Uncharted Water

Danger slides in whispers under the bow.
The horizon blends seamlessly with the cold grey ocean.
I search for landmarks
Until my eyes grow weary with the watching.
My craft is tiny and unsuitable, my hands blistered with the task of rowing.
I lift my oar to listen.
Birds perhaps, or just a sounding whale, it makes no difference.
My course is set.
I have determined that any direction is better than none,
even if it leads to perdition.

Dreams (visual per your request)

In dreams I spoke,
and the words flowed so achingly sweet and clear,
that angels waited by my side with their soft mouths open,
their terrifying eyes focused most dreadfully on my face.
I woke from the nightmare with a start, alone.
I spoke, talking to myself,
my voice a pale shadow of that remembered brilliance

And though a million words could not suffice to tell even one from my dream,
clumsy, halting, with all my soul laid bare
the words course on
telling tales from heaven and hell and all the strange lands in between
and all the joys that mortals still can share.

Late November

In the woods where we fled in summer’s heat
Autumn now lies heavy on the land
Not in that crisp, delighted way of first October
Where every leaf wears its brightest dress.
It is a dreary, sodden fall, with only browns and grays
Lining the fields and paths
The mad rush of May that glamored it with veils of softest green
Now fled to shadows.
Ugly things sulk behind the trees
Where once spring elves danced, almost in our sight.

Spring is forgotten, and summer seems a dream that passed
While I struggled to rise from slumber.
I know the winter comes, yet I linger
For in this damp and sullen woods,
The frilly green things of youth that once obscured my vision
Lie trodden and crumpled on the ground.
Exposing the bare bones of the forest.

I think for a moment I perceive some truth concerning all things natural,
Like sky and earth and air, and lives lived and wasted.
But now I wonder,
Was life only about us lying in the green woods,
With no other thought than joy,
And my long hair falling in happy disarray
Across your bare chest.
2001

and to the west lie mountains..

I cannot finish anything.

Too much caffeine maybe

but this has been going on for days.

I’m flying to Seattle Tuesday evening 

to see the view from the balcony.

A visit before my new job starts 

Working from noon to nine in a cube.

Selling my soul to the soulless

Pretending so long, I finally do care

I want to see the mountain, 

cold and distant on the horizon 

with the moon caught in the sky beside 

It will not come to me

 so I go there,

flying across the northern plains 

with the sacred lands of the Dakota 

beneath the silver wings.

Always living before and after is tiresome

But I cannot seem to carpe diem

I dread to return before I go.

August 2005

Conversation with a dead poet

I stood beside the desk reading poetry

Even though it was time to go to bed

And I had no reason except the pleasure

Of hearing how you made love too

Years ago when you were alive

And wondering if it was really that great

Or if you’re just better at saying it than I am

I should count and find out how many of your poems

Are about love and how many are about death.

Neither of us ever talk about much else.

What did not happen

The kiss I did not give you waits impatiently on my lips

and there on my arm

the steel outline of your hand 

reaches out the hundreds of miles between us and holds me fast.

All the words we spoke circle my pillow

as I lie restless in my bed at night 

Longing dripping off my body like a fevered sweat.

Waking

I shuffle the papers on my desk

and hold them up to the light

only to find your name is on them all like a watermark.

No one ever played this game and won

Miss you Dad

I need to go down to the river again

And walk out beyond the shallow waters

To where the sand becomes rock,

Then drops out from under my feet with an intake of breath.

The cold green water 

Will wash over my head

And I will lie back gratefully in the embrace of the familiar.

How many generations of fish have lived and died while I was absent?

Their kin have no remembrance, but will still nibble kisses along my arms and legs.

The ancient sun will laugh, and warm my back until I roll to face him. 

The river does not care, nor the fish, nor the sun.

Perhaps that is where my father waits for me. 

MICHAELANGELO

I held you in my heart like a coin too precious too spend

Unable to forget it was your smile 

That lit his face like sunlight in the western sky.

I lusted after you, yearned for you, bargained with false gods for a word

I knew would never come.

And sometimes for days I did not think of you

Then one night I would dream of your body 

Lying on the unmade bed

Me resting naked in the crook of your arm

My hair flowing as a cloak of silk over your arms and chest

Your fingers tangled in my pain,

 Moving the sorrow another man put there to a safe place

 For those brief moments we shared.

Would this longing exist if he did not?

The answer is unimaginable

Because he is my heart, my soul,

And the kisses from your mouth made into flesh.

Mother

I guess you must have wondered what I wanted

Standing there with the hurt in my eyes,

Then turning my back and walking slowly out the door.

It was so very simple I never could explain.

I wanted you to be non-judgmental

Especially when I was difficult.

I didn’t want to hear why people didn’t like me.

I didn’t want you to ask out loud to yourself

Why I wasn’t as clean, thin, smart, hard-working, etcetera

As some other paragon of virtue you choose.

I had a right to your approval 

and sympathy when life was cruel.

I didn’t need or deserve an endless list of what I should do to improve myself. 

But given all of the above, most of all

why were you so surprised when I was 

judgmental

disapproving

unsympathetic 

and critical

toward you?