NORTHEAST MOUNTAIN PEOPLE
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A Cargo of Green Hearts
~POEMS~

9-30-17

9/30/2017

 
woke at 3am 
to the sound of rain
a memory
you in a silver downpour.
as if presumed dead 
I didn't move 
just lay there
listening.
​

Durga, 12

9/23/2017

 
​I must live where
the bones of the earth
show must be not far
from the silver breath
of the sea where
the weather is drunkard
and unpredictable
I don't wish to rest
and lie down on 
pavement, I want to 
feel the angular miles
and the drip of branches 
and name stars in
the wrecking frost.
I think of everything 
I gave up for the land:
a good life, a normal heart. 
no one knows my name--
but the trees, thousands 
of them, stand by me. 
it is right, Durga
it is better this way;
the justice of bears
a purer cruelty; 
the crown of red leaves
fits.
​

three invisible wonders, while lonely

9/18/2017

 
One, when I embrace a tree
it feels me
no matter how 
canyoned the bark
within the cracks even
there deep chlorophyll 
wait with their green nets
to gather the fish of my
breath and throw back to me
the fish of theirs;

Two, the tiny beings that thrive
in my gut, manufacturers,
mariners, whose lives
meted out in minutes
swim in their sea
of wondrous gifts 
where there is no
fear of dark, no
need for lighthouses;

Three, the shape
of accommodation the
fathomless air takes as I move
through it, how it closes
behind me just as secretly
leaving nothing but 
invisible ripples which
spread out into the world 
without end.
​

Durga, 11

9/9/2017

 
summer is falling apart
like a wobbly bicycle;
maple keys chop the
warm air into slices;
acorns batter the earth
to exhaustion;
the whole hemisphere
is tired of zucchini 
and the squirrels
like corporate executives
are robbing the earth
blind of its fruit. 
Canada presses
its heavy brow
against us and everywhere
the water is beginning
to envy stone and
silence. I am thinking
of you again Durga;
how you put a finger
to your black lips 
and tucked me into
a bed of cool white
hills, then slid
against my bones 
with a long sigh and kisses. 
I was not too young
to feel sad, but
there is a kind of
respect in surrender;
sometimes what
keeps me warm has nothing
to do with the air.
​

9-3-17

9/3/2017

 
when I ran
out of earth
at the end of
earth, there
was the sea. 
I was lonely. 
the sky wasn't 
blue. I thought
of you, who
entered the 
water's glass
and did not
return. they say
you were nude
because the 
salt hates
clothing. I thought
of you until
the bell- buoy 
clanged against
the tide's hand. 
the ripples are
old and indistinguishable
from all the other
ripples. the sorting,
the sound of
skipped stones,
it hurts. strange
how the world
is constantly
tossing things
into the sea
and the sea 
is not yet full.
​

surrender

9/2/2017

 
I have been thinking of
pride lately, how it coils
itself around the Wound, 
becomes intractable as
barbed wire strangling the
excuse of an old fence-tree. 
you are full of it 
dear world, we are all full
of it, and the clouds thicken. 
could be birds, dark birds
or thunderheads 
but I am not afraid
also remembering
what the rain is really for
what the oak does with
lightning, what it is the cracked
earth really wants, 
and I am thinking of surrender,
a prehistoric art.
​

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