No Room In These Wings For That

822EBBBA-930D-4F97-89E6-C8C64E940A6DThey say as long as it’s not
a poem about Nature
or god forbid,
Love

Whether in its burning purity
Or complex demands

So don’t expect nightingales here
I’ve turned all my warblers into ravens

and put in an order for dread
and the heavy metals of a world bent on celebrating gross things

and thrusting swords at all
the Others
it thinks lives out THERE

But it boomerangs back as a dark bird singing sonnets

Summing up the kerneled heart
inside the fist

I climb down the tree
watered with freedom
seeding uncompromising truths in the shade

Shaking out eternities of tunes
from the raven-lit branches

The opposite of love
isn’t hate
but indifference, it says
and there’s no room in these wings for that

That skunk of a Raven squawks something about how
every tune is a love poem
even the damned curses

Every word a wild word
and challenges me to defy him

How can I argue with someone like that?

SO YOU WANNA KNOW

4E2020E1-B88B-47BD-9D98-A3EF83AA7215So you wanna know
how these things happen—
All the Whys and Whatfors?

When even now the raven rips up
a plastic tie inside my rusted chest, left in the rain for weeks

or how the cracked wind and long lost fingers of the sun compete for the attention of my skin, thin
as thick as ego

Or some word that describes a part of the bark of me that says
I’m guilty it’s true

And I don’t pretend to hide it
any more, any more than
the wind can cloak its scents, the raven his croaked curiosity

But guilt isn’t what it used to be
and the bright green how of it hides behind his eyes
if it exists at all.

FORGET ALL GLAMOUR

5D94675F-E7F9-4A25-8559-350720BCCFD2If you begin each chapter
with ‘And the moon comes
and the moon goes’

You, who climb horizons
even with stiff joints will find

It’s always a new world
As it’s always the old one

The responsibilities lay
in the soil now
and with the webbed ones
caught in fear

and through the new doorways
which you pass
You’ll pick up pieces left
in a foreign land so long ago

Put them in your wide-brim hat
and home in on your belonging

Become an obsessionate one
like a convict who loves his fate

Tie those dreamland suns
around your dirty girth
Fill your grotto with flocks of fire
for all of hunger’s cousins

Forget all glamour
not worrying about who
is pulling who

It is enough to receive Time’s wounds
and blessings
and breathe like an ocean

So, yes, let each chapter begin— ‘And the moon comes
and the moon goes’

And bear witness to the season
like a winter raven

That Skunk of a Raven

6391c0ca-5bbf-4cd5-bbe6-a26bdc66c124They say as long as it’s not a poem about Nature or god forbid,
Love

Whether in its burning purity
Or complex unrequisitions

So don’t expect nightingales here
I’ve turned all my warblers to ravens
and put in an order for dread
or the heavy metals of a world bent on celebrating gross and dark red things
and punching at all the Others
it thinks lives out THERE

But it boomerangs back as a dark bird singing sonnets
summing up the kerneled heart
inside the fist

I climb down the tree
watered with freedom
seeding its uncompromising truths in the shade
shaking out eternities of tunes
from the raven-lit branches

The opposite of love isn’t hate
but indifference, it says
and there’s no room in these wings for that

That skunk of a Raven squawks something
about how every tune is a love poem
even the damned curses

Every word a wild word
and challenges me to defy him

How can I argue with someone like that?

Down to the Skin at Last

F6493E87-7B38-4127-83EB-519B4997775BSplash of red, bring me a tortoise head.

Open the blessed spiral once again
and spread unguaged, unmeasured.

Weeds need not outgrow me yet.

The light with sweetness conquer
The dark, with song.

You can’t catch raven,
so join his club.

Not all your preposterous belongings
need a witness
but all need watering–Drink!

Holy, you there, the stone in you
inclined and breathing out the sighs unsized–
mark this moment, it heeds you well, saying:

Begin with wind, end with the sea.

Down to the skin at last.

At What We’ve Done

raven3What sign has been flung
when even ravens
hold their tongue?

Left their pranks in trees to hang
and even wolves have lost their fang?

What tumult has begun
when all the warnings have been rung
when spring has sprung
and all the bees have been stung
when every alarm’s already sung?

Even the stones stand stunned
at what we’ve done.

At what we’ve done.