When the indian arrived
I asked her why she wore feathers
she told me “so I will look like an  indian.”

When the indian smiled
I asked her why it mattered
if she looked like an indian

Then the indian told me
“people need to know
the truth about me.”

When  I asked the indian
“Are you an indian?”
she said,”No, no of course not.”

The squirrel stood beside the road
watching the cars ricochet past
and the fat hawk circling above

“Squirrel,” the hawk called down,
“you should not be allowed to cross
you are too foolish and will be killed.”

The squirrel smiled up at the hawk,
“whether I should or should not
I have the right to do so.”

years ago in the honey well before the bull was running
i sat with grampa in the shade as the old gold lab was sunning
grampa called the stars to dance, the moon to sing and then
by chance, we  moved the knight and rooked the king again

oh honeywell, where sweet men fell and bulls all crashed and clamored
i sopped dreams of wattled bees or not two bees  questionably enamored

years gone past, far too fast,  my honeyed grampa quietly arotting
still so sweet, but i’m incomplete as all i’ll be is loudly here forgotting
all i’ll be and all eyed bees, this honeyed memory atotting
until grampa’s gone, a mated king, and every word besotting

oh honeywell, where dear men fell and the bull he came in crashing
my syrup dreams of stinging bees but not two bees as dashing

years to come with honey done, and the bull past studding
i’m dear grampa now in shade, my age displayed, in my son’s eyes budding
sunny day, my sonny love so wise, dance with stars and fireflies
by chance, or plan, love, understand every pawn — he dies.

oh honeywell, and pansied smell, watch the bull, he’s stomping
you are dreams – two bees but not two bees through my soul aromping

Between two cities a man named Ed sits
with his wife discussing grandchildren
and the bitter taste of sugarless tea

They laugh at how the waters flow
like the spirit – cool and easy
on their aging flesh

Across the waters, there are rocks
dangling above the surface
like a promise of a sermon
to the sinking dead

Ed makes a dinner without starches
kisses his bride upon her forehead
sings to their shared God, “How great thou art”

She smiles too, because the years are light
and every day has become a celebration
as she dances in her children’s eyes – and his.

“I will buy us a ship,” he says into her ear,
“imagine that, a big white ship.” she laughs.

the sunlight is warm on her face, the wind kind,
he tells her,”it is time for shade, you’re growing
pink.” They step inside again.

“Will we sail away, my darling,” she asks.
“We will sail away, my beloved,” he smiles.
“Through the straits, though the rocks …
“Through the straits, where are our hearts beat…
“Will Jonah come…
“Jonah will come, my love …
“Will we dive?”
“We will dive into the deep dark blue
and see together what is there”

Ed puts on the kettle for more tea
takes out two cookies, one for her
and one for him. Holds her hand
as the great good night embraces them
in their most delicious prayers.

suppose my love were deaf
though my heart spoke loudly
never heard the truth

suppose God were not so gentle
the unbearable heat of hope was oppressive
and my love watched wordlessly

suppose I reached for you in prayer
but did not believe,”Love must always hear
or be not love at all” you said

“Suppose, this lie is too big
for us. To fail? No – silence is the only choice.”
I could not nod. I could only pray

More for you, I suppose, than me
a million voices whispering on the edges
of my thoughts – where love can not hear

suppose this moment is too fast
all these little hearts too broken and furious
as the weapons of truth run run away

suppose my love were deaf
you say. I smile, “Then my God
would hear for me.”

A man writes a poem, or a woman does, those are the only two ways a poem gets written.

You can argue with me about the nature of poetry and whether a sweet maple tree, red leafed and dancing on an october wind, is a poem, but if it is, it will remain unwritten until a man or a woman write it.

Personally, I believe that usually the question of a poem’s creation is far less interesting than the question of its reason. Why does that poem exist? Was it considered and crafted? Was it spewed unbidden and irrational from the gut? Was it for someone or against someone? What was the purpose intended by the poet?

Not all poetry has a purpose. Not all poets know what the purpose of their poem is when they write it.  Not all poems mean anything, and that isn’t necessarily good or bad. But I do try to have a purpose when I write. I try to mean something. I try to say something. I try to craft something.

It’s not the only way. It’s not the only good way. It’s not the only reason to write poetry.

But it is my way.

At this very moment, right now as I write this, thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of people are writing their own poems. They are sitting down with paper and pen, or at a keyboard and tapping out their thoughts to record them.  Of all of those thousands of words, thousands of ideas, millions of ideas, millions of words, only a comparative few will be shared with a wide audience. Most will be read by a few people, then lost. Some will be read only by the writer, and others will just hang in the ether to be occasionally gawked at by those smart enough to recognize what they mean.

That’s the nature of writing – and poetry especially – it is always highly unlikely that anyone will actually see it, and if they do, it’s just as unlikely they’ll care about what they’ve read. The saddest part of this is that ultimately the point of writing is to be read and understood and have the thoughts shared cared about. A writer writes to inflict his (or her) ego upon the reader.  It is the minor fascism of ideas shared that drives us, one and all, to communicate with the people around us.

So, this is the why behind my poetry. The why, it seems to me, is more important than the how of it. Anyone can write a poem. Anyone can share the poem. It is a very cheap activity, so the question becomes not can I, but why should I?

Aw Pearl, why’d you have to go and die?
I heard Dorothy say how she hurt and Seth
was angry how they used you to make money

They died years ago, I know, and they’re at peace
or not, how would I know, Pearl?

How would I know Pearl, you died
2 months to the day before I was born
drowned in all the best Southern Comforts?

So tell me Pearl, Why did you have to die
and leave me here singing your songs
in the middle of the night?

So Toto in the golden gate
passed corn too softly masticate
passed poppi just a bit too late
old toto, gone and gone away

So Dorothy blue and rubicund
stomped upon the cobblestone
tin-glinted in a stuttered sun
old Dorothy, dunne and done and gone

So of east, of green and cackled fear
flickered flame beside a winged leer
snickered shame, no ‘love you dear’
The east – she drains into the almost here

The West, the truth. Long dark hair
The kindness of despair.
Speak the loss of sister, if you dare,
the cruelty of a face too fair.

Come back to me,
Come back from calm Boothbay
the light will guide us far away