never a place
not shelter built with brick or wood
not land passed down through time
not candlesticks carried in hurried flight
never these, though closer
not the one who loved in childhood
not the one who did not
not teachers encountered through many years
not community gathered round
closer still but not even these
a fragment of song, halt in aged voice
a sip of tea, earthy depth with each cup
a scent of salt, overlay to morning fog
and the wrinkles of a beloved hand
to those who rhapsodize about peace
found in nature, and harmony in birdsong
and other lovely things.
I invite you to walk with my dog.
she does not stare at squirrels with warm friendship,
nor at groundhogs or foxes;
they in turn do not invite her to play
or even remain in close proximity when we walk.
they know; she knows; I know that they are prey,
and she would kill any, had she the chance.
birds sing, true, but also squawk,
and not for our enjoyment, remember.
they want mates; they sound warnings over territory;
they signal their health (but this returns to mating).
walking in fields involves dirt, muck, and mud;
with each step, you crush some insect or plant.
find your peace, enjoy your harmony, but do not forget
that these are things that you impose,
imaginary as rainbows in the sky.
until I am home, there is tea.
since I have no home, I have tea.
anywhere I dwell is temporary.
cups also; they break, are given away, or simply disappear.
tea remains,
each sip lasting as long as one breath.
that is enough. that is all.
she showed no remorse, only regret
to have been found out, caught in misdeed
she arched towards me in pretend contrition
her eyes gave the lie, shining with pride
I knew that inside she was laughing
love forgives much, and so for those eyes,
what could I do but laugh myself
a world full of inexplicable things
inexplicable to me, that is
with each new day I am as a child
reaching into a box of wonders
entering a library of marvels
listening to a chorus of virtuosi
even when streets fill with rushing rain
even when sirens wail in ominous lament
even when walls tumble from searing heat
despair is companioned,
holding fast hands with curiosity
death. death. more death.
violent murderous wartime death.
pestilential starving cruel death.
death in streaming technicolor.
death in social media posts.
death in every possible way.
a friend who lives in another country
sends me a constant barrage:
this country, that country, another country
is perpetuating horrible death.
why does he think I don’t know this?
I spend my time now
writing graffiti on gravestones
throwing flowers on funeral pyres
and detailing the beauty of vultures that fill our skies.
this early morning.
air should smell of rain, wet leaves, mud.
train fuel reek fugs the fields.
birdsong and squirrel chatter should accompany our walk.
metal engines clangor away any animal noise.
nature inevitably prevails,
however industry (and we) might choose.
look up, the sky is ever there;
walk, the earth always beneath;
every manufactured thing; fundamentally part of the world.
in the pause between piston beats,
I hear the cry of three Canadian geese flying their regular overhead route.
I walked and dropped things
my eyes first
they rolled down the hill
then my ears
they fell into a patch of mud
then my nose
it caught on an old stick
then my mind
I draped it acoss a barbed wire fence
it followed me home
stinking like a dog that rolled in muck
it all becomes too loud
unkind words with sharp edges
shuriken hurled from screen and mouth
walking the street an act of endurance
yet anchors of stillness even beyond breath
rebel flower half-hidden stubborn with purple bloom
stark outline of a tree bare against gray sky
slow drift of a bird in dying noon
and always always just outside reach
the coolly radiant nocturnal moon
sit on your cushion and chant
lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu
may all beings be happy
(may you be happy)
I will not linger to join the company of haunts.
The world is overfull with ghosts.
They shadow our footsteps, stain our windowpanes,
And walk the streets in silent hungry procession.
They watch to see if we remember.
We do not, not enough, never enough to give them life.
I will not take a place in this bread line, though I’ve seen faces there I know:
A grandfather in tattered black coat; a poet from a vanished land;
A goddess still in half-bird form.
I leave behind kindnesses you can have, dreams you can hold,
But not myself. Forget me entirely; I will be gone.