion of the surf—
Sporadic and daunting—
All is sheen and all is breathless.
Though lucrative through amplifiers
And bourgeois be the humming lights
We sit in the glow of resort hotel euphoria
“It is perfect.”—
Artificial and tranquil,
The sheen of pleasance.

View From Carson Peak

Beautiful and brilliant
Lifeless and free
The mountain peered into its orbital sea
And jauntily surveyed the layers of trees
The misty sleek pines
The snow at its sides
The dryness of dammed lakes scattered, cold in the breeze
And my scattered, quick, and muddled thoughts
Held still by its aloof and poignant grasp.
And I was still.
Look at me.
And as much as I looked I never grew bigger
Than it.
So I never looked away
Which leaves me here.

The Use For Soap

A man set about washing his hands--just
a little touch to make the water shimmer,
then slowly, inch
by inch,
nail then flesh, leading to
vigorous ripples and a subtle splash of
full emergence.
He turned and twisted and interlocked his fingers
and hands;
then he rubbed them 'til they burned,
seeking cleanliness and losing control in confusion,
for at what point would his hands
be clean enough to compensate?
And through bleeding and calluses and bleeding and
water and bubbles and
dirty water that did not clean,
insatiable night yielded to morning.
And innocent blood was called on parents and their children,
And those who could not trace such lineage
went about living --
some killing
some dying
all seeking fulfillment
some seeking peace--
And the man began to eat away his hands with a sponge.

Keep washing your hands, Pilate.
Sooner or later you're going to have to make another decision about Jesus.

The Poem of a Three-Year-Old With His Older Self

Let me not be in Sunday mornings—
quiet and still, sad, alone
gray morning through tangled blinds (cold and sharp and grainy)
invisible barrier blocking nose and can’t feel it with fingers
desperation inhales and wrinkled dryness
Turquoise room and turquoise shirts laid out for church
The Pounding-Piercing-Shrill-Beating-Loud-Swirling chaos
Like a vacuum cleaner
Sucking, ripping out of bed.
“I’ll pull you out. Suck you up.”
And three-year-old little person below facing the shrill, swirling bedroom air all alone.
Hold on, weak—in fear—powerless
Don’t get sucked away
Sharp piercing
Grab the doorknob
Hold on Grasp
Turn on the light.
Turn on the light.

But let the world this morning be a Grandpa day
A day that Grandpa would be here.
Calm and white, sun shining off chlorine rippling-electric-reflection pool
Through revealing blinds
Welcoming gray, soft living room,
Presence of Daddy walk by my window.
’Cause life can be beautiful
Life can have joy
And not through innocence because of the sucking swirling bedroom
But because of love.