Monthly Archives: January 2015

I thank
(Arabia Shall Peel,
A Hairball Please)
Ballerinas Ya
Hear Plan Ray
(a pallbearer ash inlay)

What is

or is true as

A pure river

Conditions for the equal good
to be as wise and fortunate

at the start

Lost in the pursuit

Under a white oak
two children sitting back
to back on a plank swing, calling

The hand
that touches the earth
to witness

Presses the metal latch, opens
the screen door out from home

sunlight, pond water silence
damselfly at rest on a frond

Having come with you
this far into the drafty air

– Jeffrey Yang

Giant Night

Awake in a giant night
is where I am
There is a river where my soul,
hungry as a horse drinks beside me

An hour of immense possibility flies by
and I do nothing but sit in the present
which keeps changing moment to moment

How can I tell you my mind is a blanket?

It is an amazing story you won’t believe
and a beautiful land
where something is always doing in the barns
especially in autumn
Sliding down the hayrick!

By March the sun is lingering and the land turns wet

Brooks grow loud
The eddies fill with green scum
Crocuses lift their heads to say hello

Soon it is good to be planting
By then the woods are overflowing
with dogwood, redbud, hickory, red and white oaks,
hazelnut bushes, violets, jacks-in-the-pulpit,
skunk cabbages, pawpaws and May apples
whose names thrill you because you can name them!

There are quail and rabbits too—but I go on too long

Like the animal, I must stop by the water’s edge
to have a drink and think things over


That was good. The drink I mean
I feel refreshed and ready for anything
Though I’m not in Vermont or Kentucky unfortunately
but in New York City, the toughest place in the world

And it’s December

Here someone is always weeping, including me
though I tend to cry in monster waves then turn into a fish
wallowing in my own salty
Puddle! Look out
If you aren’t wearing boots you’ll be sorry
and soggy too


This season’s cruelty hurts me
and others, I’m sure, who’d rather be elsewhere but can’t
because of their jobs, families, friends, money
It’s rough anyway you look at it

But what can you do?

It’s worse elsewhere, I’m sure

Take Vietnam

No thanks

I think about Vietnam a lot, however
and wonder if I’ll ever “see” it
The way I’ve seen Europe, I mean

Those pretty Dutch girls!
They all ride bicycles

In Venice you travel by boat or foot

The metro and the underground register like the names
in connection with them:

Hugo, Stephen, Stuart, Larry, Lee, Harry, David, Maxine

What does it all mean?
I never ask that, being shy

In this apartment in which I dwell these thoughts pass by

I hope you won’t mind the mess when you do too


You just walk in up a flight and you’re in paradise

A cup of coffee, an easy chair, a loving person waiting for you
who’s washing the dishes, reading a book

Outside someone’s worrying about love and not sitting down either

He’s probably freezing his ass off right now!
And other vital parts which would feel great in the country,
taking a walk, a hike, shoveling snow

Though you can do that right here


The hub of the universe is where I am in a night whose promise
grows with me, unlike the snow melting in the gutter

Whatever I do, it is beside me

I look out the window, there is night
I sit in this lighted room knowing this night
Night! Night! I wish you’d go so I could go
to the post office, the bank, the supermarket

Why aren’t they open at night? I wonder
Then realize I’m not the only person who’s
considered in the grand scope of daily living

There are those fast asleep who want to be and would be horrified
if the post office, the bank, and the supermarket
were only open at night
for you can’t be all there all the time
I myself am only here part of the time
which is enough
For there are other places to run to

Uptown, for example, where energy rushes you
like some hideous but intriguing chemical
you can’t ignore
and you want to absorb the wisdom these buildings have

How do they feel so high up like that?

Pretty good, they seem to say in their absolute way
But it’s the people inside who turn us on

By then you are gone off in a cab
and you are not alone

I am beside you

The streets are familiar from just traveling through
We rarely stop and when we do there’s a reason

Which is too bad
We miss a lot for this same reason


They’re probably feeding the chickens about this time
The smell of chicken feed overwhelms me
The rooster crows on a 7th Street fire escape
Breakfast is ready
There is a forest by the river near the barn
where things are happening,
a whole new world on the edge of dawn


My little world goes on St. Mark’s Place

To be not tired, but elated, I sing this song

I think of The Beatles and The Beach Boys
and the songs they sing

It is a different thing to be behind the sound
then leave it forever
and it goes on without them, needing only you and me

Here I am, though you are asleep

The morning of December 3rd dawns on me
in the shape of a poem called “Giant Night”

It must end before it is too late

All over the world children will celebrate Christmas
And families will gather together to give and take this season

Other religions and customs will prevail in their own separate ways
having nothing to do with Christmas

Soldiers will cease fire

Some won’t know the difference but might be able to sense it
in the air

The smell of holly, pine, eggnog
The friendly faces of Santa and his elves

All these will add up to something and be gone forever

Just like what is here one minute and not the next.

-Anne Waldman

On loss

When we lose someone we love, we discover that time does not heal everything. After a while, the ache in our heart begins to ease a bit, and we laugh again, life goes on and many times we reconnect with those still physically with us in much deeper more beautiful ways. And eventually the good memories outnumber the sad thoughts and we begin to sense that what we thought was lost, has actually been with us all along. We can’t explain it, touch it or prove it – but there are moments we catch ourselves smiling because we know it’s true.

-Paul Boynton

He is pruning the privet

  He is pruning the privet
                of sickly sorrow   desolation
           in loose pieces of air he goes clip clip clip
       the green blooming branches fall—‘they’re getting out
             of hand’    delirious and adorable    what a switch
                               we perceive        multiple
identities     when you sing     so beautifully     the shifting
       clouds  You are not alone is this world
               not a lone  a parallel world of reflection
       in a window keeps the fire burning
                    in the framed mandala,  the red shafted flicker
               sits on the back of the garden chair in the rain
the red robed monks downtown in the rain  a rainbow arises
                   simple country      practices thunder
      lightning,  hail and rain    eight Douglas Iris
            ribbon layers of attention
              So   constant creation of ‘self’ is a tricky
       mess    He is pruning the loquat,   the olive
     which looks real enough in the damp late morning air
                                                                                          Joanne Kyger (1995)

Were They Hands Would They Flower

Why are you grieving?

Because the others are grieving.

You are not compelled to grieve independently?

The grass needs raking.

The grass?

The leaves. I will build a fence to keep them from the sea.

Then will you help the others?

Tollers ring bells even the dead can hear,
a ringing such that I am bound to.

And the leaves?

When they are taken by the waves I give them names,
desiring in this act a homecoming
to which I am constantly denied
on account of other people’s prayers.

Rob Schlegel

Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different.

-C.S. Lewis

Museum, Glyn Maxwell 1962

Sundays, like a stanza break

Or shower’s end of all applause,

For some old unexplaining sake

The optimistic tread these shores,

As lonely as the dead awake

Or God among the dinosaurs.

I wish in the afternoon the window got larger.

-Liza Morales