All the Best Parties

  

I think we should

all

celebrate

ourselves

for every moment

we had

when we were

extraordinary

and also for every memory

of that moment

we retain.

Celebrate

ourselves

because all the best parties

get better

when we arrive.

Song of Myself Ironic

There are

all sorts of things

I could say

about myself

all sorts of things

I want to say

and things

I think I ought to say

But sometimes

I say stay silent or

sing a song

of a different sort

The Way of Compost

I am the twenty-first century man

stopping to gaze at the copter

drifting and heeling overhead

Now the human-powered mower

across the wheat field

the front lawn becomes

by the time it occurs

to me

the grass needs cutting

And on the back forty

handfuls of dog shit

gloved and carted to compost

on the pile

before I can even begin

threshing

Contemplating the odious nature

of farmer guy’s day

I consider the compost

Time to spread some

on this here raised bed

or that one there

And that takes another hour

and that makes two of them

I’ve worked since breakfast

I’m about all done in

ready for a nap

when a plane passes overhead

Dog tracks plane

I track dog

and consider, flying machines

or no, how close

dog and I are

to compost.

(Which, by the way,

is the truly secret language of plants,

the place where they reveal all,

swap DNA and

delight in the dawn)

Erectile Dysfunction, The Poem

Who am I kidding?

I’ve had it all my life

It’s a prostate problem now

But it was once

When to take it out

When to put it back

Where to aim it and

Who to share it with

Even, how to wash it

And earlier still

What the hell is that

But it is all

As they say

Good

An incomplete poem...

perhaps to be titled...

If We Try

This is about you
who can do this
stand here
singing out

the pain
from you
to me
and batting it about

until
coming back
in new form
related

but not
what it was
at the start

This is about you
doing this
singing out
the vision

of where you ought to be
good days or bad
living a frontline
sort of life

This is about you
hungering for justice
and true loving
and the occasional ecstatic moment

This is about you
who can do this,
this thing coming next
though you have never

been one to trust
We have batted that about
too
and we know

now
this is about you
who has learned
to trust your deep desire

Flowing to the Sea

A couple of years ago, I posted the poem below, "Flowing to the Sea," on my blog In and Out with Jeff. I've revised it and posted it here because this is my poetry blog and I think this version is much better. If you want to see the old one, you can check it out here.

The differences between the two versions may not actually be worth the time spent comparing to anyone besides me, but the old version, posted on a blog that is essentially political commentary, sprinkled with an occasional family story, has gotten more page views than any other piece I've ever posted. On either blog.

I can't explain that. The old post has no labels except "poetry" and frankly there's just not a huge audience for poetry. The average post on In and Out with Jeff gets about 10 times more page views, in general, than does the average post on Outdoor Poetry Season.

If you google "flowing to the sea," you won't turn up my post. Not, at least, anywhere on the first 10 or so pages the search engine offers up. So why would this poem get more hits than a post about Octavia Butler, say, or Mary Oliver, or my dad, Bernie Epton, or a polemic about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?

Maybe some lone computer somewhere, left unattended, got stuck in some kind of feedback loop and visited that post 250 times. Otherwise, I can't say, but, as Jimmy Cliff might say, "it's a wonder, a perfect ponder."

Flowing to the Sea

At a spot slid from memory,

a tiny bulb nestled

in a frosted glass bowl,

a glowing egg cradled

in a translucent hand,

light seeping through

a flimsy black disc,

cast only dim shadow.

A distant display,

in focus, then out,

circled and spun,

an arrangement of lights

eyed the traveller

crossing a threshold,

passing beneath a sky

dripping rain,

backlit by stars,

radiant in haze.

Passersby long forgotten,

size, face and gender unmarked,

oblivious to the figure traversing

to places unmapped,

caressed by nocturnals,

gentle as rose petals,

finally to stand

in a garment soon shed on the sand,

toes drinking the lap

of the primordial sea,

awaiting what comes.