into the dark abyss

marin headlands. july 2011.

an updated version of my last poem.
more to vance's style, i think.

When I awaken early

from the pre-dawn light

and reluctantly rise (before the rest),

I look at what surrounds me; 

I lay my eyes against objects simple and profound

and write a poem with my eyes and what they see. 

When backlit clouds prism rays into every shade;

When bare pine branches reach down

to frame sections of sky,

I am reminded that, although
there are no new words to use,
somehow each dawn is yet unthought.

When I awaken to the new day's light upon me,
I follow its caress
on rock and stream and branch;

I exist within a landscape of untouched woodland,
of hidden watersheds deep in the hills.
I face the dawn and shine my joy upon it.

dawn

 

When I awaken early

from the pre-dawn light

and reluctantly rise (before the rest),

I look at what surrounds me; 

I lay my eyes against objects simple and profound

and write a poem with my eyes and what they see. 

When backlit clouds prism rays into every shade of blue and pink and yellow;

When bare pine branches reach down

to frame sections of an astounding, undigestible sky,

I am reminded that, although
this has already been described--there are no new words to use--
somehow each dawn is original and surprising and unthought.

When I awaken early to have the new day's light fall upon me
and am given the chance to follow its caress on rock and stream and branch,
it stokes my burning, crazy love for all that is pure and good in the world.

I exist within the dream and idea of untouched woodland,
of hidden watersheds deep in the hills;
I match the dawn's incandescence with the joy of finding home.

On the First Try

Lake Mead. 2009.

On the First Try

I feel so lonely
and clutching my elbows in
toward my ribs doesn't ease
that (pathetic) tightening in my throat.

A puzzle has sat undone on my table
for two months now,
the figures fleshed out,
the grey-purple sky in pieces.

But they say the sun will shine
this long holiday weekend
and what more can I ask for?
My friends write and call, inquire.

Meanwhile, I want to drift away
into that world of soft yellow knowing
where someone cooks for you,
even when they're tired.

I want to know without asking
and not have to ask to be told
that love is mine for the taking for granted,
the reveling in, the wrapping around me like a blanket.

I know I haven't tried each piece
in each spot, but must I? Each one?
I am greedy for the thrill of selecting a single one
and carefully placing it in its home.

Red and Gray

Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park, UT. 2009.

Red Canyon, UT. 2009.

I have something to say but don't know what to write.

Words are half pictures, pieces that won't fit together

to form the landscape inside.

A lonely, softly rocking sea? Blues and grays toward the long horizon.

A dusty trail, a single set of prints? Scratched legs and no one to kiss them better.

There is a muted screen inside my chest

but no one is watching.

Flickering images, an undecided self.

Where does worth come from?

Who will allow me to feel deserving?

I am scared, and it hurts even to know it.

I knew love, once. I wrote it letters full of my most secret dreams,

and sent them off with doubt and hope.

That was some while ago.

Tonight I took out a postcard and looked at it a long time.

I have something to say but I don't know what to write.

What Is There Left to Harvest?

Camp. 2010.

Grasses, green from brown.
Mushrooms in the forest.
Gooey orange sprouting between pine needles,
shy brown and cream from the rotting log.

Clouds are clearing from the afternoon rain;
Trees are letting go their extra moisture.
Young saplings stretch and toss and bow
in the gusty coming of dark.

This road used to have wagons on it.
Men and women sweat, here, to make something:
old houses, sashes loose, floors releasing down.
Irrelevant fences stand forgotten in the new woods.

Green bark faces north.
Stars shift and roll, unhinged.
Bloated streams scrape the soaked ground up
and carry it forth to the sea.

Naked

The Farm. 2009.

weightless          thoughtless
stillness          touchless
blue  green  clear  silt

wrinkled oak trees above the surface
chlorine sting in the corners of the eyes
my toes, bent with the light

water sneaking past the air in my ear
a gentle stroke on the ankle by an unseen beast
air, waiting, just above

i go down for the quiet
i stay for the water pouring all over my skin, up and down
for the stone colors that never stay when they dry
naked, no matter what i wear
naked, in the water, before myself
naked to my own eyes

In That Soft Morning Glow

Bryce Canyon. 2009.

A poem, which may not be a poem at all:


pale blue blanket
softest yarn
saddest thoughts
hiding under my hair, in my skull

have i thought the ache into my heart?
where would i feel it, otherwise?
the light slowly warms as i sit writing:
metal desk,  metal box playing music, no musicians.

is it being inside, alone, that opens this
drawer of forgotten sadness?
the cool dark night, the bleeding, isolated porch lights,
outside and all around.

i don't remember where this blanket came from.
is it handed down, an heirloom of quiet, vague grief,
or did i make it myself, stitch by careful stitch.
it's finished now. but i can't seem to let go.
perhaps there's a drawer i can put it in.

Nevada Dawn

Middle of Nevada, Route 50. 2009.


A poem, for Sara. Great idea.



When I wake up
with my arms behind my head,
as I am wont to do
of late,
I wonder what relaxing dream has just
dissolved in my mind.
Was I on a beach, hot with sunlight?
Was I in a field, pondering possibilities?
Or was I dreaming of lying in bed, just as I am now,
hazy with sleep, so warm that I feel young and innocent again?

I never know which it is.
My eyes don't tell me;
my brain turns away when I might have read it on her face;
and my heart only ever gives me a warm, indulgent smile.
Only my soul whispers bits to me, when all the others won't notice,
but I am asleep by then.

Bones

The Farm, Santa Rosa, CA. 2009.

I don't have anything to say about this pile of bones, so instead, here's a poem for Raciel.

Pick up you, little girl.
There's the slats of the bed, falling down.
They need righting.
Lay you down on the dark floor
And reach under your slumbering place
To your dust-covered toys,
Your infant clothes saved for wistfulness only.
Pick up you, little girl,
And reach through that rust metal frame.
Latch on to that floating timber,
That pine support for your dreams.

I made a lover's prayer

Mojave. 2009.

A poem, inspired by Gillian Welch's "I made a lover's prayer."


the sharp, sweet ache of loneliness slides into me
it has its own tang
like blood on the tongue

fall is come to wrap me in its arms of early dusk

there isn't anyone else.
not the man that i dream of;
not that man that i hope for.
there isn't anyone else.