THE MOON

Always she

fullness to pendulous

When gone utterly: new

When slender as in her luminous blade

or heavenly bow: the huntress

Always ruler of the night

even in her absence

Before I knew better

I thought the sun followed her

in their round and round

When I began to know too much

she lit my way

After I suspected I knew nothing really

she lit my dreams

casting as they say

her pale as they say

silver coat across the nearest chair

wanton in her ageless way

I too never agreed with that first step

man’s boot upon her face

its print still there

On nights when she tugs at the tides

if you squint you can make it out

a tear near one eye

The Shoe

All laced up and nowhere to go but
dead center I look up at the ceiling
waiting for the other shoe to drop
while this one makes an impression

slightly muddy with a chance of black
with the word shoes in various scripts
gray white blotches of red could be
blood could be paintball but now

but now the tongue strapped down in
its chassis depressed unable to speak
holding its own against the void where
a foot might go where a foot has been

toes turned up as if what was future
is now past there it goes again the foot
thudding heel first across the wooden
floor I look to the clock I think fleetingly

of the sensitive seconds the chiding
words the loss of it all as idiosyncracies
cross purpose each other and yet
the shoe remains stolid or solid

staid and quite without weight
in its heavy way again I want
to look ceiling-wards but cannot
take my eyes off this one shoe

The Show of My Life

-->

I took a bite mmm the crunch of a toasted circle

resounding in the cave of the mouth

I'll just sketch a few lines here on the walls

and forget the public viewing who knows

perhaps some unwitting day tripper lured

off the coastal path by lanterns of red fuchsia

deeper and deeper till they reach this place

how many thousands of years from now

will marvel how I depicted ocean waves

upside down on ceiling ribs found sculptural

gestures highlighted by my rather crude

untrained local dyes crushed hawthorn berry

and dragons’ eyes but let's not get carried away

not today this is the show of my life and there's

no turning back no scaffolding to rest upon

no mail order catalogue fast or simple enough

for the kinds of colors and brushes I need

I could leave it blank and it would look finished

it's all in the mind I heard somewhere

what’s empty to me is a wash of Rothko

or the weave of the canvas let's give credit

to the antecedent I want to say before

I press my palms against this wall

two poems for no one in particular

today I saw a flock of white cattle egrets

fly across my truck windshield and I

didn't count them

—there—

that's progress

that's cause to celebrate

and the firework smoke still lingers

today two fat turkeys wild and sleek

ran uphill before me till I herded them off

through stands of casuarina

in my wake of unfinished business

isn't that the way the light and the truth

what else did I scatter behind me

as I fled from Egypt? I could say oh

the things I forgot to tie down the bits of life

that didn't stick and some of them have names

they're the fading butterflies who can’t rise up

wearing my remorse

now there's no reasoning no physicality behind all this

animated gossip about my past I look up

and sense it's my job to keep going keep

searching for the right hue be unafraid of painting

over and over so that the car I rolled becomes

her shoulder becomes the drunken night

in the apple orchard becomes the rise

of our first child in her womb becomes

our daughter’s first fall the despair of knowing

there's a net there’s a knot before there’s

a break and then this place this shadow

near deep red hibiscus flowers big as faces

She's Always There

She's always there standing before the notice board
while I push harder into the table knocking my knees
against the wood jarring cups of green tea
the rain separates us the years ice up
in the clouds til the weight of their
memories overflow and it all comes
down they say we need the rain me
I'm drawn to trees and shrubs vines
flowers even weeds warrant a long
appreciative look at times she's there
still running her eyes over the posters
postits lost and found announcements
engagements arrangements for sale
and otherwise I can't get inside
her head her arms are crossed
hardbound across her chest her
fingers splayed out from her armpits
like small vestigial wings perhaps
she's searching for flying instruction
should the hours be convenient
if her budget allows or else
a tree house she can rent
sleep and eat high off the ground
or maybe the guitar maker
going cheap will sell his soul for a song
or is it just a waiting game the rain
bringing down all this lost love
and indecision all the moments we never
captured in photographs melting now
descending between the notice board
and this table in the shelter of my words
the tea vibrating ever so gently as I
rearrange my limbs my hand racing
across the pale expanse of the page
drawing the ink out of this pen I've been
carrying around not knowing why
never really grasping the reasons for anything
I turn around she's gone
it's never a crisis
just an absence
sudden perhaps depending
on the way I turn my head
or lift my hand
like this
just a pause
and a little breeze

Pomegranate

So little time the number eight
turning and turning on itself
infinity on its head
how arrogant to think
we can symbolize so much
so more than enough so endless
here it is again this time
the branches bare it's winter
one sole fruit holds on
our disbelief suspended
how she disappeared taken abducted
we stopped holding our breath almost
our eyes drift back exhausted
finding the red promise
its leathery case enwrapping seeds
all that's left
who'll take up the knife
split the skin
render the ground
open the grave
listen for the chthonic hoofbeats
even now on our hands and knees
we strain to remember one word of the prayer
the names of the prayed for
the way we cursed the ones we buried
the way her mother cried when she was taken
and at night we lie awake with the vibrations
of her desire for eternal darkness

The People Sitting There

Celluloid images flicker against our eyes
who needs to go anywhere when we can
bend ourselves into soft angles eat popcorn
milk duds twists of red licorice sticks suck
soda from small buckets of ice while the earth
stands still for one day and the eagle lands
the Titanic sinks and Elizabeth Taylor keeps
yelling at Richard Burton after one too many
cry the vicarious! says the madding crowd
while sands fill the pharaohs tomb like water
the Vikings' plunder nested 'round the king
floats out to sea on fire on fire
we follow the force as the heroes and heroines
dance and die on our delicate rods retinae
the curvature of our lens clouds over
with fear hate love grief confusion and
resolution give us this day our beginnings
middles and ends and rolling credits
for points in the star-crossed heavens
indulge in us now and forever just give us
time for a bathroom break the relief
that takes us away from all that war
or salvation but only the bits we won't
miss just remember now how outside
the day is still and filled with cars
quietly waiting to take us home
where we can rest up to return for another
blockbuster keep them coming
while we don't go anywhere
give us another box office hit

Looking at a Lamp

I look at the lamp I see the day recede
the couches chairs cushions magazines
and books that paperweight made
from the ashes of Mt St Helens
the drunk Chinese poet my daughter
brought back from Tibet's border
Crown Point and Rooster Rock
painted by Leland all the light
withdrawing returning
the small statue of Siddhartha
not so small in the dusk
from its place on the mantelpiece
the fire cold dead unbuilt
not even one ash of memory
bowls too thrown by potters
on five continents all falling
into each other as I look and look
as the light dares me to quantify it
this mystery under the floorboards
beating loudly this erstwhile friend
trapped for ever behind stones
enough water enough outside
the melodious laughing thrush
claims its nest in the cedar loudly
the claim sings out daring me
to say why it matters
daring me to admit finally
that what I see is a reflection
of a reflection

outside the bird calls out