that spark (for Ben)

like pushing through a curtain of snow

a storm of proportion

this life, this mind

this breath

and you carry with you that spark

that grows to envelop your body

your senses, all that your senses reach

that friction of pushing, plodding, prodding

your difficulties only fill you out

into a warm being, a bright soul

a soft body to embrace

the death that always approaches

you transform into birth

and you are born once more

to ignite yet more sparks

in others' hearts

she broke/before

 she broke

my heart

so I healed

hers

--

before 

I am fallen

I am

my heart

so I

healed 

hers

--

before

I am fallen

I am

two worlds

 

of course, we're in this world

where things are falling apart

where powers seek to fence us in

weed us out, trap us, trip us up

 

but that's not the only place

where we live

broad sky, deep, piercing infinite space

and deep within, we transcend the complications

 

not hiding nor denying

but watching compassionate

from the inside, reaching out and touching

and, if truth be told, transforming

the moon fell

the moon had no weight

as it fell into the ocean

not  a ripple, no disturbance

to distinguish its intrusion

from its reflection, the water

did not feel it as a burden

took in its impossible enormity

with arms open, a wide shore,

enough joy to accommodate

this and oh so much more

like puppies do

breathe like puppies do

warm and soft, gentle, wet

and free, unhurried, no worry

80% playful, 20% woeful

wanting only to please

carrying that burden continually

balance, a game you learn

with over-sized feet

you breath out, while breathing in

waits its turn

the best poems

 the best poems

have a purpose

well hidden

from the frontal lobe

a galaxy exposed

in the last few lines

mystery enshrined

in letter, rhyme

the heart -- ghost

in the machine

is the hand that parts

those clouds

that are dreams

bliss of union (my nephew's wedding)

 veiled kindnesses

from out of a hidden realm

friends and family I have never met

affirm my broken being

the dust that falls from the sculptures

I have chiseled these nearly sixty years

my deceased mother and father

join my gurus

sharing a meal at a table

where 12 disciples honor the bride

 

a young man

                    self-effacing, as the moon…

            takes her hand

the daring of love usurps the night

they dance on the rooftop in the rain

the bliss of union that is an ocean

and we, witnesses and guests

each a single drop

of the selfsame joy

Mr. ATL

wiry, old man, diminutive

with thick spectacles

shouts the specials at ATL

Atlanta airport food court, Section B

I am surprised to find him here

old friend, stately man, aged only a bit

in front of "Fresh Eats", salads and wraps

"Today is a great a day...a GREAT DAY!!"

7 years ago

he was in front of Paschal's chicken

daring us to try the mac and cheese

collard greens

on my way to Sarasota

this time, to visit my parents' grave

I am cheered to find him still at it

all Georgia hospitality, gentle resilience

single digits

on night's like this

ice pebbled on my car's windshield

shuffling to put on my gloves

brushing and scraping the glass

I am reminded that the extreme cold

is most beloved of my soul

I read once, composer John Adams

in New England, taking his dog for a walk

the wind chill, negative twenty

a cleansing and a meditation

a hard look within, dog hale and smiling

it's coming

can you feel it like you know it?

you read about it, heard it discussed

not the single digit weather

but the arrival of the ritual fires

burning the dross

cooking the bread

relinquishing the silver

from the dull ore

that has calcified around our hearts

that OCD guy

afire with compulsive prayer

hand brushes hair

every minute or so

an outward expression

of an inward obsession

a man twice-odd

fanatic for God

and the part I forgot

I'm sorry a lot

your song

your song cannot be silenced

it breathes, swimming in its own light

swirls, self-propelled, in a bubble of energy

a power that cannot diminish

born of its own accord

cannot have done otherwise

no song can be silenced

it IS because it must be

it is that it is

outlandish

do dogs have feelings? 

can they understand what we say?

in ways we might not imagine

 

does the wind have words?

are we remiss in not comprehending?

 

even a mountain communicates

when we stand in awe

it has inserted its grandeur

into our thoughts

 

is God in our temples, our churches, our hearts?

is Buddha in photons, and black holes, and quarks?

some things are too outlandish to conceive

the more outlandish

the more I tend to believe

Marguerite

Marguerite wanders

by the isolation room door

a nurse tells her to get away

I don't mind her being here

don't mind the company

when she is back, she says to me

through the thick window

"Don't worry. God loves you."

maybe she knows

this is just what I need to hear

years later

during her group home intake

I will witness her 

setting her hair on fire

years after that

will see her dragging her belongings

across Public Square

I will not call to her

she has a rugged-looking guy

in tow, I feel she must at least

have some kind of protection

the nurse calls to her again

she turns and skitters off

down the dirt-tracked hallway

the pink

the prettiest face

streak of grey on her forehead

distant threats of beauty

is the light coming up

so slowly, it aches to watch

the pink hold dullness at bay

to her breast, turns it tin-blue

over the buildings, the lone chimney

downtown welcomes

the perfect dawn

feed the world

like a facebook like

mists of time soar over a past

that is petulant, remains for a day

a particle of a moment among the kalpas of creation

we will never aspire to more

than our hearts can flutter

open the oven door

take out the warm loaves

feed the world as you know it

save crusts and hefty chunks of butter

for all you don't

justice

 justice is a tiny thing

a grain of sand, a simple heart
let the guy change lanes in front of you
he may be dealing with more weight of debt
than you could ever forget
help the crusty man carry a smile
the old woman with her bags of regret

kindness is a magic of brown leaves
falling from the sky
a warm hand, open and full
heals every single one of us

truth is asking how and why
justice, again, is a hut built
in the shelter of the now
we huddle, together
need to human need

the reason I do not dabble much in politics and protest

the world

will wander where it will

the continental plates beneath the plates

always pointing

to impossible, unexpected endings

wholeness, resolution

Einstein's #4

a muted voice -- Kate Bush who'd easily 

go Running Up that Hill

the frigid air from the cooling vent

the rotating cast of customers

buying bagel sandwiches

bagels with cream cheese schmear

a baker's dozen of assorted bagels

doggie bagel treats

at the Einstein Bagels

by the Heinen's store

by the Erie Island Cafe

by the snazzy Old River Shopping district

right on the border of stodgy Rocky River

and progressive, authentic Lakewood

I come here a couple of times a week

relax with food and coffee

read, write, and occasionally

catch a surprising songbite on the overhead speakers

Future Islands

Death Cab for Cutie

Modest Mouse

slightly askew of corporate fare

here are a group of people

I know but don't know

tasty brunch on a round, sliced roll

and music that sometimes

hedges on sublime

line 'em up

sometimes they align

in such a way

chaos theory proves itself

the beauty of clouds

streaks like steak filets

lined up on the grill

mountains of mist

piled up behind them

foreboding, like older brothers

protecting younger siblings

and somewhere in this region of sky

a rhombus of clear blue

cut out of the conventional

freedom, always a gift

hard-won, breath-taking

the goldfinch

 We get into some pretty deep conversations

My therapist and I

It’s not so much about

How I am doing, what happened in my childhood

In my week, but –

How can I be helpful in this insane world

What is this world

Who am I in relationship to it?

 

I am happy today, we seem to be getting to solutions

Ways I can improve my life, while I have not been trusting

That anything can improve

 

At a poignant moment in our discussion

A small bird flies up to the sill outside

I note a gold streak on its breast –

Not a sparrow, if sparrows could even fly to the 4^th floor

 

I call it to Marie’s attention

She looks, “by God, is that a goldfinch?”

It’s so tiny, so fast

It’s hard to get a scope on it

But it is a rare sighting

And the poor thing seems to be trying

To get inside the office, hovering for a half minute