I am standing in the rain,
Just standing here, looking into the grey air,
Getting wet.
The sky is raining down all that is worst in our nature
As if these things had always been with us,
In threatening clouds above us,
Waiting for some thundering rage to let loose.
Soaked to the bone,
I pray for forgiveness for not looking up into
that coiled storm we knew must break.
It is not too late to build sandbag dams,
Or perhaps I’ll stand in the rain
Until I am swept away.
Who’s that knocking, knocking at our door?
Their cloths are tattered, their eyes too big;
They smell of dregs and speak in tongues.
Like trolls, they sleep under bridges,
Demanding a token from each passerby.
Cover your ears, they have a banshee wail,
loud devil music, and cry long into the night.
Like Hungry Ghosts, they feed on crumbs.
Go lock the cupboard, we can’t feed them all.
They creep alone at night in silent deserts,
Springing up where you least expect them.
One might marry your niece;
Our blood and their blood might mingle
destroying us all.
….
Knocking, knocking, knocking.
….
Who is that knocking, knocking at our door?
White birch bark is curling on one of the south windowsills.
It is a silvery grey, actually, with black smudges.
My wife collects these wide silver strips from the forest floor,
Gathers them gently and places them on windowsills.
She wanders in the wood with our black dog,
pausing to assemble tiny people from twigs and moss, acorn caps and
bits of Play Dough from her pocket.
The little people are all different yet clearly know one another.
She carefully arranges them in knotholes, peeking from under roots, on forks of branches.
A most alert hiker may catch a glimpse of one.
She comes home with yet more birch bark to curl in the sun.
Tonight she says, “It’s almost winter. They will soon need little houses.”
She gathers the birch from all the windowsills and sits back to examine the silvery bark.
She stands the curls up, lies them down, puts one on top of the other.
She draws tiny windows with Magic Marker.
She smiles. “A little work and these will do nicely.”
Spring Tanka
The first seeds planted
Settle in a cold wet ground
A bit too early in spring.
The seeds and the gardener
Place bets against another frost.
….
The first seeds planted
Settle in a cold wet ground
A bit too early in spring
The seeds and the gardener
Are dusted with cool faint rain.
….
The first seeds planted
Settle in a cold wet ground
A bit too early in spring
Jewelweed and gardener
Both species of impatiens.
….
autumn cold –
watching a coup
slowly melt
Some monk somewhere made slow delicious love to each letter,
holding each word close to his hand, his face, his heart.
Was it the sound of the letter that revealed its intricate shape?
Slowly, after listening and sleeping and waiting for it to speak?
Or did the sound of the whole word open the canvas before him?
The pen was carefully crafted, the nib stroked and stroked again.
The ink was pounded into being,
then left in long curling trails to slowly dry on calfskin.
With these he created creatures which will never be seen elsewhere.
They spin and devour and tangle and do not rest.
But one look at the deer, or the winged ox, the endless dragon, the knotted lion, or the birds, oh the birds,
One look and this creature nests in your mind,
appears in your dream,
or out of the corner of your eye
when you need it close.
Haiku instructions:
Optional: write a few phrases.
Suggestions for opportunities to write haiku:
How to judge haiku:
Thus did haiku save my soul.
A burning sun
slowly going down to drown –
Mogami River
One feather of sunlight
settles on the icy lake
gently gently
.
Spring passes
and the birds cry out – tears
in the eyes of fishes
Where summer walked
oaks stand naked over
crusted rivulets
Theft
The United States is a misnomer
The Destroyed States of the Americas has an honest, forthright, sound.
Countries steal other countries all the time.
England stole my ancestors’ country.
But I don’t live in other countries, I live here,
On the rubble of a civilization so advanced
That Europeans could not even see it.
Here where I live:
Their names: Nipmuc, Mohawk, Nonotuck, Norwottuck, and
Deadly battles with English names: Turners Falls, Springfield, Deerfield, Hatfield.
Out west today, the meager leavings of their land have money-making dirt.
So out they go.
Theft.
A Poet's Indulgence 