Type it up, give it a title, and send it off into the world—Hope it one day fares better than I have. “She” in this poem is inspiration. While she may not go into our dark places with us, she does wait for us—just outside —to realize we are already free.
release
Self discovery implies the existence of a self to discover—something clearer than metaphor, more concrete than abstraction. Yet when we press our inward eye against the pane of our being, we find ourselves gaping into the unknown, seeing only the dust of time and culture that has accumulated there like soot.
We wave our hands and fidget our fingers as we strive to express it, “It’s like a mustard seed …”, “It’s like a reflection …”, “It’s that place from which all experience …”, and it goes on. Almost always it is “like”, it is “as”, it is simile and metaphor. It never just is. And after so many years with my face pressed flat against that pane, I can’t seem to figure out where or what it is. So I’ve let go of trying to answer that age old question of, “Who am I?” I’ve let go even of the asking.
I am. Or at least I think I am. Whatever I is, however it happened, it’s here—And it just is.
Creation
You are already all
you have longed to be
close your eyes and breathe
trust in the rhythm of inspiration
The work is done
all that remains now
is the clear crisp waters of faith
on your sapling words
They sprouted when your soul was new
in dark brown soils where
confusion percolated down to nourish
tiny roots of sentience
Blind to all knowing they pushed
cracked open the earth and spread
tremulous shoots
glittering themes of light
What could be eons passed
bending with the sun
singing out to stars perhaps
long since vanished
All unwitting you kept
your garden safe from saws
that would plane your understanding
into signposts and billboards
A garden not unlike perhaps
the long ago Eden that once
rustled softly in morning winds
yearning to the step of creation
Now open your eyes
and behold strong green sprays
swaying over streams of time
they were always there
As we got to know one another, she would sometimes tell me, “Each poem you write is like one of your children. Each one has a spirit and the potential to flourish.”
Needless to say, I married her.
Labor
Once in a while I’ll feel as if I’ve been struck by new inspiration, that I can finally go forward with my work as a poet. This has yet to stick, however.
paper
I see you now
as if for the very first time
floating before my gaze
white—changeable as the clouds
full of reflection
clear—deep as a canyon pond
perhaps you’re a spring
gushed from furthest mystery
a taste—artesian
I see you now
suddenly as if never before
welling up on my eyes
sparkling clarity
bubbling hope
This was drafted near the end of a seven day walk on Lost Coast Trail. I’m pretty sure this was inspired by the beach at Bear Harbor, near the northern end of the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park.
Rinse
The idea for this poem came to me a few months back, at which point I hurriedly tapped out the opening four lines—then nothing. So today after four or so months of periodically checking in on it, I’ve finally managed to sit down and finish the original idea.
an inkling hope
Publication History:
Clamor — Fall 2009
Someone emailed me a Zen poem, and I found myself tapping out this small response.
evaporation
in an ocean of stars
a ballet sun pirouettes
alone in a glimmering sea
of waltzing partners
in an ocean of light
waves wash the empty shores
of a trillion winkling eyes
an island of contemplation
mass gave light to motion
birth gave life to mind
thought gave dream to atoms
form gave way to karma
by the river of no return
a solitary observer
breathes in the emptiness
steam rising to nowhere
I found myself thinking about the story of Adam and Eve. It has always seemed odd to me that god would place his newborn creations in a garden of ideals, and then stick a tree in the middle that grows fruit you’re not supposed to eat. Then, on top of that, toss in a snake that gets off on lying to people and convincing them to do what they’re not supposed to do. Never mind that Eve didn’t know anything about lying, so imagine her confusion when god tells her one thing while the snake tells her another.
This is like putting a small child in a room with a great big bar of chocolate, telling him he’s not supposed to eat the chocolate, then leaving a recording behind that repeats over and over, “You can eat the chocolate. It’s okay to eat the chocolate. Go ahead and eat the bar of chocolate.” Well, what do you think is going to happen?
Naw man, if you take the story at face value, then the whole thing was a setup from the start, like a really bad practical joke. So thus this experimental poem.
revelation
Sometimes I just feel like experimenting.
I had no idea where this was going when I started it, but I thought I’d just go with it and see what happened. I’m kind of surprised. Perhaps even pleasantly so.
rainbow
i traced its edge
through deep green fields
over pine tree hills and higher
till it scraped the desolate
snows of nowhere
and still i followed
on through alpine vale
and florid glen and down
jagged canyon ridges past
island mountains that rose
as if from seas of sand
and still i followed
past mesas lined with crows
and sere grass ranges
where lumbering cows rid
the world of diversity
and yet still on
along wide slow rivers filled
with stench fish floating lifeless
on bloated sides and
by pillars of smoke that
chased blue from the skies
and yet still on
through lifeless mountains
painted green to please the eye
past springs that bubbled poison
and wells that oozed dismay
yet still i went
following those faded hues
amid a web of tall marble
monuments each depicting
through stains the long neglected
dreams of liberty
yet still i went
along shores littered with
death where rag-worn poor rake
thin pale fingers through filth
for remnants of life
and finally there in a long
white plaza it ended
all its color drained to sooty
shades of gray that flickered
out from the last remains
of a once great constitution
now but a distant hope for
greater souls to strive toward
Another one pulled from the drafts of my little hiking journal. When I backpack, I’ll take a couple of bansuri flutes along. And in the evenings when all is quiet, I’ll try to play my surroundings. I’ve found that most places carry a song that can be felt and transposed through an instrument.
transposition
Over time I’ve learned the habit of casting all my sense across some scene, some place of peace and stillness, and in my heart asking to know its song. Then, if I’m fortunate, I’ll close my eyes and feel the sounds come through me, and I’ll find them on my flute. Then we’ll play together, me and the spirits who live there.
Another shorty from the journal markings I made while out on the Lost Coast Trail last month. This is also inspired by my two nights at Jackass Creek, which is where I was inspired to jot down the drafts for “True Nature” and “Glance”.
rhythms
the world is rhythm
waves against tall gray bluffs
wind rising falling over hilltops
crickets somewhere in the darkness
cicadas somewhere in thick green brush
woodpeckers atop long dead pines
and deep beyond sight the song
of robins calling back the sun
