pd lyons poetry: goodbye galway/ hello castlepollard

pd lyons poetry: goodbye galway/ hello castlepollard: whose books are these i think i know… yes will be moving house over the next few days. goodbye galway hello cast...

pd lyons poetry: goodbye galway/ hello castlepollard

pd lyons poetry: goodbye galway/ hello castlepollard: whose books are these i think i know… yes will be moving house over the next few days. goodbye galway hello cast...

pd lyons poetry: wordless (again)

pd lyons poetry: wordless (again): wordless (again)

yellow waiting by the sea

yellow waiting by the sea

“i must go down to the seas again” -Sea Fever by John Masefield

pd lyons poetry: Bird Stuck in the Toilet Song

pd lyons poetry: Bird Stuck in the Toilet Song

pd lyons poetry: morgan's poem by pd lyons/from pd lyons new book T...

pd lyons poetry: morgan's poem by pd lyons/from pd lyons new book T...: Morgan the Dogs Bay empty on a grey day curves a wide scythe of sand mimicked slopes of rocky hills dissolve again in low grey sky...

pd lyons poetry: largest study on violence against women

pd lyons poetry: largest study on violence against women: http://www.sfgate.com/ business/prweb/article/ Largest-Global-Study-on-Violenc e-Against-Women-3902792.php#ix zz287929yU6  

so we have moved

we are now living in galway, over looking the bay. decided to move july 20. arrived here august 26. very busy time. finally feeling a little settled. spent the last few hours working on new book of poetry, "The Girlz". hope to have a finished manuscript by weeks end. Have about two hundred pages to sort out, final edits, culls,order,format etc. and then the easy part - a publisher.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1f0py2QhHNQ

pd lyons poetry: why we like yes factory

pd lyons poetry: why we like yes factory: why we like yes factory Hey PD! Sorry about the delay, we were totally overwhelmed with the number of submissio...

pd lyons poetry: Jellyfish Whispers

pd lyons poetry: Jellyfish Whispers: http://www.jellyfishwhispers.com/2012/07/a-poem-by-pd-lyons.html Jellyfish Whispers A Poem...

A SONG FOR YOU - Leon Russell & Friends (1971)

When I Lost My Mother

When I Lost My Mother

wadsworth atheneum,Hartford ct.

When I lost my mother I lost the past as well as future. No one would ever know me as well as she did and no one would ever remember me like she did – again. Today is Bastille Day. There are french songs as I pass through the NPR stations onto a local Italian show. After an immense bit of Italian speaking they play the theme from Zorba. My mother liked Zorba. My mother also liked the scene in Casablanca where they played La Marseillaise, as much as she liked the farewell scene – the airport fog a kiss a hill of beans the usual suspects. I wonder did she dance like Zorba once? Were there foggy farewell airport  kisses in her life? If you watch Zoba can you be Zorba? Zorba envy or Zorba memory? Who knows. That was the past I lost as well as any possible future from which to ask when I lost my mother.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1EvBll8L4Hg

pd lyons poetry: for tedra l plane

pd lyons poetry: for tedra l plane: Briefly as everything is in this life we shared slapstick and manic some unforgettable wonders and...

pd lyons poetry: original version From Rumours Of Another Summer

pd lyons poetry: original version From Rumours Of Another Summer: Stainless unmarked sky Single bed against a powder green wall Magazine photos ...

April 14-15-16 part 3

Muffins and earl grey at Beth's Special Teas. Cape Cod sunny Sunday wind pure fresh walk the little strip East Sandwich shops, still missing the Herb Shop but our gratitude is high for the tea Shop haven from all manner of Dunkin Dodo swill. Hot chocolate for the child. What to do with the last few hours before the drive back to Connecticut? Paradise Liquor for a 1.75 litre bottle of Bombay for 31.00. Sam's fish shop on the canal bag of shelled scallops large as your tongue. My eleven year old daughter fascinated by the lobster tank. Can we get one dad? Can we? No. Why not? Cause I don't want to kill one do you? No. Well then what's the point of getting one? We could let him go. Now my daughter wants to do a Buddha thing and save this creatures life and I'm not sure what to say. I don't want to talk her out of this do I? She gives me that look, the crux look, the scan of a child reading every inch of my body, verbal and invisible language, searching for the parental cue. Is this an acceptable idea, is it not? Remember whatever you do will affect me for the rest of my life. I stall and say well you'll have to use your own money. She says OK but its in the car. And I must  surrender with, that's alright give it to me when we get back. So she picks out Lucky the Lobster. Out to the Jeep fish out a pair of work gloves from the back, use the Gerber to cut the bands from his claws and we all three walk over to the edge and I toss him into the canal. She can see him swimming - he's OK! Just before we drive off seat belts belted everyone ready small fist full of single dollar bills reaches over the seat - here dad. And I think how big is the heart of a child. And I take the bills stuff them into my shirt pocket and say thank you.

April 14-15 Part 2

Today he drove only to Marconi beach. P-town would have been too far. At the entrance a park warden was stopping cars. Now what? But the officer was very friendly wanted only to advise them that yes the beach was open and there was a controlled burn going on and no need to be afraid or call the fire department. And are you here for the Titanic memorial Ceremony? If so its over there. yes you can just  go to the beach. Its a beautiful day for it. Their drive had been uneventful, stopped for petrol and bottles of water just the other side of "suicide alley". Yesterday he joined the child in the water off Race Point. It was cold it was fun it was the big giant ocean! The wife had time to read and snap a few photos of them turning purple. Today cooler, windyer but the made it down the wooden steps out to an almost deserted shore knowing that as soon as base camp was established they'd spend time trying to duplicate the day before. The water was indeed freezing colder that at Race Point yet they stayed in longer. Once she said to him "This is the most fun ever!" he knew he'd stay in with her until they froze to death or she gave in and wanted to get out. It was dark by the time they made it back to Sandwich. He decided to take them to the canal see the water by starlight, maybe a ship or two lights drifting through the black. They got out of the Jeep just as a fishing boat put in. Lets go see what they got he said. The child agreed. So they walked over to the Annie Wilder. There were two men and a woman aboard. Hello. He explained how they wanted to know a little bit about fishing boats and how the nets worked. The younger of the two men explained a little. No it wasn't a good day he said. Flounder he said. They showed them a tub full, neatly packed white belly up all looked the same size. There weren't many tubs at all. Does she like fish he asked. Morgan never met a sea food she dint like he told them.  Just made some fillets. Would you like some? and he was away. I don't have any cash he told the woman. Did you ask him to sell it to you? No. Wouldn't have sold it to you even if you had he said. Here you go. Just wish us luck for tomorrow. There was about two pound of pure white medallions. The next morning the child made a picture on a black piece of paper, surrounded by silver ovals, silver flounders all around the Annie Wilder.

