Sweet and young and always

You know the song

“you’re still the one,”

the song that couples

time and love,

and begins a weaving

of memory and the particular

rhythm that framed the way

we walked and wandered?

 

It puts me in mind

of how much older I am

than we are,

how I can still see

those bright visions of you

whom I have loved so

and loved so all along.

 

You’re the one

are the lyrics, the sound,

the melody, I hear

and I shake my head in wonder

that you can see that I am, too.

 

Thank you for who you have been

and for who you are

and for who we’ve been

and how this forever

has become so sweet

and young and always.

It is us seasoning this land

A poem about the blood
that soaks our land

is not about who spilled the most—

though it should be clear

who spilled the least,

who took so much

and gave so little—

but it is about our mingled DNA,

delivered on rivers of blood

and rivers of tears

and the sweat of hard labor

and the joy of ecstatic dancing

and the wet and rapid breathing

that happens day

and happens night.

 

I leave behind a piece of me

wherever I might go

and on the way

I pick a piece

of you.

 

I never ask

whose blood is this,

whose tears seed the rain,

whose bare feet tamp the path,

because I know this,

all of it is us

and ours.

 

And if a postscript

must supplement

what we spread and share,

then we should act

together, like it all

belongs to us.

It is us.

 

 

Ever the feeling

ever the feeling
ever feeling no need

of any sort

no need for more

no need for some

no need at all

for any one thing

 

is this a blessed state?

or a sort of purgatory?

who decides?

who should be barred

from deciding?

 

this is no reason to go on

this is the reason to go on 

this, he wrote,

struggling to remember

the addendum intended

when he first

walked out into the sun –

 

the feeling

the lift that comes

from walking straight into the sun

when it floods the eye

flies almost all the way

to wherever

 

and, writing on,

sorting through

memories that brought me

to my knees,

and then submerged 

in moments

of great exultation,

and find myself

exulting once more

 

and in the moment

when I first saw you

and knew suddenly

you would be the difference

in my life

the moment in which we all

would see again

and would gather together

the feeling of enough

more than ever

enough enough

 

and still the locomotive

roaring by

and the dog

consumed by terror

running and running

and surviving the raging wind

that carried the deepest chill

came at last

into my arms

squatting there in the very dark

attaching and attaching

to us, to you, to me

 

ever the feeling

home and homeless

tame and wild

broken and unbroken

new and striving

ancient

seeking rest

and rebirth

ever and ever

The current that carries us (revised)

The sheer impact

of what we have done

cannot be undone.

 

We cannot take it apart.

We can bend it,

but not break it.

 

We can fix a piece,

try to fix a part

that we can reach.

 

But separately,

and together,

we will travel with it

wherever it flows.

 

We cannot get out.

Nor off.

There are no stops

ahead.

 

But this ebb and flow,

this sometimes power,

and sometimes no,

these rich and transient joys,

these assaults and frequent terrors,

travel with us.

 

We own it all.

A Single Star Will Show Itself

Rumored or written somewhere,

the way, the path,

to touching uncoerced,

to flowing swiftly,

through channels forking

and twisting and babbling on

and suddenly still,

 

involves the growling, guttural talk

of tigers,

or a passionate taste

of dark and chocolate,

or the silver leap of fish

 

or yes,

to lifting us

on swaying limbs of flowering trees,

full pink and showering

the bay below,

you wrapped in my arms,

me snuggled up in yours.

 

Rumored or written somewhere,

or handmade

to suit myself,

and sung to you,

the word to wait

for the new moon’s rising sliver,

when a single star

will show itself

and light our dreaming way.

The magic passes by

The poems always come

unbidden.

I could hunt
for them,
but don’t know
where to look.
 
But this one,
not merely unbidden,
but buried
in sequence
with unlike things.
 
After a hard talk
with a man
I love,

and a while spent
with the compost pile,
and a gathering of tools
and a piling of lumber,
and a power outage,
to divert me
from one work to another,
timed by whoever
times such things,

and a brownie
with special powers,
and a trip
to the store,
for a bottle of cream
to make the week-old oatmeal
coming out
of the darkened fridge
a meal
moderately more palatable
than it might otherwise be,
 
and more brownie,
a bit more brownie,
and a passing tease
with a virile neighbor
about his virility,
and a beer on a warm slow day,
 
the power
came on,
and the poem
came, too,
loaded with prizes
(except no gift
of invented words
to share),
 
came with memories
of Noble Causes
and Bruising Battles
(as Marrianne’s book
has it),
 
came with memories
of love and adventure,
came with hints
of life left to live,
 
and, suddenly,
the unbidden poem,
having arrived,
having said
whatever it had to say,
departed,
leaving me to return
to tools and timber.

A Hammering of Earth

Deep in the grave,

blind in the gloom,

a spasm of wishes,

an eruption of dreams,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth.

 

Clawing the dirt

in tumult and temper,

a hint of desire,

a longing for more,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth.

 

Through the green fragrant places

he floated

as though he might fade

in a moment.

Resting, then waxing,

drifting, then winging,

seeking the meaning

of symbols and dreams.

 

Shadows gliding in,

like leopards at night,

she briefly stops by,

a succor of seasons,

a peak and a whisper.

Just so is he rescued,

and then, sped away.

 

A new cycle begun,

a grandeur of wishing,

a flexing of feelings,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth. 

The current that carries us

 

The sheer impact

of what we have done

cannot be undone.

 

We cannot take it apart.

We can bend it, maybe,

but not break it.

 

We can fix a piece,

or try to fix a part

that we can reach.

 

But separately,

and together,

we will travel with it

wherever it flows.

 

We cannot get out.

Nor off. There are no stops

ahead.

 

But this ebb and flow,

this sometimes power,

and sometimes no,

these rich and transient joys,

these assaults and frequent terrors,

travel with us.

 

We own it all.

Waiting for Isabel

Waiting for Izzy to wake,

my baby grand,

my Izzy Bizzy Bell.

I should head to Chicago,

move on to next things.

There’s stuff to do,

and I, my reputation

as dithering guy who never,

never gets to the end,

notwithstanding,

am still the only guy to get it done.

 

But I’m waiting for Isabel to wake—

me, Isabel’s Jeff,

here,

waiting for Isabel,

who, just before she slept,

spent a long, full, bunch

of uncountable minutes

in loud, overwrought,

and well-acted screaming;

in epic distress,

mommy-mommying her way

between long, sobbing, hiccups,

until she decided that mommy-mommying

wasn’t working,

and switched to daddy-daddying,

which also did not work,

falling finally asleep, exhausted,

when Mommy did show herself.

 

That’s the person,

Isabell Lozen,

my grand baby,

for whose next waking moment

I wait.

 

Because love,

I guess.

And knowing that

what I might otherwise

do is no longer the point.