Thursday, July 2, 2015

Monday, June 29, 2015

How often in the name of stability
we have insisted on sadness?

Good G.K.C. - my friend and saint -
wrote well about this state, wherein

the plod of solemnity and weight
is absolutely easy to maintain

precisely for the reason it is
a forced incapacity, a mono-chord

that leaves out the effortless lightness
of our being's contingency.

It is difficulty sealed, rounded
back on itself. But one only breaks

into a smile, into a new vista,
into a skyward sprawling tree

splitting the husk of the seed.
You know, I do not think my Uncle Chestnut

was as fat as he pretended to be.


High on mountains worldwide they blow
on long wood trumpets in tones of psalm
summoning weirdness or cattle or calm
or play a wood horse with a horsehair bow
and the didgeridoo, that lowland shofar,
throttles where dancing and secrets are --

--The Barcaldine Suites, by Les Murray, read the rest of the poem here.


Where the Green Ants Dream brings up some questions about corporate impact on the environment; how considering only profit ends in raping, pillaging and polluting the earth and decimating cultures.

Saturday, June 27, 2015

The blinking number makes for one's entrance
a more fulsome welcome when there's no one
warming house - knowing a voice has spoken
within the room while no ear was there to listen.

Once without a greeting there was the whirr
of one who called for making himself
a window; a rin bowl; a spiraling ear
in which to place your ear; a shadow-someone

wafting above, just above, plains of silence
while an event of wind had poured upon them,
toppling the blades to attain the first-known
speech of grass, as the stare-down light removed

to the western rim, and gave the soft beneficence.
Into this began a swelling chorus enclosed
like singing in the sea of a shell; a gale
at the back of a cave: union ongoing

of distant voices running before,
always flying and all underlying,
sequestering in the speaker machine;
a loosening, almost-heaven drone

approaching some celestial melody,
enough to cease one's cares of the here,
to let out the feline of passing things
or let in the night spiders from their lairs.

At certain times, similar messages
out of leaves that fall early, fragrant on
bronze lawns; a call from the gravid poplar wave.
Sometimes the road clover. Sometimes the train wail.

Friday, June 26, 2015

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Panhandling is illegal and unsafe
where the plantain and pineapple weeds
breach asphalt gaps and marathon their seeds
along the traffic-flanked meridian.
Wheels-a-hundred-thousand blow them dust
for root bed, thin reserve a fractional crust
to shimmy out their four-lane prophecy
against all skin-flint greed, ambition, lust:
not even Solomon was arrayed as these
that float white stars around tiaras
or nestle yellow orbs in frilly hair
and at the tonnage truck-by make ballet.
Obdurate man of the waiting red,
there's one with the cardboard square that pleads
afternoon clemence on cooking cement,
that a hand outdo the weeds at least
and give him coins like dandelion snow:
if such perfect spheres shatter at a winnow,
to drift up and down a hillock till they catch
and put past grass blades a taproot down, home-locked
just a few dolphin undulations away
from where it hover-toed on parent stalk,
or as a sheepy herd all ankle-silent,
nakedly sail over blinding sidewalk
lowest rung language into the ear of earth
at the next open fissure or tree bed doughnut
joining generations, annum per annum,
then what for chump-change dumb in one's console,
to dress him with the least we know,
to bless him with a coffee and a bagel
or stay sealed in an air-conditioned bubble
at bay, windows rolled, a mobile grave,
respecting the new-placed sign that reads:
panhandling is illegal and unsafe.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015


Camille Saint-Saëns...hmmmm...mmm...interesting. Never heard of him before a day or so ago. Happened on his piano concerto No. 5.

I like those themes in the first movement very much. Beautiful intermingling going on there.

That picture of Richter is cool.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Sunday, June 14, 2015

We take cucumbers as less than beans,
mere vessels for absorbing dill in brine
or cooling salad, sandwich or the eyes:
boatloads harbour under bristle patches
that the advanced nutritionist declaims
in the end, as pretty much valueless.
And such would be the definitive
conclusion of our superior age,
which in truth, is a kind of split infinitive
and historical afterward, in a word,
does not amount to a hill of beans, for
cucumbers in the ancient world
were revered as a camel-hump-gourd
that given to mature its prickle skin
was storable hydration for the desert
and an immanently clean water source
when poison or stagnant putrefaction
made a wellspring's virtue into sin.
Think about that, then, when you put your hand
into the itching leaves of them and think
they're a kind of vegetable inflation
that wrecks the almighty supply and demand,
a cheap proliferation that could use some
scarcity, backed with rarest peppers - no,
wait a minute, those can be rather prolific -
backed with rarest some such hard to grow
and yielding little thing - find something -
reflect how they're the best kind of money,
like water, like little rabbit bunnies.

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Thursday, June 11, 2015