The Visitor

Starry night

After a storm,

Blows in

An owl,

Alights atop

A broom handle

On my front stoop,

Staring at me,

Surveying,

Looking for mice

And other morsels.

Looking at me.

Looking at him.

I turn. He turns.

I walk away.

He flies away.
But never leaves.

Islands

You drift fixed,

Tides grinding,

Taking some here,

Depositing some there.

Edges rise sharp

To glare at the ephemera of sea.

You anchor yourself

To stake a claim

At the ineffable.

Transported there, returning, passages

And harbors and bays and coves and open

Seas, the prow of self on bowsprit.

And you land, settled again, with one

Footfall to bridge the gap into something else

Just out of reach that you hold onto.

Why this? Perhaps because all who came before lived

On rocks adrift — Sao Miguel, Bermuda, Britain,

Out there amid the void, in currents.

And now you: Peaks, Barbados, Cape Ann, if you

Count the Annisquam, these rocks
From which you view the world

Each day, that piece of perspective

Firmly locked behind your eyes, within your heart,

Blood swirling currents and tug and pull of the limbic system,

Of what has come and where we will go.

Good things, good places, good thoughts endure.

We end up there, when the day comes to disembark.

Maybe that is it: Each of us on a single, self-same journey

That in the end returns to ourselves, with the swirling

Carrying on all about us, and we come to our resting place.

And in that pivot point of stillness: the question mark-shaped

Coast. The period at the end. That’s the idea,

The pursuit of the divine. That's what one wants to get near.

Rollicking waves one day followed by

The sharp tack of surety on others. 

It will take you there.

Pay your ticket. 

Keep your bearings. 

Do not drift.

The Red Bird

You

Just after dawn

This morning

In the spring

The gold flowers of the maple

Awash in morning sun

Spilling out over the ocean

Onto your fragile self there

Alighted for a moment

Like a good thought

I look away

In an instant
You are gone

From January to July

We’ve traveled roads together

And alone — country roads,

Interstates, island roads,

Bajan roads, roads the Romans built,

Roads with a strip of grass down the middle,

Framed by bright green birch trees.

Snow covered the roads, then spring’s flowers,

Then summer's steamy rain.

And now here, we ride together, more and more.
And all I want to do is to take the road home to you.

Suffering

How intimate

Are you with the concept,

Miss Know-It-All?

Easy for you to say there.

On the numb of reality

— That thin reed —

Things can come unhinged,

And it’s not your fault,

Remember that.

The fear is what

You dread the most —

That darkness,

That hollow place.

You have been there.

Anyone who has not

Has no fucking clue.

Have you ever been

In writhing, white-light

Pain? The crunch and

Fire of nerves setting

The body and mind

And soul afire and adrift.

This is the place

Of no sustenance,

No memory, no hope.

Remember, forlorn sailor,

It will, because it

Will follow you,

But tailwinds accompany it.

That is the wisdom of the thing.
That is the opening of the seed,

Quenched by spring rain.

Night Ocean

Never will this droning,
This clawing,
This wind-swept yearning
Cease — the surf, the ocean,
Sing to me
In my years.
My harmonies,
I see possibilities,
Though at night
I cannot see the sea.
I know it's there
Out on a wave and a wing,
Not a prayer,
My thing,
Buoys ring.
Popples are glottal.
Incantations of water;
Upon the rocks
A slaughter.

Don’t Just Sit There

Do something.

Hastily write a line.

Include an adverb,

And note the defeat

But disregard it,

Because so much,

You are finding,

Is unremarkable,

And dross,

‘Cept what you

Hold inside

Behind your eyes.

Build that space

There away from

The transient material

To feeling, to wonder,
To dreaming, to kindness.

Seal those areas

And regrow new ones.

Escape the shell

And slither 

On the sandy beach.

Nothing seems to matter

Any more. 

Trudge. Trudge. Trudge.

There is freedom in that.

The Membrane

Am I not

Myself, only half a figure of a sort,

A figure half-seen, or seen for a moment, a man

Of the mind, an apparition apparelled in

Apparels of such lightest look that a turn

Of my shoulder and quickly, too quickly, I am gone?”

— Wallace Stevens, “Angel Surrounded by Paysans”

What is this barrier
Between you and the world?
Between you and the words?

You and love?
Break through it, the way
You always have. A little push.

A little effort. A little something.
Just keep typing.
Let the wriggling out of the shell

Occur, occur, occur.
Let the words cast spells — good ones —
And do the work.

You are halved somehow
In the din of living,
Shaved down a bit,

A survivor of sorts
In the everyday:
Get up, shave, shower,

And enter the possibility.
My mind. The world.
My conception versus my perception.

On that hanging limb,
You rebuild reality.
No leaves adorn it.

And winds blow,
But on that thin precipice,
In that instance, and in this one,

The mind creates
Or destroys.
You be the judge.

Autumn

What sweater to wear today,

In the din of a Tuesday?

This cool air. This warm sun.

This gentle breeze.

All bliss.

All echoes of sentimentality.

All done.

What will become of the season?

Caterwaul through it and bivouac in it.

The World Can Be Terrifying

The world can be terrifying. I need more courage.

Driving in a car is terrifying. Flying is terrifying.

I am trying. I am trying. I am trying. I am trying.

I need more courage. Who will give it to me?

Planes crash. Cars collide. Bad cells divide.

How could I have gone so long like this,

Unaware, undisciplined, making bad decisions?
The world can be terrifying. I need more courage.

There is the grinding of steel and glitter of light
On the highway tonight, coming to and fro,
Fading and arriving in imperceptible moments.
Is this symphony or chaos waiting to happen?

Dear Soul ...

I know you are there,

Silent, elegant, beautiful, still.

I want to get nearer to you,

And feel you close,

Gather you up

In my arms.

You warm me like no other.

I want to draw you in.

I am compelled, pulled,

To travel dreamily

In your orbit.

Some Days

Boil with struggle.

It is all in the mind.

Other days flow like easy rivers.

It is all in the mind.

What makes the difference?

It is all in the mind.

What Love Is

It owns energy 
While producing it.
It grounds you to 
The good Earth.

You feel it in your marrow.

It has a vision, gives life,

And moves you and all things.

Objects get set in motion.

Events unfold,
Flutter in harmony.

Something shifts, 
Dear universe,

When you look 
Into her eyes.

Love Arrives

On a morning breeze,

When you least expect it,

Turning days, hours, and moments

Into here and now.

Time elapsed synchronizes

With time forward.

The road ahead 

Remains the road home.

You could not dream a better dream —

Arriving on this sun-kissed day,

Blending light and air,

Body and soul,

Giving hope and joy,

To nourish the spirit.

We will, in time, ease

Into this love, this life,

Within us,

Between us,
Around us.

Trees. God. Water.

Three elements,

with Him (or Her) in the middle.

Rise up and sink down,

but stride the middle way.

Seek what you seek.

Find it in friend or foe,

blessed, blessed again.

Not dying, but rising up, up, up,

seeing the infinity in the sky,
in the ripple of wind over water,

and Him (or Her) between,

pulling, pushing, reaching,

filtering light, in the

sun above and pool below.