my burden is light

i like to move easy with dawn
the hours and moments of my life
blow through a
wind tunnel
as i watch

i see nothing passing
but i feel the absence
how can this precious
be less tangible
than its absence

how can these words
be no more than a
record of our thoughts
yet our thoughts be of
such stuff

that can anchor a
moment to pleasure
so solidly it cannot
be moved by even the
strongest

or sorrow
close up a life with
tomb like stones heavy
as the pyramids
solid

ignorant
yet only that sense organ of the
mind can touch them
just as we touch each other with our eyes
more tenderly than any hand

devils lament

so today you stand before me
so very guilty of your crime
you loved and were so innocent
time and again you wont repent
time again i have to try you
the sentence always is the same
to be drunk dry by the ageing
vampire who shuffles slowly by
eyes dim as misty time itself

drinks in gurgles careful not to
kill you only leave you stumbling
weak so you cannot strive again
so your innocence is not your
fault so i can take from you what
you wont abandon your strength is
offensive in extreme so it
will be sucked away and your love
can be taken from you without
your giving

in the end too weak to rise
vampire sadly close your eyes

caesura

spring fall lurch
together
on a day
that’s neither
but feels like
both

solemn is
hollowness
in the yard
with proud moms
and pops

drunken red
nosed stumbling
around the
children who
slide and run
while uncle
barely can
walk

rain puddles
filled only
yesterday
tiny new
swaddled tight
dreaming what
they heard in
mommas womb
wondering
what is this
dry and new
world so

Materialization

How to say those things
which we have in our minds
that this is the season of change
and it is our lives
and no matter what we do
this today which seems so familiar
is really a slightly different
tomorrow which we dream of
or dread
the breath that is the breeze
is scuttling bits of paper
across the ground and we
follow them looking for some
larger meaning analyzing the broken
stick with the white grip like end
that was Excalibur in a better
moment but is now just
part of the morning trash
that swells the ground around
popular places like the little summer
house that is romantic in the dark
but rusting metal and empty bottles
sullen dregs in the dawn
and assures us that all is
exactly not what it isnt
and very not really as
it appears

nice hat teardrop

he is trusting the shadow
that it will not hold him back
so natural bright will burn
lazy sleep that will make
shadow itself incandesce
and expel him from its
womb of death which plays
toy like with the brighter
dream and lures him down
like a beaten man into
numbness

the sleep that comes to weary
souls even they are only
weary of their own uselessness
and comforted they sleep through
workless days and nights
or become so busy with
dangerous doings of no
meaning that swallow all time
and effort which they talk
endlessly, complaining about their
troubles and hardships which
they have done to themselves
or possible chance that they
might be done harm or that it
could happen to someone they
say they know

gobbling time with wasted
breath which was sour from
within and possibly just
needed to escape they grapple
for control or to try and
trouble others for they
think this gives satisfaction
without the trouble of
meaning to lives
wasted on useless pride
which giving opportunity
draws no benefit which it
only could if they ever saw
something besides their small
and useless selves

and knew a larger picture in which
the train arrives and people
move about doing something
or nothing and somewhere somehow
there is a word to add that makes
it light or draws a picture hat better
than the one they are wearing or
could ever buy or dream of
in little lives that try for the
nothing they achieve

but to try is tiring and
the question is always there
burning like a black hole in empty
being the same empty he is trying to fill
but to stop trying is to
fall in line and fall asleep
doing that joyless dance at the
Zombie jamboree
and therefore not to try is
to loose all hope of any joy

thoughts

Whats there to
think about, a
lifetime of
victories and
mistakes
hangs suspended
in air like
a tortured prisoner
and all that
wasted time
spent fighting
boredom
is the fire
under his feet

I will not
quietly
succumb
to that whichs
like all else
just because
thats whats done

God save us
from drowning
ourselves in this
pool we pour
full of
mediocrity

change the sheets
in this
bed of life

Torture
metaphors
squeeze
similes
shave
phrases
for every
drop that
heals this
dull sentence with
enervating thought

Thanks Gulnaz!

This is what Gulnaz gave to me and I gave her all that I got. Now I give it to you! Visit Apple Pathways and enjoy!

