I’m pleased to have four poems in the Fall issue of Nine Mile Magazine. You can purchase hard copy or Kindle edition here.
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/nine-mile-magazine-fall-2018/id1443426276?mt=11
poetry
Shelter After Lauds
Shelter After Lauds
after Lauds when
first light touched
cliffs to the west
I rolled a stump
to the Chama River
to sit and pray
alone with just
blue bottle flies
and once the day
seemed certain
wary cattle wandered
past me like men
turned out of a shelter
robed in blankets and
dismayed by the light
and length of day
Chama Valley Daybreak – September 2018
Around Us – Marvin Bell
We need some pines to assuage the darkness when it blankets the mind, we need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane’s wing, and a worn bed of needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind, and a blur or two of a wild thing that sees and is not seen. We need these things between appointments, after work, and, if we keep them, then someone someday, lying down after a walk and supper, with the fire hole wet down, the whole night sky set at a particular time, without numbers or hours, will cause a little sound of thanks—a zipper or a snap— to close round the moment and the thought of whatever good we did.
Photo: Portland, ME – February 2016
plum trees
Plum Trees
The blossoming plums are a comforting sight,
they understand I am heavy with wine
– Chiang K’uei
do you recall
when I planted plum trees
to the east of our home
and dusk promised us
a life still
as a Chinese scroll
yet later in darkness
I turned away
and seemed to sleep
so many winters
my head heavy
my plum trees gone
like a laughing string
To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honor bred, with one
Who were it proved he lies
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbors’ eyes;
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.
50 years of poetry
I’ve been writing seriously for 50 years and I just got paid for the first time – $20 or $.40 per year. As Guy Clark wrote, “there ain’t no money in poetry/that’s what set the poet free/I’ve had all the freedom I can stand…”
I’m so happy to be included in the Fall issue of Nine Mile Magazine (available soon on Amazon, iTunes, and in hard copy on http://www.ninemile.org.)
Now I just have to figure out how to spend my hard-earned pay.
The house without a window is Hell…
The house without a window is Hell:
to make a window is the foundation of true religion.
Don’t thrust your axe upon every thicket:
come, use your axe to cut open a window.
~ Rumi
Photo: Assisi 2005
Something inside the moth…
A Mystic and a Drunk – Rumi
The universe turns on an axis.
Let my soul circle around a table
like a beggar, like a planet
rolling in the vast, totally helpless and free.
The Knight and the castle move jaggedly
about the chessboard, but they’re actually
centered on the king. They circle.
If love is your center, a ring
gets put on your finger.
Something inside the moth
is made of fire.
A mystic touches the annihilating tip
of pure nothing.
A drunkard thinks peeing is absolution.
Lord, take these impurities from me.
The lord replies, First, understand
the nature of impurity. If your key is bent,
the lock will not open.
I fall silent.
King Shams has come.
Always when I close, he opens.
Photo: Alba Street, Portland, ME – September 2013
Lead – Mary Oliver
Lead
Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.
Magpie
Magpie wander
erratically in winter
but never very far
from another.
Not as serious
as the raven
their flight
is harder.
In live oaks
they comfort
just one other
with a whisper.
Edge of Atlantic 