snow falls in the darkness
drops like the latest style
it’s the night’s whitest isle
till the wind picks up and it all goes
sideways like Marilyn Monroe’s
irrepressible dress
snow falls in the darkness
drops like the latest style
it’s the night’s whitest isle
till the wind picks up and it all goes
sideways like Marilyn Monroe’s
irrepressible dress
You can be anything now, I whisper to the corpse — an approximate truth in the approved manner of motivational speeches. Outside, the obnoxious brightness continues, unmitigated by any warmth, pouring through the naked oaks and birches. The news comes on, replacing the golden oldies with dispatches from a world where unlimited growth is possible, and a violent dying empire can only be a force for good. Grandmother sighs and settles deeper into her mystery.
November sun –
an owl-shaped shadow
opening its eyes
insomnia is a well
as bright as an October moon
i lower my bucket
it comes back with ground fog
day breaks
over eyelashed horizons
the sleep i didn’t get leads me
on through the morning
like the proverbial donkey
following a dangled stone
day passes in the long
intervals between blinks
fallen leaves curled like fetuses
soon bury my tracks
You’ve been courting disaster long enough. Isn’t it time you got hitched? You in a suit of rain, with your lucky feet. She in her thunderwear, the ship that launched a thousand faces as close as the phone vibrating in your pocket.
beach bodies rushing to water a stranded whale
from whiptail: journal of the single-line poem, Issue 10 (June 2014)
Before my salad days, I was sour as cabbage. I grieved as publicly as a mower for its meadow, cried on every occasion—a virtuoso of tears. Except, my mother noted, when she took me to the woods: as the sky filled with leaves, my last tearful gasp for breath drew in the leaf-mould and the silence and I would fall still. Grief may have been my natural habitat, but the forest soon became my strengthening medicine. Before I even learned to talk, I knew that long sighs could mean happiness among the pines, and that time passes differently in a sunlit glade. And long after I grew out of my bluest period, the forest continued to be a refuge from my own self-centeredness, a place where I could practice being human.
leaping rock to rock the children I never had
from Woodrat Photohaiku, 12 October 2024
at the heart of a hike
another cup of tea
where a tree frog plays
his solitary gambit
everything drips except the hawk
dropping in after squirrels
through one hole in the canopy
and vanishing through another
at the beginning of autumn
my desire is still green
for the plushness of moss
the luster of rhododendron
and the brownish green
of newly grounded acorns
but what do you hear
above the din in your head
traffic and the rainy forest
their unknowing duet
how an acorn rolling past me has
a different knock for every rock
and raindrops seem more discriminate
when they fall from trees
their patter is a language
known to salamanders
and what do you see
when you put the scroll to sleep
fog envelopes us
and turns the light green
i open my umbrella
like a tattered black flower
the holes in its sky
let the darkness out
and what do you feel
when the craving ends
my lungs go on tirelessly
processing clouds
The section of the woods I call the moss garden was full of death angels today. The camera in my phone doesn’t quite know what to do with them, too deathly pale against the rain-darkened moss — they throw the white balance completely off.
I pass a porcupine just as she’s emerging from her door at the base of an oak. She must’ve heard me coming — her bristles are up. I stop and say Hi in a friendly voice. She gazes back, her beady eyes unreadable, retreating into the tree as I continue past.
I used to say that the porcupine was my totem animal but I don’t make that joke anymore. I let the boutique left convince me that this represented a heinous appropriation of indigenous culture. It’s true that more than once in my life porcupines have appeared like omens or indeed guides precisely when I most needed them. But I am not enough of a narcissist to believe they actually bother about me at all. Occam’s Razor suggests instead that they are simply wild creatures going about their lives, which randomly intersect with our own.
Which is part of the attraction, of course. The ideal guide would ignore me altogether! How dreary to be somebody, as one of my dead role models once said. I just want to vanish like a needle into the world’s haystack.
I should add somewhat parenthetically though that as a poet, one gets used to ascribing meaning to events in nature in a largely playful way, which preserves the autonomy of its actors apart from our narrative webs. This is the power of the lyric mode to elevate meaning without abstracting it from all context in the ummwelt. It’s why I believe everyone should practice poetry. It softens the hard lines between things. Its highest truths always take the form of a paradox.
For twenty minutes after the rain stops, the tree I’m sitting against keeps dripping on my boot. Arching my neck back, I can watch the drop gathering to fall, then feel it on my toes two seconds later: the sort of simple, synesthetic pleasure money can’t buy.
The same tree is dropping acorns, and that too is a pleasure: the minor thrill each time of having been passed over by the angel of hard knocks. Until I’m not, and a lump sprouts atop my head like a lizard’s third eye. I’ll open it every full moon.
from fact to faction
a gathering of teeth
the jaw with its standing stones
like a henge on hinges
offerings of food reduced
to a few hard words
for a songless tongue
is heavier than the devil
and unkissed lips miss
that lipstickiness
glossy as sunlit moss
scarlet as a cardinal flower
on the opposite bank of a creek
choked with rhododendron
and you lose shoes and socks
wade into the cold current
and later when you’re stumped
by a freshly cut ring of wood
where a hollow white oak
has gone missing
you recall all you’ve learned
in watercourses
step inside that chalk outline
and channel a storm
reblogged from Woodrat photohaiku
trail
turning dappled salamander
tail
curl
of an ache an oak
burl
one watery
eye between them
conjoined oaks
the shine of white-
haired youth
tussock moth
winding
up here
wild grapevine
ravished
by the wind
mother oak
prismatic glints from a spiderweb
catching the sun
as it moves through the forest
on slow stilts
ignoring the trail
an old colliers’ road
now a deep wrinkle
through the rocks
I rest against
an enormous hemlock
and study its dead companion
scarred by woodpeckers
like a mask with a few
too many eyeholes
I take off my shoes
press my bare feet to sand
from a 410 million-year-old shore
turned to stone
distant gunshots
punctuate the silence
there’s no view at the summit
of Greenlee Mountain in the summer
only the rock oaks’
interpretive dance
moving shadows
on a slab of quartzite
a hooded warbler teaching
its young how to sing
***
Rothrock State Forest
July 26, 2024