Friday, February 23, 2018

Spider Poem, Written by Candlelight

I dip the candle in ink.
I dip the ink in fire.
I fire a long thin feather.
I watch the flame.
It flickers.  It flies.  It webs. It wicks.
It says spider. 
It says spider.
It says inside the net, somewhere, a diamond
A diamond may be hiding there in gold, in silver.
Let it fill the room.
Let it fill the sky.
Let it dawn.

My eyes get tired.
The flame pops.
Copy me.
Copy me my grey tree.
Copy me my watery shadow.
Lay lines.  Lay lines.
I pick up the red candle.
It melts in my hand.
It drips a line of red wax on my page.
It plays red on white.
The light of the candle
Shows me

I write.
I write.
My writing
glows in the flame.
The wax shows me
The wax congeals.
The diamond isn’t
The diamond isn’t
The diamond isn’t the diamond the diamond isn’t
The diamond is coal. I hold my finger there
I smudge
The wax slowly
The warm soft wax
I hold the candle



Till the wick turns cold

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Starting Over

Ice.
Blanket.
Snowbound.
Frozen ground.
Stuck in one place.
Facing the same white.
Not certain that the sun is.
Wanting the clouds to part.

Start over.

What do you do when you have no
Idea: can you draw some icon in the snow?
Where can you imagine going this morning?
Ah the lime green surge of water, the crush of tides
over and over the tan sand the white shells like ocean teeth
left behind the foam frothing over and over the never-ending waves
A dark fin no, now two now three wow arc up through the emerald sea
The beach is full of gulls but it is the
chocolate
pelicans
soaring
gliding
on
air
currents
swooping
see them
splash
and
crash
into the
the
water’s
sunny
surface.







Sunday, February 11, 2018

Observing Miracles


On a morning when I wake up                                                           
wanting some kind of miracle
to happen and nothing
in particular 
happens
that's when I try just
to watch that desire
and breathe it away. 

And then this
thought occurs to me:
Maybe you are asking
for the wrong sort.
Maybe you don’t need the
flashy miracles where some
glowing angel appears or
you suddenly can fly or
you can speak to the dead
or predict the future
with or without tea leaves.

No.

Maybe the point is
that miracles
are right here in these
fingers creating meaning
out of little black squiggles
tapped onto a white screen.

Or in a sunflower bigger
than a dinner plate.
Or in a smiling baby
with toes like tiny pink pearls.
Feel the gentle air
expanding your lungs.
Smell the pine trees on a mountain –
just because I write the words.

All of it, every single thing
is miraculous

if you take the time to notice.