Friday, December 12, 2014

8 poems for the dead


it is far too early
in the cycle of the year
for the sunny air to carry
the scent of basil

and yet it does

the garden beds and boxes need
a healthy dose of water
every other day
when rain should be performing
the routine of our work

i am not ready
for the fullness of the orchard
for the ripeness

the overcoats and sweaters
have just been stored
and the rugs still need to be rolled

yes there is much to do
before the greens are gathered
before the fruit is picked
and i am alone

but who can control the weather?

it is far too early in the cycle of the year
for the starry air to carry
the scent of jasmine
and yet it does

and i am unprepared
so unprepared
for the harvest

if the figs ripen early
they will finish early

and the winter will be long



we were friends on the bus
before bodies were a thought

just the cuddling smoke of two spirits

and we will be again

so if today
you in your painted shoes
and i in my tattered shirt

do not sit together on the bench

the bus will make another stop
and another

until we finish our homework
and pull the cord

exiting like lovers
hand in wispy hand
to the grand street park
to play



in the opinion of others
you were the bad boy
i was the good boy

but we knew better

unlikely friends
the scrappy athlete
the bookish outsider
bound by the fierceness
of truth
uncommon
in high school
or life

i did mental work for you
you did physical work for me
if i say more
we could both be
suspended

even now

i hold stories
of loyalties
the thirtyfifth year
cannot loose

yet still i fumble
with the memories

old school lockers
require
a secret combination
to gain entrance
from the public corridor
but a note
scrawled
on a torn corner of paper
without regard
for ruled lines
can be slipped
through a chink
in the locked door

and nobody
would be the wiser

especially me

brian
do you know
i wrote a book



i traveled
to new york and paris

i grew up

?



for brian st hilare
st augustine beach florida
the first day of sagitarius 2014



i did not share a story
the day
the stories were shared

i did not offer a memory
from the vault
of my heart
the day
the ceremony of memories
was offered

it was me who was silent
as a box
silent as a hole
in the ground
silent as a stone
marking the site
singing the praises
of god

some stories are written
solely
for the characters

some memories are wordless
cannot be spoken

some events
transpire
only in shadow
only in moonlight
only in the quiet hours
before dawn
and lose their life
in the light
of day

if i do not speak
of sharing
a brown bag of cherries
in the field
behind the birch trees

i will share
those cherries
with you
long beyond the sunrise



the hippo ballet begins at seven

house guests foraging breakfast
long before i would consider rising

yes i need to be tempted
to roll back the stone of sleep
and leave the linens piled

but coffee and bacon
will not suffice

and today
there was no election of kindness

some mornings come earlier than others
some evenings too

nightfall dropping suddenly
in the street
at the hand of local sheriffs
with schoolchildren to witness

my own nightfall approaches slowly
teasing
and i have time to prepare my bed
i think

but how much of morning and evening
can be controlled?

for the moment
i cherish the disturbance
of my little sleep

and am grateful to be boiling oatmeal
so early



for oscar ramirez
paramount california
election day, 2014


in reality
it is sand
coarse white sand
like common seashells
ground down
by the ocean of time

we take this sand
you and i
the shell of him
as we walk
along the rim of the sea

and broadcast shards
like stars across the sky

a last gesture
at the wet edge
of this world

that ocean reaches
each of us
in time
erases the distinct sparkle
from the beige and the gray

as it always will

the waves reach and recede
and repeat
with a tremulous music
beneath the constant sky

where the fire of the sun
even covered
by cloud or shroud
or the body
of the sullen moon

still burns



for steve sanford
summer solstice 2014
aptos california



i thought it  would be
like white feathers
floating on a stilled breath
of air

but it is not
is not light

the weight of the world
is real
ly all that remains

when the light leaves
the lightness leaves

and the weight
waits
here

yes it is sand really

sand to scatter
on sand

shell
to scatter among shells

shards of him
spread far and wide
by the shards of us

it is what remains
broadcasting
what remains

yes you know this
from another
poem

but saying it again
is medicine
to a point

and walking on the beach
can teach
what books cannot

because walking is all that is left

o dear
do not let this become
another poem
about footprints in the sand



will you write
a poem for me?

will you stay
the rainclouds on the hill
stay the rain itself
and write a poem
for me?

will you hold
the door
hold the home
open
where humble afternoons
reside
where quick hello-goodbyes
have time
and write a poem for me?

i will linger on
the front porch
or the back porch
a breath of
jasmine or basil
betraying my secret
self

the rocked becomes
the rocker
the rocker
becomes the rocked

and when the day is done
with just a sweater
lightly slung across your shoulders

when the circle of
the year
finally finds an end

will you find a song
among the silly and the wrong

and write
a poem for me?