April 14, 2012 (part one)

Marshland for breakfast, eggs flavour of cooking oil, on the side bland lumps the texture of hard cooked potatoes, cups of generously refilled brown water slightly hot. Maybe they sold the place? Been coming here since the 80's and never so bad. Now its a real cant say it was good but cant say you didn't get it cause it all was there and it looked exactly like it was supposed to. Back in Beacon Falls, back when Beacon Falls was still a town not cut off from the world by the new routing of the highway. Route eight used to go right through the centre, traffic lights pedestrians, shops, school buses and all. There was this place there used to serve Yuban coffee when Yuban was about two dollars more that any other can on the shelf - 100% Columbian when it meant something. It was good and made strong and people used to talk about it, tell other people about it and how you could get refill after refill. And the food? Good basic fare made as if they were going to eat it themselves. They also made chocolates there. I remember it was around Easter the last time I was there, all these baskets lined up under glass, all made of chocolate as if they were wove out of chocolate and rows of eggs, chocolate eggs with windows and you could look into little scenes of pink and yellow sugar activities. I was working with Joey then. We were on the road five days a week covering the state of Connecticut, spraying trees for gypsy moths.

pd lyons poetry: May Day/ for dublin

pd lyons poetry: May Day/ for dublin: Looking For Work In Dublin The same girl sitting on different buses going by over and over I knew if I saw her one m...

He saw a picture of you

He saw a picture of you today. Still there on Abbey St. Blonde hair like straw thatched out from under the rain soaked brim of that old black hat. There was mud on your wellies, there was a crooked smile on your face as if some wonderful power of secrets about to be told... and left to silence. How many years, how many miles, how many faces, strangers and places so called home? In a punch full of tears all at once he knew it wasn't himself or them or even you but Dublin broke his heart.

In The Attic

In the attic those Batman DC comics never read, Micky Mantle rookie cards never cloths pinned to any two wheel red bike, that's where that baseball '61-'62 Yankees signed never brought up to the park amazed by how far a real baseball could be hit. Grandfathers uniform uneaten by moths, cavalry sabre unfroze by rust, mothers elephant collection, figures of ivory porcelain silver gold and oh yes still packed in perfect cedar long white lace veils satin silk and sleeves of pearls all the weddings ever worn mother and her mother and her mother before. What the hell just sell it all anyway, nothing cosy as cash and now there's no one left who'd notice.

There's Something to Be said

There's something to be said for the dark, something good desirable especially when its morning and someone's brought the coffee to you propped up still warm on pillows of last nights dreams. Then, no matter what country country awaits or morning shines,  no switch should be turned no shade raised or curtain parted. All that waits in daylight, work and striving to get to it; better lingered nicely coffeed
finding moments put the world inside your head in such a way as grounded in some sense of truth, suffering transformed to wonder. So when the light comes rushing in child bounces upon the bed crow complaints across the snow, shades snap up all on their own and yes each breath all bright shiny dance the shadow and its twin - all there is Monday miraculous so all you do can or will, is laugh. Up now or we'll all be late.

DOG STORIES

Maybe the boy is six years old when his father takes him. They walk behind the houses through a maze of added on structures. They stop at one. His father opens one of the splintered doors part way and slips in. " Stay by the door," his father tells him, " don't let it close." Then his father goes all the way into the dark. He can hear the footsteps of his father. Then there are other sounds, other things moving in there. He can make out the shape of his father. See him bend down and reach into a cornered mass of moving whimpering things. Now there is another sound, a rising yelp and yap. Dogs. His father keeps dogs in the shed.

His father backs into the daylight, hauling with both hands the lead and then the dog. The dog is black with golden tan on its underside. Its long black tail curls down between its legs up along its belly. Its low diamond shaped head moves side to side like a great snake .

They walk. His father’s boots crunch the hard ground. The dog skids, pulled against its own trembling legs. The boy's soft small steps follow. Around the corner, against the far wall his father leads them.

The boy watches. His father attaches the lead from the dog to a cable. The cable runs up a series of supports to the top of the wall, and then angles back down the same wall to the ground. There is an almost echo snap as his father secures the end of the lead to the cable and walks away. The dog whines and tries to follow, but the cable pulls up short. There are more dog sounds as it turns, tries another direction, comes up short again.

Suddenly the dog stiffens. Its head begins to rise. Its front legs come off the ground. At last it shows some canine aggression. It snaps and snarls wildly. Tries to turn in such a way so as to tear its attacker apart. But the dogs attacker is a thin braided cable steadily tightening. It gets harder and harder for the dog to do anything. Finally his father anchors the cable.

On its tiptoes, the dog stretches taller than the boy now. Quickly his father returns to the dog, stretches out his arm, jabs at that golden inner thigh. The dog makes sounds like screaming. It takes a few seconds for the boy to notice. There is blood on the dog's leg. It pulses from the place his father touched. His father goes and slackens the cable. Lowers the dog back to the ground. The dog at first a frenzy of licking and yelping gives way to a slow motion pitter patter of paws. Eventually, it curls itself up on the hard wet ground and moans.

He no longer hears these things. He does not remember how old he really was that first time, that moment when at the point of happiness he realised, “This dog is no gift to me from my father." He does remember how to treat them so they stay afraid, how to clean them and how to strike the artery deep enough but keep the hole small. He does not remember if it was his ninth or tenth birthday when his father first handed him the blade.

He is walking down the street. Notices a group of strangers. Someone he knows is with them and calls out, saying “Come, join us."

The strangers speak a language he does not know. They are two men and a young child. The child is wearing a brilliant pink fur coat. Someone he knows explains, " These are the buyers of skins. This child, the daughter of one of them. They want you to know about this child's coat. That it is made from your skins."

Not sure if he understood this last part he asks if this is so. “Yes. Yes. This little girl's coat is made of skins from you."

He looks again at the child. He squats down before her, extends his hand and stops. He looks up to them and from one of the men receives a silent nod of permission. He reaches out to her, she is not afraid of him. He touches her coat, pinches it, rolls it back and forth between his thumb and fore finger. He opens his hands. Runs his palms along her shoulders and down the sleeves. “ It is a wonderful coat. An amazing colour. A lovely gift for a child. But,” shaking his head he stands up. “No." he says and shakes his head again, “ Tell them no. I have never dogs the colour of this."

