Lines

They separate.
They tell us which side.
They are invisible.
They are not real.
They are illusory connections between this point and that.

This point you are.
This point I am.
This line is between us.
This leftness is leftness when you turn from me.
This leftness is rightness when you turn to me.

There is a point to your left.
There is a point to your not-so-left.
There is a point before you and behind you.
There are infinite points.
There are infinite lines.

Polaris will not move.
The Dipper dances around it.
Find me in that space
As we spin dervishly through eternity,
Looking for something to fix upon.

Sometimes It Takes a Goal of Eight

I'll begin here with T. S. Eliot,
And I will contemplate the situation,
Noting that the interference of a sneeze
Was a moment wasted of concentration,
A centering,
Reminding me that to concentrate
Is to not concentrate,
But to hear instead the undulating whizzing of faraway cicadas
Beneath the twitterchips of songbirds
That slice the sky,
Unbothered less by division of hours
Than they are by me.

Here's another confusing interruption:
My death,
Which comes upon me as a sneeze,
A centering,
Reminding me that to concentrate
Is to not concentrate,
But to hear instead,
The breathing of air through my nostrils,
The rise and fall of my belly,
The black starling hacking at me,
Cockeyed in the red maple tree
Where my treehouse once lofted above my childhood sandbox.

And itch from mosquito bite,
Cold vapor in cumulous clouds
A thousand feet above me,
Down here, near the grass is more humid,
And welcoming for situation of blood and proboscis
Than in the bowels of Kilauea
Or at the bottom of Mariana Trench
Where the strange creatures dwell unseen,
Like they do, too, in the cold damp caves
Beneath the grass
As they have for ten thousands of years.

Oye! Oye! The court is in session!
We will make sense of these words!
We will have confession!
We will know as it is!
We will see the bottom!
We will declare what is!
With sound uttered!
With speaking and declaring!
So help us, God!
So help us, Goblin Shark!
So help us, Long-Haired Yak!

The lawn mower also makes a sound,
Without intention,
Or perhaps with.
How could I know?
There is a trampoline in front of me where my daughters sometimes jump.
They push against it, and it pushes back against them.
Every time!
Is this a will?
Is this intentional?
It is tensional.
These are the same roots that dig deeper than the redwood tree.

Uck! Put it off!
These poems about language are tiresome.
Write about blue eyes instead.
Write about the smell of perfume.
Write about something to make the ladies feel good about themselves instead.
These are more interesting things.
Your words are tiresome.
Taco.
Limerick.
Doodle Dandees. Fur and Minecraft.
(Study hard this stanza! There is meaning within!)
Guilty!

Seven. Wordsworth.
Yes, the girl is dead.
We began with those sentiments.
Let's move on.
There are other studies.
There is also not death.
There is also bratwurst and honeysuckle.
There is also sunshine and freckle.
But yes, yes . . .
Death is something to think about from time to time.
How to think about it without words, though?
You must first learn about echolalia.

Put this here.
Put that there.
A tree grows in a garden.
It creates a space.
The mind orders it.
Here is a bird.
There is a bird.
One sings.
Two sing.
An egg is laid in a nest,
And the song continues.
There is no tomorrow.

Jesus Was Never Jesus

What happens
When Jesus is not Jesus?
What effect
When the cross is not borne for me?
What result
When I am crucified for my own sins?
What, Jesus?
When will you die for me?

Love Song for Mr. & Mrs. Atkins

Between two rooms stands a wall, and a door
That opens to allow something to pass
From one side to the other when it must,
And closes when something must be shut out.
The work is labored by the simple hinge,
Unnoticed until under weight and use
Begins to loosen from the force it feels,
And squeaking hinge is blamed for unclosed door.
But hinge is not the hinge without the screw
That fastens polished brass to solid oak,
And will not let the hinge fall from its place.
Sharp and long, she digs her fingers down
To keep the hinge from failing in its use.
Screw it tightly, hold it into wood.

