Putting the Jar of Grape Juice Back

Putting the Jar of Grape Juice Back

The white sheen of this cap
could be dreams of winter in Chicago
when a walker along Lake Michigan gazes
across the tamed waters in sunlight
that speaks of early dusk.
Its ridged edges could be a memory
of tractor tracks at the childhood farm,
where chickadees sang each morning the same way
since the first day of care.
But when I slide the furrows of its inner casing
into the lines that once held it tight,
it is just a blind act, where the light of a face
from giving and taking is a recollection
for more silent days.

Walking

Walking

This month, I pay the bills late,
writing stories of who I used to be.
It could have been different if I took longer walks,
observing the small changes in the street -
if I had my abandon to cover an entire length
of a street name. I bought new shoes today
for work and thought of traveling weightless -
to leave my habitual bag from my shoulder
and see how my body moves. Maybe tomorrow
I'll finally remember to straighten out my back,
to swing my arms loose like I had been walking for hours -
not wanting to know where my steps will take me.

-----

In the Watch of your Feet

In the Watch of your Feet

I read the life of a monk and wanted to walk
on a market road with lanterns
and speak to the awnings about where I could rest
my voice. I sang above the reach of my eyes
and forgot the street, that people stared with twitched mouth,
pressing their ideas to almost speak. I would rather have a conversation
with a tree, laying against its trunk with my voice
given away to the one who can carry it. I could travel until my self
was forgotten like a child first seeing flowers -
I have been with my self for as long as I am
and I have tired my eyes in my sight -
now I can only travel in the watch of your feet.

The Will (draft)

The Will (draft)

Between the thickets of grass, I sit in my testing chair,
pausing in conversation to relieve my words
from desire - it is the stillness
in me that watches the wind.
My speech wants to move,
clinging to the hand -
when will I walk out
my thoughts with silence?
I had dreamt that going home would be quiet,
hearing the empty steps
of my ambition on a clear road.
The fixtures of the sky told me
to look down to where I stand
and throw my questions to a still wind,
that the stems of grass would not stir.

Here is Where

Here is Where

As fire in fire rests,
I want to create a desert
and hold nothing.
The morsels I carry
dug in the ground
where they remember
their home placed outside
of quietness.

I can not revel in my skin
when my mind aches in separation -
how can I grow toward you
when I do not sing?

There is only persistence:
to follow the sounds
that keep my eyes,
or to watch my steps
into the garden.

My Uncle's Library

My Uncle's Library

Yesterday, I worshipped a book.
Kneeling with weak knees, my eyes interpreted
unread words, speaking as the weight
in my hands. How can I
not open the one who told me to read again and again?
After one sentence, I knew what to say.
In the crevice, I carefully slid it back,
still kneeling, knowing I would be here, again.

Nirakula

Nirakula

There is the view of trees that are worshipped,
changing shade by the turn of leaves -
the birds whose panel of feathers shackle inconsistent
attention -- the watcher feels only for its sight -
the wind storms that pass like a ruffian
through the tall growth, and tempt the mountain peaks
with a burial -- it speaks through the torments of its speech.

From the mountain's flat top, she surveys beneath:
the wind from shifting, the vibration from stepping,
the dissonant echo from separation that would raise the faces
to protection, the frantic inspiration to hold another
in the release of your self - her presence sits awake
without dust, the eyes seeing its reflection.

Mata

Mata

Mercy is with a smile
from a mother that never sleeps -
like the steady beams that climb
through the night road, the motion
of her eyes lift her children.
And down we arise
at her feet, offering our head
on a tray of devotion
that her breath can blow our thoughts like sand
that grudgingly attempts to stick to the wind.

To the Bluff

To the Bluff

In the spring, there is more shade
to drop your head into, to linger and wait.
We praised the sun, rising out of winter
like the birth of a child.

Expanding like muscle, trees lull stems into widening
and the darkness beneath thickens.
The fragrance of a meadow makes your eyes clean
in the shade, turning by the wind.

To the bluff of drop and above,
the waves creasing over its finality,
almost reaching, almost reaching.

The Poem that Saved the World

The Poem that Saved the World

The shape of the letters
light the faces -
their serenity in no other
place than the realm above.

With a word that is water
and no distinction to movement -
the reader’s eyes relish in broken watches,
the sounds of what has been read wisping to the hand that gives.

Even the empty page
has threads of effulgence
that the moon cannot speak
for or against its blinding sight.

Bowing together as a leaf leans towards the sun -
who knows difference in reverence?
To feel contentment, we all sit
to empty our eyes of words, that we may see union in our faces.