He does not remember the names of those buyers or why they laugh when he tells them the truth. He does remember the little girl. The look of her at him squatting there as if they shared some secret then. As if he had told her how he could no longer see the face of his father, or hear the voice of his mother, even though he had promised never to forget.

pd lyons poetry: Happy Easter All

pd lyons poetry: Happy Easter All: Dorothy Sebastian photographed by Clarence Sinclair Bull c. late 1920’s

pd lyons poetry: new work from pd lyons and other wonderful poeters...

pd lyons poetry: new work from pd lyons and other wonderful poeters...: Curio Issue 5 up for your viewing pleasure! Hide Details FROM: Curio Poetry TO: Curio Poetry BCC: pdlyonsp...

a mandala of dinosaurs, a message of lovers

A mandala of dinosaurs. A pestilence of motorcyclists. A red sky of warnings. A coyote of marzipan. A zygote of intelligence. Crystal of elan-ists. Soda of psychopaths. Preponderance of dictators. Herald of crows. Kansas of superpowers. An eclipse of educators. Blessing of coffees. An autumn of smudges, a winter of geese, a summer of topiaries, a spring of dreams. Empire of penises. A squander of vaginas. A catapult of efforts. A plethora of crows. An envy of ravens. A parcel of pachyderms. A coagulant of desires. A mercury of fish. Kick-start of starlings. meandering of serpents. Bucket of worms. Sack of cats. A giggle of girls. Shyness of boys. A Saladin of wisdoms. A crisis of faiths. A plague of religions. Carpet of bred crumbs. Sanctity of prisoners. A rats-ass of carers. Trombone of sexes. Conglomerate of crows. A pudding of infants. A declaration of sea shells. A tumble of puppies, a cartoon of kites. Meander of mysteries. A half league of words. A complaint of crows. A severance of hopes. An ignorance of drivers. A Shenandoah of daughters. A crux of sons. A crossing of souls. A delightful of crows. A smatter of kisses. A moonbeam of tongues. A secretion of secrets. A message of lovers.

Pisto Lee (excerpt )

Pistol Lee

We'd just been saddling up the horses, like we done how many times before? Just another day, morning still stiff on our fingers we fumbled around with buckles and leathers . I wasn't paying much mind to him, we were saying few words as the day was far too early to have eased our aches and pains of haven rid for miles and slept hard on stony ground. He was in mid sentence about something I don't remember, when all of a sudden he let out this “son of a bitch”. All I caught was a glimpse of that mare, one of our spare mounts, s kitting away from him. Still holding his back he turned hissing " You son of a bitch." She didn't seem to notice the irate man intent on murder stepping towards her until he lost his balance and in attempting to correct it, threw too much weight back on himself and fell sitting into an invisible chair from where looking up at me he said " I'm gonna kill that god damn horse."

I dragged em over to prop him against the boulder that had sheltered our camp from last night. He didn't make much sounds except I figured every inch of the way hurt something inside him. I shifted him around so I could pull up his shirts and see where he been hurt. There was hardly a mark, not even black and blue just, the red shape of a horse's shoe. I set him back against the rock, He groaned a bit and told me he was feeling dizzy and just needed to sit a while,"Then I'm gonna kill..." but he just seemed to stare, his voice gave way so "that son of a bitch" came out a whisper.

I got em to drink some water. Then I just stood there not knowing what to do. He was mostly saying he was sorry to delay us, that he was just so tired, that it was just so hot, that he just needed to lie on the cool ground for a while and thanked me for putting em in the shade . Now I didn't know too much about medical things, but I knew it wasn't shady where Jake Rogers sat, legs straight out in a V, back straight as a board, head slightly back against the rock. It wasn't shady, but it wasn't hot neither - there were still flecks of frost clinging like crumbs to any small shady thing . When I touched him now he felt cooler. His skin paled and he breathed heavy and raspy as if he couldn't exhale enough no more to get any new air in.

Jake Rogers just sitting there died from a kick from a dishonest horse that we had taken on because she was all there was and we couldn't do the kinda riding we needed with but one horse each. He died from something that had hardly put a mark on him. I cant say he died in my arms 'cause I didn't even know he was dying' . So I left him from time to time, first to settle the horses, then rebuild the fire, made us a cigarette, but when I went to put it in his mouth he just waved me away. I don't know what you're supposed to do when a man is dying' some folks say you pray n talk to em seeing if there's any messages to be left for family and such Some say you’re supposed to have 'em tell their sins so you can find a priest, tell the priest so he can have god forgive 'em so they don't go to hell. I smoked cigarettes and made coffee while Jake Rogers was dying'.

I tried to bury him right where he died but I hit ledge on the first scrape. I did manage a place not too far off. I didn't really want to be dragging dead Jake around too much. I guess I was dumbstruck over the whole thing. No matter how much you try, death always seems to surprise and no matter how often you're surprised you don't, or at least I never did, get used to it. I figured his gear was mine by some kinda right of our riding together but the stuff that was on him? I didn't know what to do? I was just about a mess cause he was my friend and that god damned horse killed him and here I was wondering if you were supposed to bury a man with his boots on or off.

There was an envelope addressed to his sister. It was a good thing I found it cause I knew he wrote but I wouldn't have known who to. It seemed I should write her about the way Jake died, some words about his good character and such. Maybe she'd want to know where he was buried and - where? That's what put me to my knees there by the shallow grave of Jake Rogers, my friend, kicked to death by a puke horse. See I didn't just didn't know where we were.

After a while I did manage to get on with things . It was fairly shallow, but I could do no better Besides I would spend the next hours of the day stacking stone over it. Meanwhile I had decided I would indeed shoot that god-damn horse But I didn't want to have the carcass too near in case the scavengers attracted to it might get ideas about Jake, so I commenced to hauling stones instead.

I didn't go nowhere that day. I don't know how long it really takes for a man to die, or how long it takes for another man to scrape out a hole to put him in, but by the time I was done I was tired. All I wanted to do was to sleep . I wasn't too concerned sleeping that close to Jake's grave. I figured if his ghost came visiting we'd just talk a bit. And once I explained to him how I would shoot that horse, but not right now cause I was tired, and how it'd be best to leave the carcass farther on, any animosity the ghost of Jake Rogers might have had towards me for delaying in my avenging duty would be appeased.

However I did awake just as the first bits of sunlight was hinting at the day, relieved that his ghost did not choose to visit or if he did that I had slept through it. I sat up against that rock, pulled the letter from my pocket, my blankets up around me, unfolded the envelope and was relieved to see he had fully addressed it. Her name was Sadie, she lived in Tennessee, in some town I could not pronounce . I had resolved not to read it, believing that would be some breech of privacy, but I had to open it up because I had no paper and I hoped there was enough space for me to add my post script of woe. As I did so out slipped a fairly new fifty dollar bill. How ever Jake did put together a spare fifty I don't know, but I took it a a sign that he held his sister in high regard and while this made me smile, it also made the thought of writing her more difficult. I rummaged out the pencil stub, glad I had had the good sense to take it too from Jakes pocket and there against the same rock on the same ground I proceeded in the same pencil to write to Sadie Rogers. I told her I was sorry to say her brother was now dead. That he died quiet with hardly a mark on him. That he had been a good friend to me and I had killed the horse that killed him. I was also sorry I didn't know the date but thought it was somewhere near the end of September, and was even more sorry to be unable to explain where his grave was. After all how do you say to someone in Tennessee ride four days north of Durango a half a day west then cut north again following right of the red ridge for another day and then start looking. So I simply said I was sorry and that while I didn't know a whole lot about her brother's relations to his family, it might comfort them to know that he was on the whole a very decent man to those who deserved decency and loved the life he lived out here. I wasn't sure if I should have told her I had buried her brother with his pistol on his hip, some folks have funny ways about guns. I had buried him with this weapon because he once told me how his ancestors believed a man would not be well received into the after life without one. When e'd asked about my ancestors I said I just believe in god . He said all people believed in some other type of things before they believed in god. I replied that I thought god was eternity and that eternity worked both ways, forever before and forever after. Pulling up his horse he said " Look out there”

" I looked out over the mesa far off jagged fingers earth, all shadow red and purple rare round jewels passed by ancient hands as sun made games with what was left of night

" What does that make you think of?”

