[#fullmoonsocial] Waiting for the moon to rise over the power lines behind the fields by the old school for the deaf and the blind
Home of the cardinals.
The train sound twins as it passes through
Echoing off unresponsive brick and glass
Over the darkening grass. It’s like there are two
Trains, the past casting an echo of the future
And then it’s gone, both of them
And still no moon.
Six lines on an early September front porch, for maple, bird and twilight
The maples are still green. I can hear the Canada geese
Sloughing below vision. Noisy in the west, where clouds break
Against the invisible shoreline of the livable world.
Their calls drift east, first in a foam of chaos then spreading
Like a wave disperses, one voice eddying out, diminishing
Then rising again, with a single repeated wish, good luck, good luck.
Six late-August evenings (3)
The mist climbs down the edges of the soccer field.
We are surrounded: on one side a power substation
With towers, cables and wires stretching out in all directions
Dwarfing the abandoned factory on Commerce with the smokestack
That looks like someone stubbed a giant cigar
Into the earth, back when people were giants;
On the other side a massive mostly empty school for the deaf
And blind trying to figure out what to become in
A new century where you don’t isolate children.
The mist is rolling, from the corners of the field
Toward the pre-teen daughters in their blue and red
Pinnies focused on the soccer scrimmage.
My daughter is out there, growing taller and stronger
And more invisible with each passing minute.
Coaches are like a good timepiece made in another
Country, they don’t stop for anything. Not even for
Parents whose daughters are disappearing before
Their eyes, straining to identify a joyful yell for the ball
As it skids over the wet blades into the future,
beyond the taut lines of current and the brooding brick
and the skeletal structures of power behind them, looming.
Conversations (VI) — to the future
With eyes closed I can hear you smile.
Your voice a place I know my way around.
Woodpeckers say goodnight the strangest way
And other birds of winter appear as singular
Leaves of gray, blue, gold on the trees
We can only see through their nakedness.
I drop your eyelids’ map of dreams:
Everything you are I still don’t know
Runs through my veins
Like the flight patterns of birds
that never have to know the route
I Remember the Future
I remember the future where all poets were famous
I remember the future where there were so few
things and people that they were all the best
where nobody cares for long who won or lost
I remember the future had always been where the family
would be sound of mind and body
I remember the force of the world working
backwards in time broke upon me like a windshield
I remember the moment looking forward became
looking back that all these futures drove
the present and their shadows solidified
to stone became the past
I remember this moment was when I understood
but tonight as the moon slowly fills
with the bones of days
(all the dead come from the future
from the days that did not live)
it is harder to remember the past
where I learned I did not have to forgive
myself or others to take my next breath
the only one available in the present
from Spring Songs (2)
Each time I clear the fence of another day
I am trespassing onto the future’s yard
Like the deer behind the house
alarmed to find open space by the trees leaping
fence after fence and just as quickly gone
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