Dango

The Lady Down the Hall, 30th Floor

The Emily Dickinson of the internet age,
she haunted gardening forums, trading tips on
back-hoe spading, mulch and dirt, she tended
her botanical acquaintances with care,
and wrote about them as if they were there,
obsessively, for years.

Graduation

Poems must break cleanly from prose,
the words each distinct must alter that
which passes near and indepently imply
the explicit in codes that exist as semantic
components for future scholars to sift through

ah hell, I`m just here to tell a story.

Off Guard

To enjoy a great work we must catch it off guard,
we wander in but do not allow ourselves to think of
the museum, or edition in which it is housed,
nor bear in mind the critical reception of the work,
nor scientific analyses, whether in the form of
radiograph, mimeograph, or astrology,
we drink in the richness of the color
and allow our eyes to swim in the original wonder
of life which Gough, Gaugin, Monet envisioned--
writing poems we also catch ourselves off guard
and swim as long as we are able.

Early Steps

The world of poetry may no longer
be open to poets so bloody-minded
as me, ignoring the call of the new
in favor of an unkempt
style that admits little sorrow,
harbours a few grudges
and holds its liquor fairly well

In my mind I`m not so bad, the man
behind blue eyes peering out is not
so different from the baby who
cries his eyes out, not getting his way
sticking lips out in a pout that birds
might poop on

poems without clear meaning, parlour game
writing for the dedicated bedroom stylist
are of no interest to me, poems
that tell a story in vivid painterly words,
well I will listen

sit a while and take the landscape for what it is,
let the author move his characters
before me like a living scroll, I will take it all to heart
as music

poets in my heart Snyder, Frost, Neruda,
others peripheral ripples, catching the eye
but not the heart

a clear pool in which to catch my reflection
and a blankness when I depart

trail to follow

Are the trees still there, and the deer?
Of course they are, sometimes I feel
the neutered mountains and deerless woods
have spread like a virus of hospital dependent
children, for whom lack of space and
privacy is no big deal, a given
to those for whom the thrills of packed-in life
are enough, for whom a trail through the forest
is a sentence to isolation and boredome.

Are the poets with real trails of words
through real lifetime events without varnish
still there? Of course they are, sometimes
I feel that poetry is where they go, those
who have no intrinsic stake in the game any longer,
and may indeed allow themselves to enjoy
a sense of spinning wheels, of biding time.

They go forth recalling patterns
that may serve them well in better times.