Summer

It is the last day of spring
As I lay beside this lake.
Three clouds drift like frayed cotton balls
Over trees on the distant shore,
While children ply the waves on skis,
Holding fiercely to ropes pulled by speedboats
That rustle up the water and send it hurtling toward me
In splash and glurp and plunk
Against the dirt shoreline where I sit
With ants and mosquitoes
In the dying light of afternoon.
I move now into the summer,
Leaving behind the planting season
That burrowed me into the soil where I took nourishment and water,
There growing through rock and clay to rise up from the ground
Where stink bugs crawl among aphids
Across scanty grasses and flat weeds that cover the soil.
I rise up now to face the sun,
In full, unflinching oppressive heat of summer
To feel its warmth and take life from it,
Feeding myself,
Storing life from its rays in my strong, hard bones,
To stand tall and bring shelter to those who lay here beneath my shadow
And rest upon my roots
That curve downward into earth like a solid recliner
Into whose lap they may find rest,
Who sleep beneath me in my hard embrace,
As I grow food for autumn,
Thinking not of winter so soon.

Solstice Beneath Waning Gibbous

Tonight my first-born niece will begin her twenty-second year of life.
Tomorrow my brother will begin his forty-first.
Today I will continue from thirty-seven onward,
And none of us will cease.

Memory

I can't remember everything,
Just everything that I love,
Which is why I remember everything
About you.

I can't remember anything
That I knew before I first laid my eyes upon you,
Except for everything I saw
That filled my heart with love.

I won't remember anything
From this day forward to eternity,
Without remembering you as well,
My love.

I will remember everything
From this day forward to eternity,
So long as you stand before me
To remind.

June

At midnight in June,
Two days before the summer solstice,
In a damp creek bottom that winds
Through a twenty-acre wood,
Surrounded by tilled fields in which grow
Knee high corn and ankle deep beans,
As crickets chirp and oil pumps chug and chump
In rhythm of modern voodoo music
That fills the nighttime air with counterpoint to silence,
Lightning bugs dance among the treetops
In splendid celebration of love and loneliness,
Calling out to each other in luminescence
Of yellow-green flash of discreteness,
Being in moment, here, now,
An opportunity to continue the spectacle
Of love and dance and continuation
Beneath the stars in a cloudless sky
That continue, too, to sparkle for a moment,
A billion billion solstices
Dazzling infinitely forward in time and space,
While red Mars sinks into darkness of light,
Melting into the pale black horizon of earth,
As I stand, facing westward,
Big Dipper, circling Polaris,
Declaring the futility
Of impersistence.

A Heavy Curriculum

For in much wisdom is much grief:

and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. 

Ecclesiastes 1:18

I often ask myself what would have happened to me
If when my Sunday School teacher encouraged my class
To ask God for a gift,
I had not asked for wisdom.

Instead, let me have asked for favor.
Or let me have asked for peace.
Wisdom is a heavy burden,
That should never be pursued.

The wise man knows why to avoid the tiger.
The wise man knows why pain is good for the soul.
The wise man knows why every choice he has made
Has been the wrong one.

It is better to ask for love, and never to understand why.
Or let me have asked for nothing.

The Good Shepherd

A Sestina

Beyond the field there lay a little lamb,
Who'd stumbled as she walked a path of stone.
And lay her body down beside a well
Whose water was too deep for her to drink.
She waited to be awakened by Love.
As she fell asleep and dreamed of fear.

In darkness long she slept alone in fear,
Who lay alone, this solitary lamb,
Untouched by grace and abandoned by love.
Her bed the ground, her pillow a hard stone,
Tears she wept that wet her lips with drink,
Though none was offered from the nearby well.

Alone she'd die beside the helpless well,
Surrounded only by shadow and fear.
With bleating throat she called aloud for drink,
Though none could hear the crying of this lamb,
Who'd stumbled as she walked a path of stone,
Though hoping that she would be found by Love.

But many miles across the valley, Love
Was tending to his flock beside the well
That he had built from ancient fathers' stone.
He did not know his lamb was lost in fear,
Who'd strayed far from the path, this lonely lamb,
In search of fresher water she could drink.

After all the flock had taken drink,
The shepherd touched each woolen head with love,
But worried when he did not see his lamb,
Who'd stumbled on the path beside the well,
Asleep beneath the stars, alone in fear,
Cradled in her lonely bed of stone.

He journeyed down the weary path of stone,
Taking neither food nor bed nor drink,
Undaunted neither by dark night nor fear,
He lit his way with glowing heart of love
To seek the lost one sleeping by deep well,
The lost and lonely, bleating, dreaming lamb.

