Poem

It is the rhyme
and of course ... the rhythm
bow down to 'em
break words to make time
to the form we pray
and the meaning within
this too we trim

The muse physical

write something she says

but just like happiness

the approach must be indirect

like the blind spot upon your nose

inspiration can only be seen

when you look elsewhere

They Took Everything Except One Odd Thing

Singly focused on one thought filling the mind
an instinctual rage that the camp was attacked
the outsider crossed from them into us.
I'm driven by a need to attack only barely aware of what I don't know.

They had said you have been robbed.
No, they said, sorry to hear about it
and I knew not about what
pointed in a direction, I spit nails
     pounded them into the ground
           with each step.

Only after the police left
did my mind empty.
After being so full of just one thought
my mind was blank
I wandered aimlessly around the crime scene, my apartment.

If it was worth taking it was gone.
I wasn't even staring at the empty spots
or filling the incomplete list of what was gone, what was missing,
just wandering like the way you enter a room with purpose and then forget what it was
searching for what was missing from me
what had been but was now an emptiness.
Truth be told in this modern age
they took everything except one odd thing:
my desire for things material -- objects that do not fill the loneliness of emptiness inside
would that I could leave the chain off
leave the door unlatched on the place
where my desire to consume is housed.

The Little Things

Some days
I miss tying shoelaces
much more
than wearing shoes.

But if I had shoes big enough for me to fill
my skin is so hard
I'd wear the insides down to the sole
not the other way round.

Never mind that my fingers
as dexterous as cucumbers
could never tie laces.
The four of us forget the little things.

Like writing.
I'm a scientist with a PhD
yet I hold a pen
buried in the middle of a fist.

Only metal pens
everything else snaps
even the strongest things
break sometimes under pressure.

Saving the world
has become normal
fitting into the world
is too fantastic a feat.

-- The Thing
    Four Freedoms Plaza

How a Cloud Forms

A knot of dew mounts
her blade, plants a clammy kiss.
The jerk cuts her off.
-- Beth Bentley, Don't (Haiku 1)

Why do you do what you dew?
Sweet life to flowers
the misty gateway of morning

In our joints, our veins, our hearts
what cycles in the seasons
in all things that flow

"water of life"
"is" not "of"

So it is to you dear water
I write now and warn you
that I'm telling every poet I know:
when the words do not flow
it is you that is to blame.

the invisible worm (oh rose)

left alone on the platform
terrified the words will not arrive
I know what I've always known
it's not like that
... wait ... patiently
for the train that keeps no schedule

Irene

Shadows relate choreography on the window shade as trees dance in the wind
I'm reminded of the muppets when I was five
on a black screen long dancing yellow and orange creatures sang
they were just part of the show but despite knowing they were good
(and I should not be scared)
something in the shape of it
something in their long rope thin bodies
something in their movement foretold
of a reason to worry

Iowa Waters

There were floods the summer I went to Iowa
though the worst was over, the street lakes had not receded
but there was a path not yet chosen to the University
a detour sign here and there and
I had arrived
at the admission office

I was sat down and I heard, but could not listen
details of the creative writing program said to be the best
this next path was not marked
I just saw a road I could have gone down:

a downward grade to the river's water
waves danced in the lanes -- almost tidal
it seemed obviously not the way to go
but I thought: how I love the water

maybe I needed to learn to swim
or maybe they told me to wait
the waters will recede in time
but I knew then with certainty
I had no fear of drowning.


11 nov 2009
21 aug 2011

The Last Sabbath

The day the entire world observed the Sabbath was like a normal day. For years it had been known that the time was at hand. Everyone was of the same faith and on some level we all knew the truth of it. Many organized events were held but there was always an obstinate teen, an emergency, or a bitter mourner who pushed the time off for another day. And truly what a small thing it was weighed against the full history of humanity. What was one more week weighed against the centuries?

But on the day that time ended there was no organized event -- it lacked pomp and circumstance -- any more than is typical in the observance. We had no special plans, no motive in the day other than rest, reflection, and reverence. As night fell so too did time and history.

And the peace that befell us was in our hearts and we slowly realized without any fear or surprise that this was the moment. We saw that peace was born into us when we were born into the world and when we let go of the world and held to that, the world slipped away like smoke.

architecture

There are the corners of the cornice
(the buildings ornamental edge)
reaching up and bending
to hold the sky up

There's the fermented wheat of rye in the glass
Chemistry in a cup, spirits to bend my spirits

There's me, there's you, and the smile when I say so
and despite the noise, a melody comes through

And I wish I could stand like the building
but I know I would crumble for my heart

I am responsible
for what I've said I would do
what I've not
pictures taken
cornice creation
on the fringe
to hold up the sky

cycles

Thus when the moon circles you, you shall call it a month
and when you circle the sun, you shall call it a year
Night will cycle often, but around light it is rare
this you shall remember:
you will see much little-evil in the short cycle
and you shall see some little-good
but the great-good is a grand cycle
You will not have perspective
until the circumference is known.

Dragonfly Wings

The dragonfly's wings
are like feathers of ink
bleeding across the paper.
The body a single stroke
ending in a drop.
But most amazing is this:
flight is possible
on wings so delicate

in the medium

The pigeons swirl
They are summer's autumn leaves
rising and falling in arcs
They bank to a building
grab little footholds
then fly off singing
where to? where to?
each following more than leading
Their rise and fall is a marvel
a stream on the tide
that unknowingly we walk through every day

Reptiles in the Mind

This is the short line that grows.
Remember when you met her? Good. Such memories we call nostalgic because with time we can polish them like brass handrails. What was once corroded green, shimmers in bright flame. With time it is always so. The truth is in the instruction not the execution. The truth is in the verb, the action, the movement. How can the evasive live in stasis? Trust that which does not lie still. Push pen across paper until truth will out on it.

untitled poem

The rain falls
pitter pat, pitter pat
the flowers bend
to sleep against the arbor
pinks and reds; petals
piter pat, pitter, pat
they lean against the arbor.

Tomorrow they'll ascend.
What it is to bloom
to gently explode
to unfold

Unfurled, no longer green
or compact or warm or safe
Do they know of what they were?
Full of possibility
and small
like raindrops

pitter pat

pitter pat

pitter pat

I need this far more than you

I want to ask if it is good,
have I written one true thing
But where am I to take my words
when distinguishing drivel
is a solitary endeavor

The lies are always on the page
but they must be honest in revealing truth
and it must be new, but not for me, for you

and this last thing,
it must be mine
though we stand on shoulders
when we do so we climb to seclusion
and I must be at peace
with who I find there

background music

Listen to the crackle of the record revolving
We perfect the reproduction
But there is only
the musty smell of ash on your sweater
You were there in the autumn forest
and here is a reminder
of only
a single tree

crumbs

"Paradise Lost" is not (C) Bill Rood

trains

i think often that i love trains
but i forget
the love was not my own
just as America was not theirs

my love of trains
comes from a college class
mate who told me stories
of history
how the auto won
beat the train
with its dependency on something stable
such a mistake
to need tracks

but i forget
the love was not my own


Date: April 8, 2005 1:52:25 PM EDT

What brought you back to spirituality?

guess you could say i read about it
i was reading lots of things in college
but really i don't know
slowly it slipped in
i let my guard down
left my mind open
and my heart expanded

Date: July 5, 2005 3:58:47 PM EDT