The quality of color

There is a green that
smells like rain clear air,
that puts shoes
on my feet and
takes them off,
it calls to me
from the mountains
in the earliest
days of summer.

quarter time hymn

and in the new lit dawn
you shall enter
the glorious
spreading out
anesthetized cities
sleepy with dull electric light
left on like an afterthought
of the tomorrow and the
today that we are
already forgetting
as you have
written your poems
and stories to
tell again and
anew against
empty coffee
cups and large
salons where you are
comfortable strangers
on the collective
loose

to tell of
things which
we all can
see if you
look at us
in the stark light of
morning past the
dawn that tells of
you and always
has
for you are poets
story tellers
and fools who
have night for
dinner and
dawn for
lunch with
humble biscuit for
that is
your part in
dirty city
trash collection
doubtful
hopeful
dawn

where you
stumble to
crash in the
trash dumps
where we wont come
because it
isnt done like
a mountain busicuit
or pot of rice
still hard
still you are
dark and
frightening in
our view
because you
have thought
something frightening
about us
and you
and tomorrow
which is far scarier
for it is our
kids for which
we tolerate
today

with patience
behoved of God
for you know
no such
form with
our fast
flying bullets
against slow
porch swings
self hate
slow kid things
that pace our lives but
tell us nothing
which is all they know
for tomorrow is a
duck
too late
im shot
song

it is here and
its gone
and you
were there
hot tears
like candle drips
singing this
first light
late night
song
and we
were in
your arms

Uncountable You

Every poem is a mirror
That takes you where
You’ve always been
In ways you sometimes
Don’t expect

The glass can show
Like riding on the
Bus and looking
As the city passes
Seeing things you
Know are there
Telling you you’re
Going home

Not lost but
Traveling.

Form and Pattern

Must I bow again
To the clueless King
Whose sleepiness
To my needs
Contrasts his
Attention to
My flawed obeisance.

Form and pattern
Is boy girl boy girl
But not meaning.

Form and pattern is
This blotless morning,
Moist summer air,
Promising suffering
And brown grass;

Form and pattern is
Slow step by step
Of the lonely old
Woman who doesn’t
Want to die,
Walking in morning,
Wanting more of
Waning time.

Form and pattern is
Bowing to God
For this little dog,
This plate of fruit,
The hope I breathe
In fits and gulps,
But this is more
Than that.

Ode for the unseen chorus

Why is it that I am at peace? The
Quiet has lulled me to a sense of
Things which float rather than scurry or
Scramble. They are not in the bushes nor do
They climb the trees. They are not fervent nor
Fearful and have no need to hide or lurk. They
Do not need the darkness for they are bright and
Airy and we don’t normally see them when we are
About our usualness of doings that rob us of this
Sense that an order we don’t understand nor couldn’t
Create, is all around us, seemingly beyond our
Senses but not really because it is heavy in a
Light way, like air. We can feel it if we try, like the
Breeze that rustles the curtains and lifts the
Table cloth’s edge; that caresses our skin in
Such a gentle way like love enjoying our
Surfaces while filling our interiors with such
Gentle overwhelming that our skin is
Transformed into something pleasant and
Delightful, an organ of the oldest and most
Beautiful music.

The day is cloudy and the dog comes to
Sit beside my foot and, as if on schedule, the
Sun comes out and makes a halo for
Her body; the quietly noisy of a trillion
Rustling leaves stumbles over me in a
Pointillism of sound and she brings to me the
Aromatic wealth of her hot, dark fur for a
Pet before sitting back down. I inhale the
Day and there is a
Prickliness inside me like
Standing hair in static electricity
Before the new found sun hides
Again to the rhythm of another
Cue and the cool shade spreads its
Soothing hands across us to
Rest there.

There is a silent roar as the
Lips of the wind brush across the
Lips of the land and trees
And buildings and wires,
TV dishes and antennas, and
Through the open window and
Across the clack of this keyboard.
I float a little on it
And settle back down.
You are with me now.

Parlor of the Duchess

Is it in the rhythm of the heat that the
Dark parlor of the Duchess undulates?
Sitting in the shadow she sometimes
Shouts, sometimes murmurs so that dark things
Dance as they always have but not so
Comet-like as now with wagging tails sowing
Susurrant light sashaying through the short
Swirling summer curtains.