Without hesitation I said " Being in it"

" That there, what draws you to it, that's your god."

And I thought he's crazy, god lives in some clap-board house with a bell on it, where everyone's supposed to come visit on Sunday morning, that's god. "No." he went on "That's you god out there. Everybody's god calls em home. Calls em to be part of it, to be in it."

I didn't say no more, but found myself thinking maybe somehow he was right, the thing in me that was being drawn to the thing out here was like my little soul being called by the big soul of god. Well thinking like that does my head funny so I called out "Come on then, race you to god!" and we kicked our ponies into a reckless gallop aiming toward the rising sun of whatever god there might have been out there ...

I did send Sadie Rogers her fifty dollars and her letter, I don't know that she got either. If circumstance had been a little different I would have probably kept that money but I went from having thirty cents to being able to sell his saddle and etceteras, so I figured it best not to be greedy and while maybe Jakes ghost might forgive me for lying to his sister, I don't know that he'd forgive my stealing from her. See, I never could shoot that god-damn horse.

On Cherry Street

Nothing kept us in not even really bad weather and hardly dinnertime and not without an argument.TV was too new only a night time thing like Mickey Mouse but Saturdays were mornings of cartoons and Wonderama, Sandy Becker, Little Rascals, Chuck McCann. But most days were almost always outside in the street. Kick the can, stickball, kick ball, Wiffle-Ball, handball even football in the street. Hide and seek and playin’ army through back yards and up-the-bank. Getting my first kiss from an army nurse who was wearing a WW2 helmet borrowed from my best friend who got it from his army captain father and lent it to the girl he liked the best the one who kissed me instead and I didn’t even know what for. In those days Saturdays were the luxury and summer really meant something spent fully spreely as if we knew there was an endless supply. Days like a never dropping pinball all flash & bang buzz & ring -yellow jacket eat a melon no school holler out the screen door slam summers.There was a patch of woods down the street if you walked far enough you’d come to a sand pit where three kids got buried to death once, if you went the other way you’d come to green waters like some soup my mother tried to get us to eat once. But the best thing about the woods was the rock fort, a maze of glacier heaved black rocks left in retreat I guess, we didn’t know. You could squeeze between the crevices, follow the snaky cracks a perfect place to learn how to smoke cigarettes stole from someone else’s parents. Autumn crunch warm sweet smell leaves up to our knees dreaming of Halloween the minute school started in September. I was a cowboy, got six shooters and a Rifleman riffle from my aunt who never knew how much I loved that gun because it broke on the first time out as if I wasn’t careful. Snow up to your face steel runner sleds stand up backwards down the steepest golf course hill. My father hosed the snow fort so it was hard as a stone the next day and we could slide down it as well as sit in it and it didn’t melt ‘til May. But always the best was the street even football touch football using telephone poles for goal posts of course we couldn’t do field goals and cars would beep and some would be assholes but these were days before we even used such words so we’d just do raspberries or make faces or act as if we cold reach that passing car with a well placed kick

Siane. Part 3 of 3 (from basa nuvo poems by pd lyons)

PART III

Real magic has the quality of knowing. By paying attention you get to know things and when they will happen. With this knowledge you can create the illusion that you cause the inevitable to happen. Real power is when you have people convinced that they can't get along without you. But there are other things, things beyond people. Once I convinced the wind that it couldn't get along with out me.

I’d go out to the top field where the horses ran free. Where they worried themselves with petty grievances, grazed as they wished regardless of day or night and sometimes lay like dead things strewn - lulled by whatever dreams it is that horses dream. On a grey out crop of lichenined stone I stood, turned my face to the sky and this is what I said:

"If I could be anything in the world

I would be the wind.

To kiss the sea.

Embrace the sky

Caress the earth.

Come wind I call you

Bring the rain, bring the storm,

The lightning and the thunders roar.

Come wind I love you!"

I tried this several times and sometimes the wind would come up strong while others calm and quiet. In other words I made no impact what so ever. But I did not give up. By now the horses took notice of my antics and drew around as if seeking inspiration from my sermon on the mount. Perhaps they found some but the wind did not. Once I got so angry this is what I said:

"If I could be anything in the world

It would never be the wind,

Insignificant bastard of the heavens

Ignorant victim of a manipulative earth,

Carrier of piss spit bird droppings

Owner of dust and ashes...."

At this did the wind hesitate even for a moment before it went back to ignoring me? Eventually the horses too lost interest in my daily ritual. After all I brought no carrot or apple, I didn’t respond to their sparing for attention and I was as bored as they with their rearing, bucking, bluffs.

Finally I decided to give up. I decided that if I couldn’t be master then I would surrender. So I said when the wind was quiet,

"As the wind is quiet and still, so am I."

And too if the wind moved from the East I would say,

"As the wind I too move from the east.”

So it was with every direction and with every temperament. As gentle breeze or herald of the storm and too through the seasons such as that of summers comfort or raging winter’s howl. For a whole year this was my daily practise. There were times when I thought I 'd be carried away, dragged along the ground or else motionless so long I 'd drop from fatigue but this did not happen. I began to know the wind, a scent on the air, look of the sky, temperature from yesterday compared with today, slight almost invisible trembling of leaves - all were signs. So closely did I follow that I became as a shadow to the wind.

In time my movements became just slightly ahead until it was I who cast a shadow called the wind. Until once more it was late autumn

When finally I could say "Follow my hands as I have led you this way forever." And the wind, having no memory of forever, believed that this was so and therefore had always been so. How could it doubt I was who I claimed to be? After all had we not moved together and had it not now been reminded that this had always been?

So once again I spoke, my purpose being to keep my image in its fragile memory,

"I have known you with whisper, shout and breath,

Shared with you submission and mastery,

Shared with you the gift of motion and stillness

Now know and remember me!"

And the wind enveloped me, inhaled and from the breath of my voice to the scent carried on the tiny hairs between my legs, I was known! Quiet then rocked with shivers, head cradled between my knees my own steamy urine puddles around my toes before trickling down to where a bald faced chestnut mare stood watching like a ghost

Siane. Part 2 (from basa nuvo poems by pd lyons)

PART II

When I was born I saw the world through the eyes of a crow. For at least three maybe four days. On the day the crow returned my soul to my body I was able to see through my own eyes. The first person I saw through such eyes was she who was my nurse. When I was older she told me of this event. Explained how I was special because usually crows do not return such a lost or stolen soul. That children's souls are so sweet they are usually eaten right away. But she had this feeling about me and stayed by me constantly during those days so that my worried parents might try to get some rest. I asked her if it was because my soul was not sweet that it wasn’t eaten. She laughed and told me that even the most wicked person was born with a sweet soul.

