1997 Brooken Beauty Home I guess--
To crawl out of the deep to a shallow hope
to look up, around
in the grimy light-- these directions of up
and out, have stung me.
Yes, still a faint-- Yes, like when
I watched the ants, this summer their
fantastic purpose
carrying that grasshopper aloft
under ground
to some amazing use
unknown
and the direction it pointed
to in a larger scheme
Yes, and the idea of a farm
watching things grow
and being the caretaker for it
if all else failed--
Yes, like Crispin is the namesake of Candide--
the Garden-- Home.
somehow made a nice hike
among the butterflies and flowers
I kept on though roads
even an evil mind could see
the amazing beauty
blue mountain, golden hills
winding road
hurtling through spaces
windows down
wind through hair
remembering
the road in winter
full moon over the Sierras as Orion overhead
turning, this is what my, ‘soul says. ‘
Yes, I can see the problem-- my expectant soul
wide open, I thought I’d never feel this again!
but my wound is great and only Peak Moments
transport, to suffice
the heat builds and flat road leads to trucks
and vacationers, passing through
“We’re not from here, we just live here,”
Hot heat shimmer, a little too hot,
I’ll climb in altitude,
a little further North
to adjust and camp for the night
sun setting behind Sierras
through rain never reaching the earth,
Rainbows appear
another curtain like cloud is wrapped
and peaking through, campfire blaze,
aghast at black jagged silhouette
of elemental granite ascending.
I’m up early
and passing through, winding through pass
and there is some slight green--
valley on a beautiful day
lucky to be here,
Brooken Beauty
of the decreated.
This is my world, I’m born to it
Man’s Judgment,
is the Final Resolution, something
is slipping away--
The final
end, dark glittering light of nothing
of letting go into that space
would anyone want not to be here,
I for one want to go home,
a death wish?
a feeling so very sweet, with the wind
on my face
want that death should be this
so very easy and inviting--
but no this is life and the struggle is
delicious, this angst
describing the depth, of love
the grasp it has,
feeling free and without drugged compliance
feeling apart from-- in all this self consciousness--
Oh and the goings on
the urge, the act of continuing
this unconscious
being, a part of,
dissolved into, a feeling of rude--
awakening
into reality
of What Sublime
and unity with
What is Beyond
except in this Poetry
final merging
to one swirl
of star light
I WAS WATERING THE PLANTS
and soon I knew each one
how much water they needed
me and soon I needed them
bought more seed, watching through season
the goldfinches arriving
silent, through the window,
the hummingbirds gone
watching flocks of Pinon jays
arriving, and magpies group,
Oh, there the goldfinches
once more today perched
swinging, the upside down pecking antics- -
off in a flock-- and swoop
walking off into the hills,
that Sunflower’s bloom,
finch bobbing
in the wind, the toads gone,
bunny hopping along
pausing, the ancient fear in its eye.
Watching, I get up to make some lunch
in the silent house, the warm sun
across the table
looking out on the changing light
cloudy amphitheater of yard,
the flowers turning,
the magpie’s sawlike voices
announcing themselves.
I try to own it
decorating my head
with the revolving orders,
these cut out shapes
of cloud
and hill
and bush
PEDERNAL BLUE and
MARES TAIL AND there’s
the ANGEL’S WING,
swoosh-- through sky
the empty bottle, clinks
as it rolls off the porch--
rambling into
the years 2000
sunset sky
over again
and again
on to the future
stumble-bum saint
talking to myself.
“What I was trying
to tell you.”
What did I bring back. What did I learn? Complaints of NY versus the Country, and the changes in the Art World direction—, not what I wanted the focus to be. Finally New Mexico and a Home seems the realization balanced by the City and it’s confusing directions. To make an order of it in this poem. There wasn’t any finality.
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