Light that will go to join the stars
Only to be visible on those nights when
Mars shows its fat, full redness in the
Glowering sky like a bloody mist, a
Rust-like tint not lively like the color of a
Tintoreto redhead but more like the reflected
Light in Nero’s ancient saurian tears as he
Played for the party of the hate that he had
For the great that he wasn’t. He let the violin
Murmur and shout savoring the saving of his
Peptic voice for even more caustic times,
Peccant as a tossed down angel floating
On the crest of waves of flame, tottering
But not consumed, buoyed up but without
Purpose.

Hour glass light that is tied to time, slowed
Down to something that is measurable, even
Creaking and struggling as it moves, given the
Air but cursed with clumsy wings and the need to
Perspire into flight to be safe in the most
Dangerous of ways, always a struggle except when we
Try to comprehend because it is so slow and
Sluggish that it can’t squirm away from our
Gaze nor slither away while we search for the
Lenses and scopes we need to see with, the
Glasses we’ve misplaced but need in order to be
Able to find them, light in a time that is
Squeezed and narrowed and forced to go
Grain-like through a narrow space so we can
Count them like our restless sheep.

But now the Duchess needs no glasses nor
Even eyes for she now sees what she has always
Known without sight for it was that light she
Could see when she, as a scared little girl
Lying in the dark, squeezed her eyes closed
Really tight and the reddish blue dots appeared and
She began to look at them, petrified but
Calm as they became lighter and finally began to be
White and billowing like clouds, her clouds
Through which she could fly on clanky childish
Wings, careening and almost crashing, without having her
Eyes open or being forced to see anything she wasn’t
Prepared for. Her parlor is filled with that light
Tonight and surrounds her like the heat of the
Summer night. Not chastened and sent to hide
Until no one could see, but encouraged and
Sung to with moans and gurgles, the sounds from
Juices that aren’t being processes but stay
Inside her to poison her with the waste she
Creates by simply living.

Say goodnight, Duchess, if you really cared to, for
Around you the darkness burns as if to be
Consumed by that which seethes from you
As you sit relentlessly precarious to the edge of
Your day bed. Turn on no lights for they are
Not needed, a life and all its reminiscent clingings
Claws this air with gnarled talons, sparks it to
Fluoresce in the churning night, and is not afraid
Of closing doors anymore.

Sue Hardy-Dawson changes the world we live in with grace and love. You must see her art and writing. Go to Poemcat and see for yourself!

Mommy’s Mummy

So here we are, the children of the
Oh so, not so fruitful womb
When along comes that tall
Texan, dad, the hero of every
Heart and tales told often at
Campfires and around the good
Old fireplace and in the pungent
Secrecy of the kitchen table where
He passes like a former Greek hero
Although now we’re talking bald with
Glasses and a pot belly belying all that
Rugged youth and horses and
Basketball hero football idol bronco
Busting intellectual with articles in the
New Yorker written while still a child
Himself. When do we stop to be that
Which we have always been, the who that
Somebody knew, probably your best enemy’s
Friend who really knew us but didn’t feel
Compelled to pretend with us because there
Weren’t any shared smoke the
Backy in the home made corn cob
Pipe don’t tell anybody ‘cause
It’s our secret boy/girl bond
Bull crap. How could he do that when,
All that you wanted was to adore this
Fiction that everybody told like a
Piece of literature admired by some,
Loved and quoted by others, on
Everybody’s lips? How could you be
On everybody’s lips when it was I
Who loved you? How could your love not
Be so sacrosanct and rare that its
Grace had to be so common? A
Questioning old age, a troubled
Youth, denied the answers to questions my
Children have asked now since I
Have turned out to be me.

When do we buy that retirement home in
Sedona, among the candy colored cliffs
And elevated plateaus of our imagination
Where we live forever in that adult fantasy that
We have grown up and are completely
Miraculous and good. You were always a
Danger, so much everybody’s else,
Such a question if you were even ours and
I have turned mother's fear into
Me in my quest to talk to you.
You, you poor man, and I
Were pickled, wrapped and dried,
Things of hollow legend and without love
From the moment we started this search.

