I. Astrew in Them
i. the rainbow poem :
o v e r t o n e
The sun’s red flames rise
from an orange blossom yard
Canaries sing out as
dandelions and daffodils
punctuate the ending to
a thousand million conversations
Yes, the green valleys
Yes, the appalling snow
And dolphins,
in their arching speed,
find within waves this daylight
(folding into itself and another)
Smog forever caught in trees
forever caught in smog
The world of storms
And streams and rivers
Rushing and turning
And colors all adorning
So. Now psalm and sight
Are indistinguishable
Bright verve
Sweet sound
And this is all one morning
ii. jordet, verden
Songs About Earth
As bones, we figure out the river stones;
we gather time by dint of thoughts and fears.
Our worn-out hearts watch night all through the trees
while languished dreams recall our anguished plans.
You are stunning; our children find again
the human self and way and reverie.
The wind, the trees, O all sheerest mountains—
Implausible strengths, all this hallowed haste—
the wind, the trees, this world whose birds we watch—
yes, all confess and praise this ceaselessness
of wind, of flight, of darkness, of starlight,
night after night, all intelligibly,
all peacefully—we discern and desire
this unmoved form and essence of our fire.
iii. our most forgotten thoughts and names
In Springtime, Diamonds Surrounded Us
We are so cautious in sunlight—smiling, sweaty
ducking into our makeshift shades
of milky-white bed sheets.
We sit there, our skin cooling,
wordless, laughing,
blowing bubbles with our magic wands,
watching clouds.
Our big lovely pictures turn into wind.
And as we cling to the wrinkled corners
with everything else flapping up in the sky
and whipping our faces,
rain begins to fall with darkness,
then, in our tears, each star…
Oh, how the pristine rainfalls whisper
Our most forgotten thoughts and names.
iv.
swift, slow; adazzle, dim
The Essay of Love
rivers run for
fear
afraid of trees
afraid of hills
and mountains
always of the
stiff winter
these droughts
and desolations
turning out to be
present and true
in and up
to riverbeds
(where
everything
lived and grew)
and stones in
depths
and stones in
shallows
shall
always appear
within such running
stuck or patient
continually
shifting
remarking
carefully
again and again
where earth’s
lucid scars run
to and from
themselves
and each other
until
they settle for
the lake
or sea or
surrender
entirely to sky
v.
everything that is, is snow
winter thoughts
nor are the aspens’
crooked, swayed ascensions
just verticalled whiteness
horizontalling
up
as though dark clouds were planted
so now eyes reap
that lone seedless skinless
colorless produce of cold
no field
mowed low or slowly grazed
just sky set down
thickened
to the curved limits
where houses and hills stand floating…
dispersing crows commemorate
earth’s only blankness,
the farmer’s loss—
there is no east or south
or north or west…
only all this: pointless rest
vi.
crows and stars
Dayspring, Nightfall
night breaks to pieces
dark folded wings
perched among pages
written for kings
bees guess
sweet messages
countless and bright
afternoon promises
secretive things
burdened by darkness’s
folded black wings…
day fails to notice
this unleaving sight:
crows clasping blossoms,
unfolding dark wings,
waiting fire-eyed
for what
winter brings
vii. seasons are revisions
I. In
Chorus
At daybreak, as the birds awoke
note
by note,
and earth undressed her wintriness
coat
by coat,
the fishermen left home again
boat
by boat.
II.
Yuki
As the leaves
scatter
like a
terrified army
fallen from
glory,
snow falls
like prodigal star-
light:
worldly, wise and hoary.
III.
Upside-doWn
Look! Pine
trees hang
like icicles
in these tiny
lucid frames:
snowflakes
melting off
blood-red
holly berries.
viii. of
thunder and lightning heard
I. The
Bricklayer
Nineteen rows of brick to lay,
If this job goes by my plan.
Five more months of bills to pay.
So give that mud another spray.
Take your shirt off—get a tan.
Fourteen rows of brick to lay.
Stick it out. Don’t walk away—
just look back where this wall began.
Three more months of bills to pay.
Toss me red ones, son, then gray;
you’ve become a working man.
Eight more rows of brick to lay.
The farther west, the worse the clay;
these crooked brick come from Spokane.
One more month of bills to pay.
Can’t believe it’s our last day—
no more living in my van—
two more rows of brick to lay—
no more awful bills to pay.
II. Storm
Flakes Were Scroll-leaved Flowers
Behind the storm of his mind
there are still darker eyes
whose glances, cast upon his reason
each and every season (distinction
lost), find—
cutting through whenever’s darkest
lies
(behind the storm of his mind-
numbing fears)—gusts unwound in
unkind,
untraceable, unrespondable sighs and
cries
whose trances fell upon his reason.
Darkest visions can envision, bind
and bring to pass his whens and whys—
behold the cloud of his mind.
Untold, his hopes refined rewind
wordless, yet O bright he tries
beyond dark lances cast upon his
reason.
And being that for which he pined,
our blossoms are his sweet replies;
below descending tears, remind
those whose dances were his reason.
ix flowers, lily
showers—sweet heaven
Little Song
Like as the clouds of winter drift
away
So darkest doubts fade in the warming
wind,
Each lost in what the Sunshine has to
say;
In airy March existence becomes kind.
Faithfulness, once held in icy night
Melts into a spring, which slowly
sipped
Invigorates the soul to take its
flight,
And tears that numbed now resurrect
the crypt.
Prophetic notes break forth from every
branch
And bleakest memoirs wake as blushing
dreams,
Unfolding hues of hope where dearth
did blanch.
And desert beds become vivacious
streams.
Yet all this resurrection of the earth
Compares not to the promise of your
birth.
--for L.G.
After Sonnet 60