F O R G E S

 

There ought better be a beacon

On a pacific coast cliff could be

Where hope’s light works with sea horn

Where here a night light works without warning

It forces & forges the blackest fog & forests

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There can be a candle

in a window with enough heat

to fire the hearth

to light one lone solitary stone room

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”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges

BREATHING EXERCISES

She won’t roll away & not watch me.

Y’see, I won’t  seem to take…

When I dream (or wake),

To take  another breath before

The scene fades, before

Lights go up,

Then down  to more of a zoom.

She waits in our bedroom for me to resume.

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II.

We went to go to a yoga class.

Where a barefooted, hair-pleated group leader;

Beautiful, and calmer than a

Merciful last coma,

She insisted that our  deep breath  is

The gist of all of it  (within, & out).

We rearrange the short & tall of it.

The Gist to change the depth, see,

Of our sea of possibility.

When we inhale

We re-memorize  our own gods.

We exhale our hell.  barefoot.  on a mat.

Whew. To that.

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III.

When I get to go to the Gulf of Mexico

I’ll try out the drink,  1st thing.

I’ll try not to think when I try to let go

&  sink when I  deadman’s float  all day,

Into what I think of as a spiritual drift, in a way.

I’ll hold onto my own  breath,

Face down,

Head down.

(painting,David Hockney)

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(FROM July 1, 2014/  On holiday again/  Later on, my fine blog community et al)

THERE’S FOG

There’s fog.
Then, there’s people landing planes at all hours.
There’s dogs chasing birds
on runways. And one way those people in those towers
can plan to, and see to, land planes is
the guts to go with the guages.
They heartfelt dealt with data,
Trusted all they’d seen
on their farforeign &; onlyman-made monitor screen.
As dogs flushed their fog,
hands hover over lights
and cover their old bets,
their usual action.

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,                                                                            from 2009

presentation appreciation

Swallow

& Tho’ I’m so tightlipped sometime

I’ve often a soft spoken voice

I’ll go take this choice  this time

Pretend what’s set  went off

What followed

Got flat out

Presented

I could concur  then

Consent

My  “Amen”

Impalpable

Neruda’s ” impalpable ash”

Chants away/

In the fray of my own tiny ruins.

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“If I touch/ near the fire/

Impalpable ash..”

Chimes away/

And supports the clearing away  all

Insubstantial,

Makes way to take less blinding steps away

From  cave  to  climax

I’ve come to have left out

Crucial  rescue  tools

From my matutinal

Lost-combination locked bag of tricks.

In touch  information

Out

How Then The Heavens Poured

Should I get older

I recognize me,  more blind,

Crinking my neck back, there, as

I look up at the cliff terrace

And A windowed hideaway behind,

Not so unapproachably high,

Fixed over our Pacific, finally,

That we thought might couldn’t be.

Hard rain, hell, wept down a wet

that mixes well w/regret, on my shirt

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                                                  2

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One can look past all our four shoulders

From inside the glass wall

On the backside of our Adirondacks

And maybe just make out

What we’re watching and talking about.

A man closely following his own footsteps

The long stretch of the shore,

But looked up at the both of us,

Here Hand in hand, and how then the heavens poured.