bodies are bodies, this means nothing
to the stars for they are bodies too
bare and cold and wanting
nothing but the endless joy of night
minds are minds, this means nothing
to the gods, for they are minds too
lost and forgotten and wanting
nothing but the joyful light of day
souls are souls, this means something
but what, that is the first question
and but why, that is the next — and the next
and the next until there is nothing left
All honey, so sweet and all sweetness you
your name, i know it smooth upon my lip
whispered in the night to the morning dew
by tender dream with gentle velvet grip
The spring, she springs so gay and bright divine,
is that you leaping with her hand in hand?
goddesses are lovely — but winter’s design
like summer’s fading into fall’s more grand
Ah, sweet allness you, so dear, my honey
your name, I know it, I know it as pure true
when it rains, it’s love, and when it’s sunny
i know the golden warmth is only you
All honey, you’re so sweet and so dear
There is no God for me unless you’re near.
The best crazed men know nothing
of the dreams of hippos — which
seems obvious, since the best
uncrazed men know nothing
of the dreams of hippos either.
But there is a distinction, crazed men
are related to the dreams of hippos
and uncrazed men are never anything
but men (or hippos if they forget themselves
and eat a bit too much)
when the darkness comes tonight
when the clouds descend
when the madness seems too mad
tell me you’re my friend
if the crescent moon is witness
if the stars make no reply
if the madness seems unstartled
by the way the moment dies
take day for granted then
take the sun to bed
take the madness by the hand
and tell her what you said
i breath and breath
and breath — as if life
is only breath
you tell me with bright eyes
and gentle smile — life
is this (a kind thought
when kindness seems too far away)
and that (a hand to hold
when hope has long let go)
i close my eyes
i hold my breath
and live
and live
and live
Bubba Jones had two thumbs
on each hand — he yowled
into the night, perhaps with hope
love was blind enough to miss his deformity.
I told him to live
not in the shadows, but in the middle
of the meadow near the tallest trees
where the song birds sang
Listen, God, just listen
to them dance on kindly airs
and tell each other stories
of loves lost for lack of color.
I thought he understood
until the night he gave up
and found himself
dead beneath the wheels
of an orange and white Chevy pickup
the fables told by passerine
to their feathered kin
become the myths of fowl folk
sun over wind-raised wing
story story allegory, poetry and praise
a talon holds to twig
a tiny voice tells half a tale
to fly again — again
yellower than sunshine’s smile
a warbler in the pine
whisper, whisper — there he is
and then goodbye
The sun, she smiled
when the warbler sang
yellow in the red pine
branches — moving
through the space
between.
The clouds retreat
until only the sun
and blue sky tell the story
of this music echoing
about the forest floor.
He sings for song’s sake
and the prayer of love,
and oh, the sun
she smiled.
i saw him monday
eating a bowl of brown rice
talking to pigeons
all about necessity
everyone passed by
thinking he was unstable
without any words
or any wisdom to stop
they saw what they saw
they knew nothing that they knew
a man with a big laugh
is almost invisible
he was once rich and
not as fat as you’d expect
his clothes were perfect
long ago, now they’re quite plain
no one realizes
yes, that is him, he’s the one
that is the way with enlightenment
— it never looks the way you’d expect
I hear you, lovely bureaucrat
in plainest grays and browns
screeching at the moon
and hard work for fear you
will be seen undoing and
unknowing. This is a dangerous time
for the heavenly to know the
process of entry into heaven.
Do not be afraid, you will rise
up into the glassed in vestibule
with a view of all the sad
people swatched in colorful garb
searching for the doorknob
to turn their way into the busy
rigamarole of the making
who we are at our best.
Money means only what it means
no more or less and this
is not freedom or a prison —
only clothes that offer no information
but the certainty that you are dressed.
Do the job for the joy of doing,
nothing else will purchase the ticket
or reveal your value half as well.
Oh lovely bureaucrat, yes
you are hated, and worst of all
for all your best lines, long and
in the giving so sweetly unforgiving.