Monthly Archives: August 2014

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.

 

GOATatCityLightsGOATatGhirardelliHave 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.

photos courtesy of Maureen Bayless

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

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