a trace

 

bright blue
the eyes seem to twinkle light
makes a corona in the corners
of her squinting  smile; the low moments
bring a wide calm stare-
the little within girl asks- does the world not care?

it is that blend of joy and heartbreak
the meaning of her life's song
her spirit does not lift, it soars
her heart does not crash, it splinters
bit by tearful bit- she is a little broken now
the triumphant path is one that gives and takes away
we know this day through the echo of days left behind--
but that kept a trace, a splinter.

now, across seas and against odds; she is
where she wished to be- a little town with vast opportunity - 

In Bloomington, and
In the cornfields that surround the town
where she has set her roots anew
i think of fruits that crackle in the night
growing as we  might watch and see
the rains that fell on happy or sad days
tended soils in similar ways, life feeds
on every morsel, and time
is the  patient farmer.

summer-ku

on his charcoal stick
the model's face...
waits



between the elm and sycamore
the ancient moon shows...
 a new face



moon bright-- beaming light
washes away the stars... Saturn turns
around red Mars, and I am lost
in the search for hunters and bears



in heavy night air
the old man smiles...
into the west wind


between the cricket chirps
the midnight train...
rolls to Kankakee

Arrogance and error

In Bloomington Illinois the streets have names
of old and scarce breeds of trees

on Walnut street i see dried black shells
on Mulberry Street white and dark
females with fruit
and on Locust street the honey gold flower
drapes the day and perfumes the night air.

In Franklin Park, the old, historic homes have
wide-trunked elders, somber trees
they have seen our arrogance and error
and love us still

on my shoe...
yesterday's chewing gum
last year's maple flyers

My lover and I cannot touch hands
when we hug the old red maple near home
it is a tree
with muscular arms
and broad shoulders-- like Sandburg's Chicago

Coming back after a walk downtown
from the empty Sunday night streets
I enter through the side door
and not one of other three...

on my computer screen
a flying ant crosses...
the Orion nebula

edges of the inner sea

Kneading bread, pressing pliable mounds
folding and pressing more; veins swell
sinews ripple- fighting the cramp of fatigue
I have made too little

it is a simple thing to bring
yeast to flower, salt and soda
to thrive on sugars. The nascent loaf
swells from within as i roll and pat
then begin, kneading bread

thoughts roll in like sun drawn tides
pulled from distant edges of the inner sea
stormy turmoil and placid windless times
i see ''sturm und drang'- i see the painted ship
on a library wall, i see the albatross
and now the fingers sink deep and make folds
that will soon hold heat and shape
the essence of the loaves; kneading bread
i can heal,
forgive,
forget,
and i can slowly exhale
the pent up day

august night

her face was warm like the hot August night
as the humid air trapped bare skin;
gave it no place to breathe and cool-
my lips tasted the salt and sweet sweat

my mind consumed traces of starlight
from her nape, and lifted her hair
as a blessed burst of night rainy air
touched us-- as we touched--
poured whispers into sudden breaths

an unwanted piece of time slipped in
as the three AM freight train howled again
a lonesome sound that now
raised a passing thought of pity-
that someone could be too busy
to linger in the heat of this night

from thee to me

In the north side of the cemetery
stands a row of green trees, Dutch Elm
and a row of Sumac, with a lordly old Red Maple over all
the graves near that end are old
the well kept grounds disguise that
few if any slow and grudging steps
have fallen there in years.

Rising above the green meadow of memorial stones
a tall gray silo and block-style buildings with no windows
they make asphalt there, and the labyrinth of
road sized tubes and shafts all wear
battleship gray, there near clouds and above final rests
I slow my purposeful drive, it is hot
and the tree leaves are cupped waiting for the storm
the excited air touches my skin with electricity.

I ponder-- so many memories here
in this quiet place neath the gray silos,
and the rail spur behind the trees is full
Tank cars and asphalt carriers waiting to
re-line America-- they wait patiently to be filled-
liquid stone and the old silent stones face the scene-
rail cars and busy men, rushing, rushing
I think the old stones might say-- take your time,
on the path from thee to me;
haste is not a virtue--
and I think of the coincidence-
stellae - stele