Sun, 23 Jul 2023 22:53:23 -0400WeeblyFri, 17 Jan 2020 03:53:39 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/durgait’s enough to have got
this far, truant from the dust.
the sea’s uneven
gravity, the way the horizon
wraps me in its orange sail.
I am misunderstanding Itself
but the sun shines through
my thin ribs.
it’s the light that blinds them
and I’m not responsible for that.
I long since stopped wearing
the shirts they made for me;
no offense to the Monkey King
but my path is different
when I bow my whole body
dissolves. I’ve died on
the floor and will again.
when the sea takes me at
last no one will notice.
the sand will never stop.
someday her hand will arrive
reckless and green and I’ll be gone.
I am not a servant, I’m her beloved
don’t talk foolishly to me
as if there is no difference.
]]>Fri, 17 Jan 2020 03:50:52 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/january-16th-20207784049​the moon rises
spilling argent
coins over a
burnished earth.
I sleep through
it and dream
I deserve nothing.]]>Thu, 09 Jan 2020 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/01092020​the wind all night
as if trying to
peel the roof off
like a can opener
reminded me of
everything I've lived
the heart as
a wrecking ball
but this time as if
in the hurricane
love but no human
love as if embrace
within the whirlwind if
no one will
have my back
let the sky itself
have it let the wind
have at it as the
eraser-tongued
bodhisatvas said
let there be no
daylight between
my heaven and
earth.]]>Sun, 05 Jan 2020 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/01052020​and now you go.
the ice has poured
is frozen muscle through
the windows and the
house is unlivable.
your heart swells
as if to take the place
of your house.
you must live there
now, among the
red doors and windows
carrying this house
being carried by it.
your name is now
heart. your purpose,
heart. you're doing this
right now, straight on
through winter.]]>Thu, 02 Jan 2020 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/three-geese​three geese flew across the lake
which was frozen
listen: they will land
somewhere, just not
here where you
can see them.
I thought
I would die when
the water hardened
I thought the earth
had been cast into
outer space like
a discarded apple
core. the frogs had
departed with their
squeaking green
suitcases
and I was alone
only the trees
observed my sorrow
nakedly my
vocabulary shrunken
to verbs consumed
in the mechanics of
firemaking
Durga, if your eyes are
still green tell me if
I am meant to see
the landing of the geese.
if I must be dragged
forcibly to April
please, as if I am
still a worthy human being
(and not an ox)
keep pulling by the heart
not the nose.]]>Tue, 31 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/new-years-eve-poem​well, it's almost over
another year.
and what have you
learned? again
the death of people
the extinction of
a few more species.
maniacs in places
of power are at
last, fittingly, speaking
like maniacs.
I miss my grandfather
and the sea, and the
loneliness hasn't killed me
yet. still: the birds leave
in the fall the birds
return in the spring.
the river will tear
the ice out of its
heart. the moon
will glow like
a melting coin
the moon will sleep
on her velvet pillow.
someone will
try to sell me a thousand
things I don't need.
what I need:
a place to come
home to. a heart,
or a smashing wave
to break one.
when I linger on
a mountaintop
amisdt the lengthening
rime and gnomed spruce
it isn't nostalgia;
I'm trying to empty
the pitcher entirely
to erase the wall
between memory
and forgetfulness,
heaven and earth.]]>Sat, 28 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/12282019​drive by the man
with the cardboard sign
at the entrance of
Wal-Mart and think:
"nothing will break me
like that--nothing"
then someday you're
alone. maybe at the
top of a mountain
in winter, half buried
with zeroes, or maybe
in a hospital bed, grey,
awaiting the mask
you imagine our little world
twinkling in the valley
a mouse's postcard.
or dwell on your gallbladderless
friends, those who are left--
not many these days.
the snow crawls up
you like bedsheets
or visa versa. time is
heavy. time is also feathered.
"am I brave," you ask
as the nurse takes off
your shoes. as the cold
slides it's envelope-openers
through them.
it's a good question.
good as asking
"who am I, really."
the wind wants to answer.
as does your heartbeat
tangible to you at last
a little line of mountains
beeping on the tiniest
screen.]]>Thu, 26 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/remembering-ram-dass​it is hard to be
here now. the heart
wants to check out
of its personal crucifixions
let them keep piling
behind the mail-slot
until they barricade
the door and the only
cure is to burn down
the house. Ram Dass
died today, and I am
still a fool in a nation
of fools. Ram, I am
still waiting for some one
to walk me home.
I wish it were my
grandfather, in the
kindness of old age
looking like Mr. Magoo
in his floppy cotton
fisherman's hat.
I wish I were fit
to offer someone an
arm through these
long-icicled nights
but all I have worth
holding: the index
finger that taps
out these lines and
pokes through the fourth
wall of the heart.
Ram, like you, I do not
care if it is one
thousand gods
or one god.
putting the word
to lips is a step.
it's a hard path,
and the heart
is a tender organ.
remind me again
to be of some use,
to step out on the
road and walk
somewhere here.]]>Sat, 21 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/many-hearts​friend, they say
we are born with
one heart, but I tell
you I've gone through
dozens, each redder
than the last & the
last bigger than
a piano.
I don't know where
they come from
find them under
the couch, stuffed
into mail slots
served on my bagels.
throw a bushel
out the window
next morning
they dangle from
the utility lines
like electric apples.
it's as if life won't
tire of killing me.
there are days I
envy Jesus with
the shroud burned
onto his face,
the tomb silent
as old mice. he waits
for the sun that
revolves once in
a million years.
but the angels come
for me yearly with
sharpened spoons
bloody buckets.
the sun goes away.
I write one of these
poems, and the sun
comes back. across
outer space rolls it's
red carpet tongue.
presto. this great
magic, friend, isn't
derived from protecting
the heart I now
have.]]>Mon, 16 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.northeastmountainpeople.com/poems/take-heart​when the dust has settled
when you've reached the
end of the fence your rope
the string the line your heart
when you've worn your shoes
through then your socks and
the bottom falls out in a
freefall when time is up out
and time is a river you're
cast into, when the moon
bears down on you like
a stone and you've got
no candle to light your
way or map to show you
the road which refuses
to rise to meet you
listen: others have gone
here before their bones
are the trail you travel
their blood is the water
you drink their words
are the hands you hold
onto; be still in the dark
in the cell you've been
cast, lost in the desert
your thirst has made
for you, take heart
shed a tear, and even if it
kills you follow the sun
the bright orange sun
toward the dawn even
if it may not dawn on you.]]>