So what did I see when I saw through the eyes of a crow? Well one day as I was still child enough that all chairs were big enough for me to curl up in, I did so in the kitchen. Staring into the fire I heard the voice of my nurse, softly, tenderly she spoke and quietly falling asleep still hearing her voice I began to dream. and she, from whom I have never had reason to doubt and from whom I have only known loyalty and love, this is what I told her from my dream state about those days when I saw through the eyes of a crow:

A great grey sky almost to rain. Leaves gone to colour muted by soft and steamy morning. While Below, arched like great green cat backs, farming lands bordered by trees rowed up like man soldiers behind walls of stone which long ago toilers of these fields had so piled. Then as if in memory I saw them, those man-things building walls. Stones like teeth, roots like tendons pulled from a dark open earth. Then as if in further memory I saw those same lands in a time before the man-things, a time when all was tall forest, hard wise wood forests before the man-things came....

But now its only overgrowth, sapling and briar borders along these scrubby pastures where I must keep my attention. Now my vision follows the lay of the land, rolling down to a small valley curling with a silver stream then over again until directly below me a field just before the water slips into the woods. It is a field now for the dead of men. Vivid in an otherwise dull landscape their blood pulls at me. A rare moment - Not only much flesh but none among them upright, none to bury these fallen in the ground as if some seed to sprout anew. Now they are still, delicate, exposed, but I cannot let my vision linger long. There are my comrades feeding, they will leave aside some favourite scrap for me. But I cannot let my vision linger long. I the watch must keep… Until, finally I hear their call “Come. Come. Come.". my legs tense with a will of their own, push off, the earth happy to see me rushes up in greeting and with a jolt I’m standing wide awake before the kitchen fire.

Siane. Part 1

Siane

Part One

He truly loved the land more than anyone ever did, as if this loving could make the land forget how he had come, as one adopted through the wedding chamber. With scepticism and disdain the land responded, for this sentimental tender love - this was not enough!

And the horses? Well they adored him.Their noses quivered at his presence,they raced, stood up on their hind legs, sang for him even took bites out of each other to draw his attention. But they would not let him ride. For they were brothers and sisters with him,

beloved companion, never to be considered master. And he? He admired the land for its strength, how it showed to him its true face and for that he said "What great spirit, a terrible beauty. How fortunate I am to be chosen to see the true face of the land."

Towards the horses he was also grateful and for that he said "What noble blood, what rare beauty. I am so fortunate to be allowed to know their secrets." While the land and the horses both looked to one another and said “Well what can you do with a man like that?"

    Now she, who had taken the man to her wedding bed, she held the land tight with her own hands and so marked it with her own blood. That was how the land was won. Her own flesh protecting and defending and willing to do so over and over - That was how the land was kept. It was she who led the horses to shelter when the sky burst at midnight, kept them from prairie fires, dipped her hands into their mothers at the time of their birth and with a voice of smooth leather and singing bees subdued even the most bold among them. To the land she was forgiving. Admiring its resilience she would say "So beautiful yet so obstinate - you are the breaker of my heart but I will never leave you." To the horses she was wise and often amused would say “You make me laugh when you try your tricks on me but I won't let you forget our bargain." While the land and the horses long ago had looked to one another and said "Well what can you do with a woman like that?"

The man of course could not understand all the ways of his wife. In his opinion her discipline kept her from appreciating the beauty that surrounded her. But he would also say, as was his nature "I admire her strength and abilities. Truly this is a magnificent woman. If she were not my wife and therefore part of me I should envy her these things."

The woman at first was quite perplexed regarding her husband. She suspected perhaps some flaw in a man who would refuse to master such things in a way similar to her own. On this she pondered for some time before concluding that because of his way, surely he had never known loneliness. So then she did say "My husband has this nature which I cannot my self afford to indulge in. Yet it is also true that being joined to me he can do this for us and we will both benefit from the balance."

So their wisdom of what marriage truly is prevailed and luckily for me because that is what I was born into. My parents of course taught me their ways.With the horses my mother taught me how to ride, my father, how to share their secrets. She, how to hold the land,he, that I could love it more than anyone who ever saw it. And I, being a true issue of their wedding bed, understood both and formed a way of blending each, a way of my own.

Dharma La Fay

What if I told you , instead of healing - I killed? In order to heal the land I killed the man. He sleeps no sleep of dreams that's for sure. But think, what came after? The land replenished, nourished well those who lived upon it. Their power grew, spread, places I never knew existed owed allegiance. But now, these days, here we go again only this time no worthy sacrifice. Besides I'm tired of it. Maybe they should learn the lessons of their history. Either way they'll not see me involved this time. I'm just too tired to go through all that again - and for what? I did the best that could be done and all I ever got was a bad rap for being the woman. Maybe I'll go find that Merlin? Sure he'd still go for me and after that? Couldn't we lay together for awhile? Wrapped in one another's arms perchance to dream and dream and dream again? Ah well now, where was it I left him? A tree? A cave? Or under some stone stuck like a sword waiting once more for my strong guiding hands...

Where does it all come from?

Where does it all come from? walk through the grocery store look at all the stuff. Where does it all come from? How can there be so much? Coffee; there’s’ about thirty brands on the shelf, instant, ground, whole bean, decaf, French roast and etc. roasts. Then figure at least a half dozen grocery stores in town all with similar shelving plus IGA’s, convenience, starchuck’s, mcburger’s, duncandodo’s, diners and various etceteras all selling coffee and coffee product. Multiple by number of stores doing this in Connecticut, then multiply by number of stores in USA, Europe, China, Australia, world. Figure all their stock plus wholesalers warehouses and how do they do it? How can there be that much coffee in the world? How is that much of a product that is so labour intensive to produce, and in limited geographical and environmental areas, exist in such massive amount as and for such a cheap price? You can but a can of store brand for two dollars, name brands average about five bucks. Ok then what about shrimp/prawns? Think of them in the same way. How many pounds of shrimp are hanging around in an average US grocery shop? You got fresh, frozen, canned, farmed, wild  and about a half dozen types/sizes. Where does it all come from? How did Thailand get so big? How can even the ocean so vast grow so much of one creature? remember not just grocery stock but restaurants, diners; not just your town but the whole USA and the rest of the world. Shouldn’t shrimp be extinct or else very very expensive? How can they be so cheap? You know wild caught cod fish fillets can be caught processed shipped to Connecticut and I can buy it for less than seven dollars a pound. So oil, petrol, gasoline; how many gallons do I use a day driving my Jeep about hundred miles daily average? How many gallons do you use? How many gas stations are there in my town, your town, the world? Where does it all come from? How many cars? How many people who drive them? How many people who want to get one? Where does it all come from? Where is it all going?