He searched from stone to stone to find his lamb,
And when he found her, gave her drink from well,
Awakening her from fear in arms of love.

Sowing & Reaping

In the garden fruit seeds were sown in rich, tilled soil,
Squash, beans, cucumber, and honeydew,
Eggplant, okra, zucchini, and onion,
Basil, oregano, garlic, and cilantro.

The ground was tilled and mixed with manure,

But there were other seeds still buried beneath the sod,

Thistle, briar, dandelion and clover,

That grew up among the vegetables, untended. 

In time, the garden grew beautiful,

Providing home for butterfly, ant, and honeybee

That crawled upon yellow flower and green blade,

Lush and thick in summertime. 

Flowers grew up through the bluestem and cordgrass,

Goldenrod, bergamot, blazing star,

Aster, milkweed, and indigo,

Yellow, white, purple, magenta, and blue.

A maple tree shot up in the middle of the garden,

Reaching toward the sun and casting shade on the tomatoes,

Sucking water from cornstalks,

Growing strong roots in the fertile tillage. 

The weeds became a beautiful garden,

Sheltering field mouse and hummingbird,

Feeding rabbit, quail, and white tailed deer,

Offering no comfort to farmer at harvest time.

Touch

As I walked into the woods last spring, the lush, green understory of brambles, rose bushes, and honeysuckle made my going difficult. I plodded through the pathless wood, lifting my knees and my feet high over the brush, pulling my clothes against the tug of stickers, moving deeper into the thick verdure that rose up from ground that had been frozen a month earlier. 

Suddenly, I came upon a small, newborn fawn, red-coated and speckled with dots of white along its back. It was curled in a tight ball, small enough to fit inside a baking dish, a basketball, or the womb of its mother. It kept its upturned eye closed, and a cluster of ticks had come to suck blood from beneath its eyelid, just two days old. So new to be born. So new to be preyed upon. 

I was overwhelmed by the everything of it, and I wanted to touch it, to feel it next. To see was not enough. I stooped, bending my knees, allowing my body to come nearer to the ground where it had made its bed, hiding from red-tailed hawks, coyotes, bobcats, dogs, and other predators, like those who go on two feet. I moved slowly, and I stretched out my hand to touch its soft fur, gently, intentionally, willfully, bringing union between the tips of my outstretched fingers and the infinite softness of its newborn coat.

In one instant, it rose to its feet, standing wobbly on four legs fourteen inches tall, from tip of tiny hoof to top of tiny head. Then it bleated loud and long. It bleated over and over and over his song, a call for his mother to come, to save him from whatever this wickedness was. This whiteness that hovered over him to take away his rest. 

I heard the crash of doe through the understory. She came and did not wait. I heard the snorting of her nostrils, as the spirit rose within her and she, with only one mind, with only one will, with only one desire to save her offspring, ran toward me, her strong hooves beating into the ground. 

I shot a deer one time, a doe. I passed a heavy, metal slug from a twenty-gauge shotgun right through the side of her body, tunneling through her rib cage, tearing through her lungs. Her body shook when she received the bullet. Then she ran, immediately, in one direction. No destination. Only elsewhere. Elsewhere! Elsewhere! She ran, and I followed her. She ran, and I saw her drop to the ground, convulsing. 

I approached her body, not dead, but dying. She ceased movement. I stood above her as she took notice of me, one final act of consciousness before she gave up the ghost. She eyed me from below as I stood above her. Me, predator. She, prey. She made one, final kick, and a stick near her strong hooves was slung from the ground where it lay beside her body, now in the final pangs of death, and the stick few into the side of my leg. It felt as if I had been hit by a baseball, a fastball thrown from the pitcher's mound. Just a stick lying on the ground, a final wound I received from the doe whose body had received my wound. 

I stood to my feet and considered the tiny fawn. I knew the strength of his mother. I knew the strength of her legs, her hooves. I knew the strength of her will. 

I took leave of this fawn. I would not suffer her revenge for further touch. 

Five Lessons Love Taught Me

1. Give, don't take.
2. Give, don't take.
3. Give, don't take.
4. Give, don't take.
5. Give, don't take.