Breakfast is not ready

We give the illusion that it comes to plate
Venus-like full blown and assembled
From the sundry stuff that
Is only a step or two away
From the garbage bin. When
Monster mercenary minstrels gyrate
Their ancient Greek hips Elvis-like at
Sounding boards of internal and
External music – the larder to
Barter for some oddly personal hymn
In the hopes they can
Recall the loss

And the gain for shekels
Or worse, pride. How to
Give up that daunted dare
We stare in to solid emptiness
Hoping that we’re not
There like ghosts in a
Mirror, especially a concave one
(convex is better
For purposes of company)
Keeping what we like
Discarding the rest
As one would an interloper
In the bedroom of our love

We cannot say the self
For fear other will hear
But we can talk of nothing else.
To the muse: bad girl,
Where have you been?
Would you like some
Breakfast? She says

You are all in the same boat
A reed basket floating down de Nile
That we entered right after birth
Leaving our family for a better
Life, doomed to wander forever
After the anger of hot youth
Ends the privilege of childhood
With the sad truth we will never rest
Never see home again
We will go through death’s door before our own
But after all the peace of home is
An illusion. One which we hold so
Dear because we fail to truly see
That the park is a battleground
On which we can rest while the
Plants and trees fight it out for the
Sun killing anything around them
With deadly shadow. Which when
The darkness of doubt falls over the
Plate with its ordinary and
Strangely questionable goddess
The substance of tangible illusion
Utters that dangerous word the
Self which is now so plain to see
And naked on the plate and
Painfully absent of vines and leaves
And all the figs, or perhaps an
Apple in the mouth making it
Tough to breathe because we didn’t
Want to talk about it anyway. So
I asked my father, seeing the ripe
And rotten fruit: is this
What you wanted me to eat?

Tutoring

Two new students
Into the hours of desperation
Of swimming, but not much longer,
In the unacknowledged
And unacceptable sea
Of unfathomable ignorance.
Here for the painful cure
Of superficial knowledge
Of ordinary matters of
The heart and mind and
The miracle of my
Shallow shoal soul shut
In the narrow confines
Of my broad body.
Despairing the lack of difference
They, like the ship above,
I, the sleeping leviathan below,
Storing up all that fat they need
And want me

To dispense, in a suicide pact
For those humble delusions of grandeur,
The luminous calories of thought.
Could I have dreamed
In the sublimest moment of the
Slender threads of responsive sleep
Sewing themselves in glorious
Gilt throughout the play filled
Foolishness of my childhood,
Even I would have laughed at
Me as the object of
Such practical folly.

Breakfast is ready! 

Old Melody

The young at night
Drink and fight
And leave a lot of litter.

The old at dawn
Come along
To recycle empty bottles.

Pickers and leavers
Daylight grievers
Rest now your worn out waters

Tomorrow’s a song
We’ll sing along
No matter what happens
To our dreams and desires.

Thought you might like to see the view of our mountains from my classroom! 

Castaway Heart

I remember your lips and want to be Robinson Crusoe there
I remember the bone of your hip and sparkling eye
Oh the curve of your cheek oh the curve
I melt into your smiling stare
We must touch each other that we may
Know who we are
And who we are not

Clinging a growing pool

Clinging to the roof – a cat
closing the front door – a firm click
down the hall like a ghost
TV playing earnestly
ancient pain
struts the screen
no one sees

radio plays in a closed room
ghost party perhaps

dog nails slowly clicking on the tile
tail hangs limp
quiet eyes
watching silence move
turns and
slowly clicking
recedes
to faintness

people make a place alive
without them
we float
without bodies

in the next world
the one across the very
thin, tough membrane
a woman is crying
she has a basket of dirty clothes
on her head
she falls constantly
with children
on her feet

she cries because
she cant hear the
tone of my words
the music in her
head is too loud

my only hope
is this poem
that the music will stop
like a pain suddenly gone
and she
will hear
this tone
of our larger
life

the meaning of emptiness is
to love, to love

I think she loves the dacha even more than I do! 

An older pear tree is in the foreground. The trees behind it are all apple trees! 

This red tulip was so nice looking I had to share a picture of it!