He had walked

He had walked the tracks  too easily swayed by their constant star totally surprised how quiet the train appeared soft bells languid clangs hardly time to move behind him. lazy metalic roll rumble roll steady inevitable quiet follows and brown scented autumn bright sunlight returns knowing small song birds better than anything. Alone polish steel so like smoke heat the days aura-ed fingers hands en-wraped each movement of himself and every inch of the world around him. Eventually insect sounds all that accompanys him. Eventually unable to cross the trestle, intimidated by the too far below river, cut back to the highway crossed over at the park, coffee at the diner used to be a bar when the factories ran three shifts and this was a neighbourhood. It was his fathers first job, helping tend bar here, almost married the owners daughter, instead at seventeen got his mother to sign for him, a marine. Ship out to basic same train tracks crossed this same river, crossed country San Francisco tolerated the navy all the way to Eniwetok. Coffee to the train, coffee to the way things turn even on a straight track, to the trains of his father, those that brought him away from brass city New England and eventually back home in time to meet the woman he would really marry.

He found the other name last night

He found the other name last night pale peach pearl moon rising between lilac soft slate clouds broke into a pure black sky awed the stars stood still. That woman from his youth woke him in his dreams again sleeping between the paddocks not noticing the ground she was talking to him as he woke, grey horse slips through the un-hitched gate, eased back he didn't even need to get up, he didn't even need to use one hand, its stable mate black head beneath the rails tried to bite him so he slapped it. He thought now I have to get up and fix that gate. She continued talking to him. He couldn't see her. She was going on about the new girl, how well she rode, how much she reminded her to herself, how if she ever had a daughter she'd like a daughter to be like that. Getting up, off the ground he rises, wakes up to sometime in the night. That old grey horse wily little Arab, wild little prick ran off on him once, had to walk for miles. Almost killed her more than once, rearing backwards down the ravine, exploding on the mountain goat trail hardly wide enough for a sane creature. Eventually each gave the other up him, her, the horse. In the still sleeping house he stood dark mirror windows glowing cigarette for company. He thought of his own daughter, hope she'll like to ride, hope she's like her mother, hope she'll just be healthy. Wisely resisted temptation to wake his wife and tell her.

Morning hawk

Morning hawk on a derelict barn catch the sun reddish on her breast. Puritan crows complain the driveway, flit from tree to tree to ground to strut. How quick and occasional favour of scraps became an expectation a habit to be demanded. She's on high alert now, breakfast is a thing we have in common, hunger, hers a more urgent affair. Mine a thing to be numbed by coffee delayed by choice; what will I have? what do I want? So unlike her, everything I eat dead long ago and far away as if shadow boxing karma makes a difference. So unlike her even at my age still not learned to fly. It was my mother taught me about small birds, names and feeding. She thought blue jays were bullies but I liked them for their colour and their secret sound. There was always bread saved for the birds, every morning coffee by the kitchen window she'd watch birds before the day began quiet days before there ever were siblings and sometimes we would watch together. My father was an Audubon man, the huge book of colour plates near as big as I was. Bald eagles with cat fish, great blue herons spearing frogs. But he made time to hang feeders filled with tiny seeds, teach us grackles, cow birds and spotted the first oriole we ever saw.

re Joyce part 5 of 5

They got home three flights up. he made a snack of pasta tomatoes olive oil and parmesan  which they both ate at the table together. Homework was difficult. A writer's tantrum over how boring and stupid her idea to write about an alien. Aliens aren't even real so how can I have him do anything! I wasted a whole page on a boring idea! He suggests a waiting meditation to let the blockage pass. Well Dad, can I read while I meditate? They lay down on the bed together, she reads her latest Beverly Cleary and he's on volume two of the newest Teddy Roosevelt biography. Soon they'd have to get up, make the drive down to pick the Mom up from work. Six today instead of half six. It was four forty-five now. They'd read until it was time to go. Now the child to bed, the wife in the other room reads, he sits in the kitchen looks out the same morning window now into dark still February night occasioned by car lights almost streaky red, amber and green traffic lights across the green. Old blues radio "To lay in the wind... To lay in the rain... Wish I was laying in your loving arms again." maybe Katie Webster, maybe not. A pour of Connemara twelve year old single malt peated turf smoke infused honey, purple heathers, iodine ocean ozone and enough heat to loosen your tongue. Last visit home a gift from duty-free to each other. Joyce, Dublin, Whiskey, the wife homesick today too. E-mail from her father.  Mother's ok. He's ok. The dog's ok. Everyone's ok. The election is coming. Fine Gael should walk through. The country's fucked either way.

re Joyce part 4

Three minuets to home and home work. Not too bad though. They were nuts for it back in Ireland, sometimes two hours or more of the stuff in third class. She still missed her friends from the little two room school house, neighbours, could walk the lane be at their house in a few minuets. Ten years old and she had lived in three different countries, Ireland, Canada, America, in six different homes and for three months in a tent. Little gypsy indeed, first transatlantic crossing at six weeks, learned to walk on the most exquisite beaches Nysna Indian Ocean South Africa. Now she was learning French, Spanish, long division in Litchfield Connecticut and writing stories and poems, he forte, counted as homework! Voluntarily she'd taken up chorus. Voluntarily she was attending school full stop. Originally the plan had been for home school. Dad would be the teacher. Research into the legalities and curriculum had been done, contact with local support groups had been made and she had drawn up the schedule herself, all prior to the move. During the summer there were tours of the local school. He told her about it. Told her they could go just to see. "What if I don't like it? what if I still want  home school?"  "No matter what", he said, "you can choose." So they went. Met the teachers of the fourth grade, saw the art room, the music room, the library , the computer room, the gym, the stage, the cafe and on the way out she asked, "Dad? Would it be alright if I went to this school?" She hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings about his not being the teacher any more.

re Joyce part 3

He went by the quieter way nothing so annoying as small town tourist traffic feeding sharks, two local police SUV's flashing lights clog main street to harass some elderly New Yorker who double parked to drop a letter in the post box. A quick drop off now in true police wisdom blocks the intersection for at least a half hour. Gallows hill brought him out behind all that. Right turn then left past the cemetery regiment GAR, immigrant Ireland, Poland, Italy, Japan, sisters, brothers, priests and the girl with the funny name, Kelsley who had the same surname as he. How many years how many cemetery miles walked, and other than his own direct family never seen his own surname upon the stone? Right again, past the frozen pond where this past autumn ducks, herons, seabirds , turtles and G-E-E-S-E! spotted by the child. Then between the two smaller ponds, either side of the school drive way. It was there they'd stopped, watch the first beaver she had ever seen, keen eyes of hers noticed ripples on the water as they were heading home after her first day in American school. He'd stopped the car along the roadside. They stood there for about a half hour before Mr. Beaver disappeared. At the top of the hill turned yet again into the parking lot, parked. Waiting watching for signs of school being over, made notes in a black notebook heard a radio interview and live music Madeleine Peyroux. Had been certain it was Billie Holiday. Listen now, maybe playing local, the wife would love that. It was greying up again cold enough to cause his fingers pain. Few more minutes and the little treasure would be his again.

