Sunday, February 26, 2012


From Corson’s Inlet A. R. Ammons

“ like an inlet’s cutting edge:
there are dunes of motion,
organizations of grass, white sandy paths of remembrance
in the overall wandering of the mirroring mind: “

Days hot as a train burnished penny,
small footprints traced in asphalt.
Stop and go, hide and seek
childish shrieking until the streetlights come on.
Sitting on the porch while the day recedes
cats drowsing in the heat of a window ledge
nighthawks rising to the currents of dark
each dawn seems life foretelling death.
Day no more than a featheredge
like the inlet’s cutting edge

rolling to night’s sleepless sea.
Sparkles, fireflies, fireworks
and a fat moon face in the window.
Great search lights ever scanning
giant footsteps ever stamping
foghorns on the river, dream of the ocean.
The man at the top of the stairs; no light can dispel
rain sounds, headlights, great snakes of shadow.
Sliding slithering englobed by a nightmare sea’s devotion

there are dunes of motion,

sky great clouds and swirling curtains.
Remember a park big as the world
with all the world’s knowledge at its heart,
piled with leaves, flowers gone to seed
swarming bees, red birds, bugs in jars.
A fathers time, a childlike allegiance
evening, walking past the baseball diamond
sucking on a straw full of candied sugar.
No relentless waves of truth can unbalance

organizations of grass, white shady paths of remembrance

of tales told in a graveyard night

cobblestones eroding under waves of cars.
Home from church in the dark
the moon now no more than a rind.
Freighted so with emotion in today’s dawn,
thoughts of return sadly declined
as every wave propels the swimmer forward,
no tide can carry back the past’s lost child
to a nonexistent city now confined

in the overall wandering of mirroring mind:


Form Glosa

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Carving A Bufflehead

Sitting here on a hard wooden chair in my room at the Capri Centre, It looks like the wind is rising and I see lightning in the distance,
I am restless for home.
Riffling through things I could be doing there, I remember books, errands, projects and a small wooden duck now long gone,
can I carve another?
I have done it before, so no doubt it should rise a small winged shape whirling up from the turbulent surface of my mind,
has it been there all along?
No longer than my hand, a small black blemish from the black paint of the eye staining the clean basswood of the head,
enshrined now in a coat of vanish.
Is it there, the person I was still buried in the person I became, can I reclaim that person with each stroke of the rasp on the same blond
wood that gave that other bird life,
I want, I need to summon back that small delicate migrant, to float once more a calm still shape in my mind
can it find its way back?
Carrying  on its wings the feathers and pinions of not just one me but all the selves  that loved white pelicans floating in a northern river,
drumming grouse at dawn.

What will it carry, what will I receive, the sound of marbles,  the smell of chalk brushes, snapping kites against a blue sky, frustration, longing, joy.
A lot of freight for one small bird.