Just now, August 31, by the desk lamp
Opened the window a crack
to let out a tiny grasshopper
a tide of August moths rushed in
on the crashing surf of crickets
Just now, August 31, by the desk lamp
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Monthly Archives: August 2014
Old New Moon
Old New Moon
There’s nothing—
the August crossing
assures us—we can do
with the moon as thin
as a rabbit’s ear
every emotion leaping
like a toad on a
dry white mountain
In an Open Field
In an Open Field
Late afternoon. The hills behind me
obscure the sun yet as I walk across the field
I can still see my shadow on the grass
a faint whisper of motion on the ground
always before me touching everything first
coloring every step I’m about to take
towards the new day so I turn around
it is still there larger and darker or is that the shadow
of what killed the old day standing up
to shrug off its sleep
GOAT in San Francisco
GOAT in San Francisco
Last photographed somewhere on the coast of the Aegean sea, the mangy beast continues to see far more of the world than I ever will.
Here he visits the famous City Lights Bookstore and Ghirardelli Chocolates. I am sure the hilly nature of that city works for him. Not to mention the chocolates.
Have you got my GOAT yet? If so feel free to send a photo of my pal so I know what he’s up to. Or to reprimand me for worst marketing tag ever for a book of poetry. Either will do.
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written [3]
Note: third in a series of poems with the same title, to be scattered throughout a larger project called The Drift
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written [3]
Five white petals on a black flower
among many in an orange field on the sliver of wing
of an insect pausing by the sill then flying then forgotten
nine months later—my first five decades
jss
A Day at the Beach
A Day at the Beach
We foresee our deaths
sacrifice the days one after the other to a slow motion panic
believing if we are senseless in a consistent and calm manner
that we can’t be blamed for not being ready for the only thing
we knew was coming
If time moves in a wave then behind us
foams a wake of wasted moments wasted the moment
we look back given up to the future day that never asked for sacrifice
and that never arrives
and if it did would never be any longer than a wasted day
How is it that giving up on a dream translates always
in any language into not doing something we could do
today in the wakeful world right now instead
we plant the sharp end and open slowly the gorgeous umbrella
of panic beneath the sun of death
Common Ground
Common Ground
At my feet a silent tide
The midsummer light’s crashed
through the trees, fills the grass
recedes and foams to nothing
In the shadow of mountains the ocean
comes to me as you once did
Tonight
Tonight
For a while I will sit up listening
to the crickets. Your head on my lap.
I know, I know peace is balanced on
a blade of grass in a breeze
but tonight I am that blade
and nothing will fall
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written
Note: another of a series of poems with the same title, to be scattered throughout a larger project called The Drift.
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written
Now we enter the season of our age
before summer’s end yellow leaves drift
haze floats between us and the foothills
still the sun is strong the rain when it comes
like the same words over and over
is not yet cold and when I look
between birds and hills I see the past
and am reminded of the future
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written
Note: one of a series of poems with the same title, to be scattered throughout a larger project called The Drift.
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written
I just spoke to the miles
they have no intention
of coming between us
but cannot get out of
the way so I looked up
the towers of clocks could
count the ways to keep us
together but not give back
even a moment spent
without you so I tried
boxing the yearbooks folded
the distance into my back
pocket even the intentions
bad and good wanted to help
but could not make up their minds
so I asked sleep sleep forgave me
I’m not sure for what but having
removed it all walked with you
wide awake beneath swallows and oak
humming these lines as I forget them
Translations from the English 