Re Joyce part 2

So tea almost done, Sun has come to mid-day grey the rain or snow of this evening prepares itself. He's thinking about his our walking Eccles Street, Dublin on his own; now here so far away in so many ways he is able to read Ulysses because like Joyce knew Dublin in the minute little ways of endless walking, sometimes to work, sometimes look for work, sometimes for the pure joy of nowhere to go a smoke along the Liffey, a lunch of the best Irish stew in Ireland, a mad rummage among the old books and even though centuries separate their Dublin's neither would not at all recognize the others. Upstairs in the land of opportunity watch the New England traffic make its way still several feet of snow banked around the green. Tea almost gone another yoga stretch... The times he'd gladly walk the hills for miles just to get to the village pub roll a smoke while Ita  pours a proper pint and maybe a wee Jameson for warmth to ease the wait. Is there ever enough time to be home?

Re joyce part 1

For two dollars he bought a copy of Ulysses. Two dollars for a book of some of the best English language ever written. Twentieth century Shakespeare. Appropriately original publisher - Shakespeare & Co. Unfortunately it was not one of those copies, but it was a hardcover Everyman edition from the fifties or maybe the sixties. Most important was the font size. How many people their lives ruined by trying to read micro-dot re-issues, Melville, Cervantes, Homer, Shakespeare and epically Joyce! All squished into cheap toilet paper stock so as to be sold on the cheap. Words the size of Joyce's need space and a paper firm enough to hold them. Too close and not only strains the eyes but the reader cant help but skip ahead hoping for some oasis from the claustrophobic inevitably blame the work as tiresome difficult and not worth the bother. Some one said you cannot take one word out of Joyce's work without ruining the whole thing (proves it is a work of poetry). You cannot also smear those words together and not ruin the whole work. Each must have space to stand alone alongside each other word. Then equally as part of the whole they can be savored and the genius of Joyce made obvious.

better

better than blogging - the snow is finally coming down, daughter home from school early not even 2pm, she out there making snow angels running around in the thick flurries of big puffer flakes and shes calling out to me to come out. No brainer, see ya later no offense but long after I am not here anymore what I do with her with her will still be cool. There are me ol' boots here somewhere....

there was this texaco

There was this guy and his wife. They ran a Texaco service station in town. Their home was just behind the pumps and a two bay garage. Sometimes they'd sell Joey and me tickets when they weren't going, face value box seat season holders since before the monuments. One of them would always pump the gas, no self service in those days, check under the hood? Checked the oil, front left looks a little low why don't you drive over? We'll fill it. We were just seventeen or eighteen, both of them were white haired and not yet feeble. But  his face and neck had been corkscrewed pinks and reds. And one of his hands, pearl wax white wrung out like rubber a glove still twisted. One day we asked her and she explained someone had pulled in for a fill up, tossed a lit cigarette while he was pumping. They used to have perfect triangle pine trees at either end of the house and across the street instead of a highway was the entrance to an eighty acre city park, fountains, formal rose gardens, small stone bridges arched over clear running streams. Years later another town another Texaco full service or self. Used to get my truck worked on, watched while I'd wait, his little girl and boy playing around in the driveway sometimes ride their tricycles. Now its a Mobil station and you can still get gas, no choice but to pump it your self and if you want; hot dogs, tacos, donuts, newspapers, coffee, lotto, butter, milk, eggs and you can still get a pack of Marlboro if you want to. And if any kid played in the drive way now? They'd probably get run over. Back in the day when I first met this girl she told me about how she and a friend had plans for robbing a gas station. A full service Texaco, this one on the way out of town, run by an old fellow plenty of cash from travelers to New Haven. He was really old and lived in a trailer behind the pumps stayed open 'til after dark. I'm certain I talked her out of it, we talked of other things instead like getting married and living without our families, she became my first wife and as they say one mans saving is another mans hell or I guess you'd have to say purgatory

primary yellow pad

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Soft snow

Soft snow swept easily from the car drive now through inches roads not yet plowed. Stevies on the radio, Nicks and Wonder; Too High, On The edge Of Seventeen. My cousin like a white dove drove a black trick paint Thunderbird or was it a Camero before she had babies, before she ended up alone some back woods Michigan wilderness and at the time I morassed in my own wilderness unable to help. Surprised when she told me her mother just died, cancer like my mother but so unlike my mother a darker version by necessity. I take the roads over narrow bridges through wood roads some paved some not, no one else for company, this hour of daylight only for me. Wondering why seven years later I think of her, what were the kids names? what ever happened next? As if I forgot about her 'til now as if not forgetting her but those seven years and I'm just going to call her back today like a promise once made kept. After the funeral of my mother, we took a walk up through another pine wood sat by the lake side, she wanting to be supportive, wanting to help me with her own sadness and so we blew a joint and so we kissed once maybe twice never again and I always thought she'd somehow make it, Trans Am floored Stevie blared something sky rocketry perpetual youth plugged into a dynamic different than the dictates of our families.

In my dream

In my dream we're in the car. I'm driving but we're going so fast over the roller-coaster bump that we end up airborne. I call feel it in my stomach when we stop from rising and start to fall and the car flips over. I remember thinking - I hope we turn over one more time before we land. Isn't that often the way it is. hope for a thing to happen a certain way even though theres no reason for it to. Hope none the less because after all it might. Yesterday walked in a "new" cemetery. Did my half hour among revolutionary soldiers, immigrants Polish Italian Irish veterans revolutionary,civil war,WWI, WWII Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, believers in peace, pursuers of peace, may they all be rested in peace. There were Pollard's and McGarr's, names form my fathers mother. There were stone wall still puzzled neatly together and leafless trees, borders of deep New England open fields and a February sun so bright could not help envy this place of rest. If only we could alive have such space and simply still, soak up this whole moment with every sense with nothing concepted, expected or even reflected. I sat with a nine year old child - 1920 - 1929 Kathyrn M. Sherman. White stone octagon on edge. Place a tiny sea shell and a stone of sugar golden mica for her. Sat on the ground back against an old maple watching chipmunks fearless keepers of her company flit and flitter around us sometimes stopping mere inches from where I sat. I will never know how she died, how close she was to being nine or what the M. stood for. But I told her story about the wave and the ocean. You know how the wave that thinks it is only a wave and fears the breaking shore yet the ocean that the wave truly is never breaks. That while the ocean is sometimes the wave, the wave is always the ocean, it is ocean that is the true nature of the wave; except when I told her it was more like ocean spoke than wave wrote.

I'm sure

I'm sure not the last morning wishing to stay in bed til noon. Sometimes Feng Shui works against you - this room too harmonic too winter warm windows tall semi-circle sunrising through half pulled shades and Irish lace even the traffic sounds reminding me to five years old sleep overs at my grandmother's she had a red dog named Tuffy and a tabby cat called Mama Kitty. Knowing the sinks full and the counter's full of last nights dinner dishes pot n pans debris, knowing the drive through shark trooper infested school bus dunkin donut dope fiend mania awaits a further inspiration. But better coffee waits for us and there's no snow or frozen thing this February yet. So once more into the extra-ordinary dear friend we shall encounter not mundane but wisdom, the Buddha is offered to the world through your action, so too the Jesus, the Allah, the Goddess, the Yahweh, the Quantum... The sacred is met through offering, the offering is made through action. Even sitting still and action. Today teachers of the road await and I once more seek mindfulness of compassion. Anyway the crows complain for scraps, the child whines, the better coffee waits but will not make itself.

