It’s been raining a lot lately. She tucks in the day with a giant gray comforter and lulls me to rest with persistent song. Since I work nights, this is welcome music.
rainsong
The first poems I read and enjoyed as a child were in the form of stories. Such poems are the whole reason for my taking an interest in poetry myself—poems like “The Dreamer” by Robert Service, “The Legend of the Organ Builder” by Julia Dorr, and “The Last Man” by Thomas Campbell. And it’s strange, since I rarely approach poetry from the angle of storytelling. I’m not sure why this is. As a teenager I tried my hand at short and verse stories, and most of those who read said they enjoyed them and were encouraging.
Over the past seven years I’ve written only a handful of poems that tell some kind of story. Most of them have ended up as meditations or reflections of one kind or another. But writing stories in verse and free verse form has and continues to be a goal of mine as a poet. Maybe I’ve just lacked the courage to try, fearing discouragement. Or maybe I find it more difficult than I used to to come up with ideas, or at least to trust my ideas as they come.
So I’ve decided to trust one and see how it turned out.
deja vu
i’ve been here before
at the foot of this mountain
watching the cranes glide down
there were restless sounds
hissing sharp through the air
forged echoes clanging
a tireless struggle
the lake wimpled bits of sun
thin pines stood breathing by
silent ever solemn silent watch
by the shore gleamed
relentless thrusts and parries
the flash of teeth
whirling plates of armor
no words were spoken
only glances gauging glance
meditating malice and survival
hidden in the branches
robins sang responses to the song
of steel played out on steel
from one high limb a squirrel barked alarm
minutes passed
or was it hours that pushed shadows
slowly through the woods
i remember still
that long pained grunt a gasp that
echoed all the woods to hush
a long loud rolling peel of silence
sudden tears that stung the cheeks
and fell to wet blood spattered lips
a frozen smile pointed to the clouds
Another meditation on the nature of self, something I’ve wondered and asked questions about since childhood.
reflections
My 12th trisect. The content required a lot of meditation and reflection on the nature of being—and a few conversations with a well-whiskered monk over Scrabble. Segment one depicts the body, as in the corporeal form. Segment two depicts mind, which was really easy since everything is mind. Segment three depicts samsara, which is also pretty easy because everything is also rolled up in that process.
kalpa
The subject matter explored here is of great personal interest. Probably since I was 5 or 6, I’ve been reflecting on the nature of being. It started with a budding fear of death. But as soon as I found myself struck by that fear, I also found myself asking, “Just what is it that dies?”
Everyone seems to have their own answer to this question. As for me, I have found a balance with it. I am content now to leave it unanswered. Unanswered, yes, but this does not mean unexplored. I don’t seek an “answer” at this point, because I’ve realized that there may not be one. But this shouldn’t stop me from seeking insight. Insights and answers are not the same. This poem has manifested from insights and makes no attempt to answer anything.
My first poem for 2008. A good friend wanted me to write a poem for his fiance, and here’s what I came up with. Think he’ll like? Think she’ll like?
Her Best
She calls me your very best for her—
I only ask that you mean it so.
And if there’s a doubt in your starry mind,
dear god I ask that you lay me low.
Lay me low in the moldering clay,
if one harsh look or a bitter word
exists deep down in this heart of mine,
so that it may never be seen nor heard,
so that she may live the span of her years
believing the absolute best of me,
trusting forever the love she holds
is the love I keep till she follows me.
But if you look and you see the man
she thanks you for each day of her life,
then please dear god will you guide my will
so I never bring her a moment’s strife?
Will you teach me all that I need to know
to be that childlike soul she sees,
tender as dew on the bamboo’s leaf,
gentle as hope on the slightest breeze?
Will you grant me health and the quiet strength
to stand with compassion at her side
for however long we both may live,
whatever fates roll in with the tide?
