Being at home in a crowd

She was slower than the others
Pushing her a little cart in the streams of endless people 
With their cones of gelato and running shoes

I heard the old lady humming as I shouldered by 
Her sing-song tune barely rising above the hundreds of footfalls at once stepping on the slabs of stone
A bridge she has walked hundreds of times

Just then, I saw the rippling water
And finally, the girl clutching her mother and whispering into her shoulder with tears in her eyes
I remembered then that this is Venice

Hello Grace

You found your way to me 
On the island of Mezzorbo on that grassy green
Between my daughter, my husband and a pine cone

You were the 4-leaf clover
Like the ones you sent me pressed into the paper cards
    and your script black ink words
“Joanna”

Of anything I may have inherited from you
It was your propensity to discover
Amid the clovers and blades of grass
That Calhoun good luck charm

I saw you today
Hello, Grace
( grandma )

Hello Grace To Joanna, in Venice on vacation with family.

Untitled at Bell Rock

After hours of walking
The force of spring so strong 
Blows open the doors of my heart
To let the fresh air in 

It was the fragrance from the field of flowers
Flowing to me on a breeze
That made me think of you

Unless you let it go
May holding give you ground
In an otherwise empty space

For me, endless tiny white blossoms
Dancing, brings me to my knees 

Poems of Longing

I. 

Anger: what do you want me to hear?
I am fuel: use me or I will consume you

How do I use you?
Ask yourself

Why are you here?
I am your essence: Fire
Expand, or like a candle in a box
You will die

II.

How far must one travel 
From fearing my journals
Left out in the open
Might become your food?

I have nothing to fear:
Lacking hunger for my thoughts
You will not read them

In an unfair leap
My conclusion lands thus
On both feet
III.

The rocks on which we crash and shatter
Continually refresh themselves 

IV.

I spent a lifetime studying
And for what

I've forgotten and now 
Can't sit still

We all know what happens in the end

Enlightenment

One tree-sitting man, all upright spine sprung into the air as the back of a chair standing at attention to the table, all folded-knees under the generous canvas of robes, all chest spread for the exertion of eternal Motionlessness

One hand a lotus its petals a closed paddle of fingers overlapping leaves layer over layer, lines of fingers cupping the world in his palm

One hand the setting for a single ring, an agreement between thumb and forefinger pointed towards the sun

One ring against his forehead funneling an image trapped in the back chamber of his mind, a thought wandering as a stray child, as a movie playing in an empty theater

One tree shades sitting man, an umbrella, an arena

One tree green speech holding forth of leaves a trumpet to nature, a plethora of no- words filling the man’s ear

One tree seated for man, a throne, a twine of roots keeping the earth steady

One image, one thought of his life, his woman, conjures to his placidity, to his peace the sickening ghost of separation. Vital-full love, his blood Remembers her smile as the birth of bitterest pain

To one image, he prays his body could be greater, that the spinning night would unfold into him like a napkin spilling out its contents, this one man falls into the vision of hips undulating like the movement of water, dancing over a tidal wave kept to her time across the miles of water, water

One man’s heart breaks his vow of silence when it goes wa-bum, wa-bum

One man prays to survive for one year off of the air and sun and the dreams of his Love under this tree, and failing that, prays the human dream of death to catch the glint of metal flashing the sun, to die for a moment in ecstasy, to be lifted from this ragged frame and taken in as a single breath into her graceful form, living there forever as her nourishment and her inspiration

Thus, one man prays to become great and one tree bent as a caretaker of man’s destiny eases its cradle of branches to nurture its lock on man’s long contemplation

One tree, arms and head lowing, shepherds man back in toward the sound of nothing, nothing

Sick (Get Well)

Ever have one of those nights in sickness
A torment of monsters
Dancing their agony to you while you sleep?

You can't really call it sleep so much as a project 
In which you have no choice 
Nowhere else to go
But strapped to this bed with your mind glued open to a 100 cut scenes of
 the movies of your past

This constant highway of undead familiars steal from you
Minute by minute as 10:30 turns into 10:31
And 2:10 feels like when am I going to get some sleep please dear God
Wistful for last nights' pastel rolling scape where the soul rested in
  deep unknowing

And when morning finally comes to greet you
Among the shards of rest
You can feel your senses again
A small hole of reality in the pine against the sky

Writer

From Creative Commons

For over a year, I have sat down to write and this phrase came to mind. I was a faucet with no running water.

I have nothing to say 
That is the fear of a writer
The voice of shame
Convincing me of its darkness

Pleading with me to break into the pain of its secret, which is this:
What is most broken
(The very axis of inaction) 
Is the same as a lost sun aching for its sky

Obey the law of nature
And write because
From within the crack rises
The impossible light of the world