Almost the rain like Ireland

Almost the rain like Ireland as if there were a dirt lane lead down to the lake of fairy sighs strung like vertical pearls a mist rising a silence of swans broken by small woodland birds come to flirt among briar's still bare. The snow drops bloom like small stars bright on slender green so tender primrose cowslip daffodil cannot be far away. But now coffee's ready  some when I pour and hissed complaints I must go tend to spill some when i pour and small terriers black and brown, tabby cats and winter horses on the island distract my thoughts almost scald myself forgetting the pressure and steam when prepping the next cup, for Michelle. So now mill town of my birth dawn. Connecticut ruins of over taxed former industrialist empty factory town. Here we are on the outskirts, half hour drive to work. Here we are making money for high rent poor food and tickets "home" for as close as we can afford it Christmas. We have no terrier or cats and horses are a gone thin smoke distant dream. But sometimes there are whitetail deer poke around the old apple trees out the back of our rented house. One night recently a fox left foot prints in the snow circling the house kept to the side walk until crossing his own trail veered off into the filed of abandoned farmland.

If

If I look deep enough into the window of night halos of kitchen light my own grey head and moving past that, who am I? The word play domino impressions, fragile memories fluctuating body soft hearted emptiness? And oh this morning, always morning hardly silent always noiseless belief is who I am restored repaired dutch boy diked, band-aids cabbages kings strings and ceiling wax. What I was taught must I be ever? Some days begin like this; dark windows beyond my reflection seeing nothing remotely me. This is the day of daffodils or maybe tulips? Small brown bag thirteen bulbs to bring to the cemetery. To plant for my mother and for my father. Does the flower seem less sweet because we know it someday will fade? There is no place I know thats still and yet to observe movement must not the observe stand still? This I know for sure; it's earlier in the morning than I like and I still need to get up get dressed right now or else the day will get away.

center

Sometimes

Sometimes the ache of the morning strangely comforts my newly mind. Rings of something other and uninfluenced by reason or my demands cushions the joints circles and supports the ridges of my spine. There is a wilderness within no matter how seemingly repetitive remains day after day uncharted. People who do not know me see sedate a careful methodical awareness each deliberate movement each meditational syllable, a person of wise restraint. I have been asked by strangers what should they do to stop arguing themselves to death. You should know, you seem to have such inner peace. The paradoxical effect of caffeine and old pain, instead I tell them things I can't just now remember. Probably something like Zen, Joseph Campbell and space together and apart. Sometimes when i cannot wear my contacts and the glasses make me sea sick, the soft world of grass and clouds soothes and I gently watch outside through the window across until the briar's even thorns of velvet wondering what may eventually emerge as through minor maladies and discomfort I am removed enough to maybe get the impression of the connected and therefor invisible dots. What separates sky from earth?

Long slender

Long slender limbs of her idle eyes, words becoming fact, dozing across duvet white sunlight curtain-less and strong fingers still and holding to dreams as if tiny birds hatched still needing heat but gently now. What secrets ceilings hold. How many mysteries mere fact and how often do I stare contemplation of such fates and figures as if study would inspire Rosetta cracked and peeling tiles, egg shell spidered nicotine tinge smoke detector plain brass empty fixtures of sometimes light translations plain revealed. Now though stretch deep breath toss and turn our own movements added to mute hieroglyphs we make our way inevitably towards check out time. Our words the language of coffee pleasant in botanical porcelain. Our contact smooth occasional sweet and creamy sign, an easy jumble warm linen bedding healed from room service interrupt-us our coffee mouths roll sure certain syllables across around, up and down knowing days like this like any other made and mandated to be spent. How nice to do so thoughtless. Some rooms though, I will not surrender  keys to easily.

Today refused

Today refused the sink full, refused the audible complaints, crows impatient for scraps and fat as if they knew soft Cabernet rib eye steaks ten p.m. alone with sci-fi DVD's. X-file memory lingered now angularly my pre-coffee kitchen receipt as if the same sun graced us together amazing our way through un-pathed reservoir tall red pines every inch a carpet worth laying down on. What if you were here now? What if just like I remembered you were here now. But no, not this now, this now I am afraid of, rather our now or our own now of then; smoking popping dropping snorting drinking now both hands full both high school bodies, twenty, twenty one year old bodies wild full dancing midnight at the park and swallowed whole each others dark so found our way and sandy sheltered on the shore when pale into orange wore purple phantom clouds gone into a pale yellow walk me home alone dawn. Across the other kitchen table of my mother's somehow even I explained in some way that all she did was make me tea and told me take it with me up to bed.

Slow

Slow as a screw cap wine morning dark faded into rain blocked sunrise. Chug of the coffee making scents of redemption and awareness fills my kitchen. Unlike the rest of the world Friday is the hardest one too many days dragged wake-ups are not really awake when you've not slept. Now among the shadows forgotten aspects of our truth. Hamlet the shadow of Summer's dream.  The eighteen year old girl sentenced to life for murder of a nine year old girl when she was fifteen. Tried as an adult. No blood ever found on her or her clothes. No murder weapon recovered. Her sixteen year old boy friend, interviewed six times by thy FBI, failed polygraph, none of that allowed to the jury. Fifteen year old in jail for three years before convicted, denied application to continue education, innocent until proven guilty. Eighteen year old Tibetan girl Buddhist nun under Chinese occupation. Practitioner of compassion for all beings. Sits down outside the abbey in a pool of gasoline - lights the match in protest, light upon atrocities, atrocious act among atrocious acts. She and all who immolate are terrorists, seek only to disrupt the lawful Chinese government and it's people. This is the morning shadow of the night before. Coffee the shadow of the cheap screw cap bitchy white wine slowing me down into crow sound shapes emerged from darkness into grey dawn.

Today

Today on the great yellow sheet of possibility he hurried the blue notes of coffee too hot to drink comfortably. It was the gold dead grass of February, not dead, sleeping, not sure of the difference. Empty unsure sky whether snow or rain no birds at the apple tree feeders wishing to find out. Where ever it is they go, the birds are always out. Can you imagine a place where no one knows how they should behave, where the fear factor absent no motivation, no explanation, what would we be like? Compassionate birds always out never needing to steal. The cheapest coffee comes in a real steel container, has more weight than most and tastes as good as the rest. Now are there things un-wishing to do but wishing were done. The energy of that un-equated equation can be used to do which must be done. What is the term for an equation that is unequal? An un-equal equation is an error. Do all errors need remedy? Do they need to be remedied? And hot from the hoody sweat shirt and seventy degree thermostat he pulls it up over his head remembers five years old and getting stuck.