What a thing to return from war --
a survivor --
To find that so little has survived:
Not the grass, nor garden,
Not the roof, nor lintels...
The homestead, an overgrown ruin:
Like a remnant of a once great
Civilization that was one's
Peace of mind.
All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall,
But each leaf is fringed with silver.
An overexposed photo
feels like it's from ages
ago --
decades past.
But it's from just the other day.
When I was there in person,
opening that shutter,
it didn't feel like the 90's,
but something about that photo
ages it...
and ages me.
My song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight.
O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet.
Only let me make my life simple and straight,
like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.
NOTE: This poem is sometimes titled, “My song has put off her adornments,” or – simply – Song VII.
The light of a streetlamp
Streams through the stained glass,
And colors spread stably
Over surfaces below.
Then car after car
Pass by that bar,
And the colors are
Climbing and crawling,
Shifting and sprawling,
As headlamp light, briefly,
Dances through the window --
Kaleidoscope swirling the
Shockingly bright colors
In short-lived arcs.
The window was designed
To evoke a cathedral,
And deny all debauchery...
Oh, how it's failed.
Grape leaves flutter
and some catch the light
to glow with translucence.
I'm in an ancient place,
and this is such an ancient
endeavor.
Wine has been the king
of pursuits in these parts
for millennia.
Is that why I can become
lost in the play of light
on quivering leaves?
Or is it just that time of day?
The sun is low -- ready to set --
My mind is slow & ready to drink.
A touch of cold in the Autumn night --
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
Countless pieces of hate
Tumble through our days,
Clogging up our Flow --
Tiny bites of thought
Pit us against
Imagined adversaries...
But aren't all adversaries
Imagined adversaries?
Those who act badly against us
Are only adversaries
If we slide them into that
Mental basket.
I can see the Bible stories
writ in these skies
as I pass through
ancient parts.
Slant shafts of light spill
through the clouds,
angling toward some
blessed soul.
I can see distant clouds --
fringed in curls --
as if painted upon
a cathedral ceiling.
Clouds that display the depth
of an artist's skill and
eye for perspective,
but not true depth.
(They seem too distant for that;
they're too real to be real.)
And I look up again out of the window
and am blinded by light
that has pierced thick clouds,
and I wonder whether anyone is
seeing this light shaft bless me.
Beginning my studies, the first step pleas'd me so much,
The mere fact, consciousness -- these forms -- the power of motion,
The least insect or animal -- the senses -- eyesight -- love;
The first step, I say, aw'd me and pleas'd me so much,
I have hardly gone, and hardly wish'd to go, any further,
But stop and loiter all the time, to sing it in ecstatic songs.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 