Three Days

St. Vincent Basilica, Latrobe, PA

Inconsolable in the aftermath,

Worst become best through invincible will,

And still, and still.

Savoring the Chill

Elegant spareness

of sight and sound

will be missed

when we get what we want.

Breakup

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Room enough

to float in,

expanding by light,

traveling far

in one place.

Trinities

Three kinds of snow

three kinds of clouds from three plateaus

and in between

three kinds of sun.

Air and light and earth

a day of trinities

with water in three phases

all holy.

Shift

Creamy white in my leaving

Blue coming back

Did you feel the day move?

Entering the Woods

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The front rank

stands naked in snowfall

at the back of the field,

flexing their biceps.


I know them,

they admit me.

One More

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One more

d

e

e

p

s

n

o

w

to spread its peace.

Druids

The trees are

calling down

the warmer light

calling up

the living water.

Bow, and wait.

I'm Told

Someone spoke ill of me, I'm told.

When i look up, the clouds are moving in,

And still the sun is shining.

Brain Freeze Burlesque

Up in the night, snowing again,

fixing the fire half asleep,

into the kitchen, on with the spot,

it's become what i expect,

entered my mind, no end in sight,

i guess i should say that's alright.

A Vow in Recalcitrant March

Tomorrow I will start to be happy,

I will put my shapeless days behind me,

Fencing off the past as the slatted fence

Parts shrinking drifts from rutted road.

It is tomorrow i want to look back on.

Today is almost yesterday.

–Gloss on a poem by Dennis O'Driscoll

Keeping At It

Upper Turkeyfoot's Poetry House

So here is another,

a diary of feeling,

even if it's read by no one,

the reflex to record

serving small purpose

beyond integrity of being.

–On the occasion of the 850th post, with lines

adapted from a letter by Frank O'Hara.

Seasonal

It's only afternoon.

There's a lot ahead.

No Weather

The Bends of the Potomac near Paw Paw, WV.

As eager as i am for tomorrow,

I have stopped tracking its forecast,

No Super Doppler Map in Motion,

No predictions of damage and havoc;

I, afterall, a man of Zone Temperate,

And if the weather should surprise me,

I shall greet it as a prodigal son,

This moment being pleasant and long,

This hour being drama enough.

–upon returning from an all-day hike to find neighbors

taking precautions against a coming ice storm,

having been sufficiently warned.

A Man of the West

From the green bare hills i come,

from the high cliffs with the seabirds

turning over the molten sea,

from the rockstrewn coast

and the seaweed fields i come,

from the high up and the low down,

from the bogs of Longford

and the streets of Cork i come,

from the Shannon's castle shadows

where the swans swim singing

i come to walk these greening hills

with an ache for the old home stirred

by the plaintive notes of a pennywhistle

echoing in these woods i hold so dear,

all the more determined to protect

for the lack of them in Ireland.

No Street, No Yardlights

How happy i am

to follow night

around the field,

holding its cape.

–adapted from a poem by Bob Hickok.

Red-wings

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Blackbirds winging in the light of day,

We were only waiting for this moment to arise.

–Signaling the coming end to our white album,
with a bow to Paul McCartney and J.S. Bach.

Old Order

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Snow devils

charge up

the hill.

Robins arrive,

creatures

of cycles,

our duty

to guard.

Horizontal

Snow comes at me sideways

finding the cracks

like grief.

Uncle Winter

Lingers in the mountains

stays awhile like

a divorced uncle

who appears at suppertime

full of praise for each dish

then moves to the livingroom

to watch a little television

in silence. Could winter be

lonely, do you think?

Return

Having returned

To the bare trees swaying

I hear the wind

I hear the flame

I feel the slowing of my heart

In the dripping dark

Young in the old way.

–with a line by Rae Armantrout

Diners

Tell me.

Winter Breaks

Wasp at the window Tai Chiing alive,

Ducks on the pond wild and loud,

Skunk at the seed cans taking its time,

Fog over frost like a shroud,

Morning light enters my mind.

The Hill Again

The hill, the hill again,

You'll know it soon as well as me

And find as I have found it new again

With each communion; as old poets say,

To discover something new again,

Take the path you took yesterday.

The Hill, Its Line

the hill, its line

i know like a lover's face,

each day, companion in this world,

each night, faithful in starlight,

a constant in this life,

and, yes, i long for more.

Radio Off

Headed home in the dark with the radio off,

A projectile of thought in an attacking snow,

Each storm now feeling like the last,

Entering the Month of Mud,

Abandoning for a dozen miles

The coommonplace fears of the tribes,

Dreaming, instead, of planting onions.

Call it a choice.

Americans

and besides,

we have always fought

for the freedom to be

 left alone.

Keeping New

We are still barbarians,

committing every day of our lives

a hundred indecencies and cruelties,

imaginary rulers of our little fiefdoms,

tainted by prejudice and conceit,

unable to see ourselves for what we are,

terrified of what we don't know,

and we know relatively nothing.

But let us be happy in spite of it, maybe even giddy,

taking pleasure in the small acts of living

to make life endurable, and to keep ourselves

new, tender, and quick.

–conflating the thoughts of Elizabeth Bishop and George Herbert.

Red Tide

Sarasota County, Florida

Gulf smell even richer now,

Plankton bloom to blame,

Toxin spewed by breaking waves,

Puffers punctuate the tideline,

The poison poisoned,

Coughing heard from beach to beach

And on the fields of play,

The few who walk the sand

Breathing through a towel.

West Coast

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Day ends with a hiss.

Most of the planet is hidden.

You could change your life.