MORE RECENT POETRY

Groundhog Day

I went to the ends of the earth,

But it was never enough.

I climbed the spiral stem

Into the bloom of heaven,

Standing breathless 

In starlight above the city.

I called out,

My voice traversing

The dark rim of sky

Pursued by the artillery of barking dogs.

Earth 

And fire.

The absence of air.

All the beautiful letters

Falling from the parchment

Like so many seasons of dead leaves.

And when I finally insisted 

That he show his hand,

I found 

That he had long since 

Left the table.

Or was never really there.

Nor was there ever any ram in the thicket.

Just the same dull stone,

The axe,

And the boy.

Over

And over 

Again.

Hide and Seek

My grandson 

Likes to play hide and seek.

He hides in transparent places,

Under the table

Or in the corner,

And runs into my arms

Before 

The monkey climbs the bamboo tree.

His smile is like the blaze of a comet.

I look into his eyes, 

Trying to reach into the deep

And say,

Don’t worry.

Wherever you hide

I will find you.

I will find you.

At night,

When he’s finally asleep

And the house is quiet,

I wonder,

Can I really do that?

Find him wherever he hides?

Knowing the chasms

He must cross,

The darkness 

He has yet to fathom,

I wonder,

Can such a thing

Be done at all?

It May As Well Be Mandarin

Winter’s first kiss came

While I was washing dishes.

By midnight, 

His heavy affection blanketed

Even the blackened lands. Only 

The naked spines

Of pines and aspens remained visible.

Shadows,

Floating in the milk of moonlight.

As with every fall,

So much of what

I had wanted to do

Remained undone.

A thousand thousand seasons

Turning with such obvious regularity -

The maple behind the house,

Releasing her empty leaves, 

Singly,

Then in a drizzle,

And, finally, 

A flurry animated by a rising wind. 

And even after all that,

The old man still manages

To sneak up 

And burgle the calendar.

In the morning,

I wrestle with 

The stiffened tarp beside the woodpile,

While my dog snorkels 

For her ball in the fresh snow.

I really should keep a journal,

I say to her.

She stares at me,

Wondering if these sounds 

Might be of any use.

For my brain, too,

So sure that 

Each moment 

Is the only moment,

These sounds

May as well be Mandarin.

Still Missing

I’m standing in my neighbor’s field,

Working on his irrigation.

Around me

Are the snowless slopes

Of the lower hills,

Kneeling brown and ready,

And beyond,

At the end of everything,

The granite fist of Raven Ridge

Still rests

In the palm of winter.

These mountains

Will wear white for weeks,

But down here,

I am in shirtsleeves,

Tethered to the wheel of weather.

The growl of my old neighbor’s ATV

Grows louder as he returns with

Fittings and glue and it occurs to me,

As I hear,

Smell,

See,

And feel this place,

That I miss my mother and father.

I could have brought them here,

And maybe, finally,

They might have understood.

For Elizabeth

"Wherever You Live,

It Is Probably Egypt"

(Michael Waltzer)

Moses raises

His holy stick over the sea,

And it parts so

Twelve hundred Hebrews

Can walk dry to freedom.

When the sea returns,

The ravenous waters

Devour a generation of Egyptians,

And thus appeased,

They calm.

Three millennia later,

A black child

Emerges from the car

Of a federal marshal,

Her hands clutching close

Her Holy of Holies:

two text books,

a spiral bound notebook,

and a pencil pouch.

Unlike the Hebrews,

Her face,

Her walk

Betray no second thoughts.

Today, however,

There is no Moses,

And in spite of

The crisp command to part,

White faces writhe and warp

And the southern sea

Refuses to divide.

This time,

This exodus enters Canaan

Through a side door.

She has been told,

Over and over again

That everything

Is only a matter of time.

So she sits at a desk,

Hands folded,

Away from the windows,

Awaiting the bell

At the top of first period.

Outside,

The sea of white faces slowly subsides.

But this time,

Robbed of a sufficient sacrifice,

The hungering waters

Will never completely calm.

Hopes Rise with News of the Latest Settlement Freeze 

This is my hell, 

In this sweet, envelope of grace  

In which I dwell, 

To be haunted by   

This eternally grieving,

Black draped old crone,

Somewhere,

Anywhere 

In the world,

Hurling her undecipherable decibels 

At the dark belly of each devouring storm, 

Trying,

Trying so hard 

To get us,

Someone,

Anyone 

To embrace her rage

As she bleeds 

Out with the injustice of it all. 

The camera pans right

And we watch as her home burns

Or is pulverized by indifferent, omnivorous machines. 

Maybe a lighter or darker skinned people will move in, 

Perhaps taller or shorter. 

Their song will be one of return, 

Hers of another exile, 

So much dust, 

Swept up 

By the great,

Manufactured wheels of wind, 

Settling again 

On the teeth of another catastrophe,  

On yet another continent 

Drifting, 

Dumb and hot,

In and out of fire.