ripples, or a Zen rock garden
the atom at the center
because we began
in the same star, light-
years ago, falling
(sometimes fall still)
but these rooms of reality
small (rocks, again)
catch us, safe
when we want to float free
Inspired by passages from Alan Lightman’s book Searching for Stars on an Island in Maine, pp. 53 and 55.
today: dazzle and overwhelm yourself
with riches of color, type, genre, taste,
the bargain-stickered tomes, deckle edges!
poetry of filigree border, fine paintings
that grace the scholarly set. smile
at brash color, mysteryromancesciencefiction,
the table’s strange mix, mash of dour classics
and modern beach read (bright tote on lower shelf).
close your ears to blaring country music, discounts!
endorsements, star wars toys and eager blurbs.
caress a spine, let fall the pages—or flip—inhale
vision, scene, mere arrangement of words an invitation
to your rain-bruised mind (heart, soul, whatever)
then come back to this desk and pretend
it was pure inspiration because you always knew
you couldn’t come out empty-handed
like the end of the world—
steep spires of seagreen slate
pine woods, numberless
flock of ravens dreaming
devilry, clouds of pride
madness, mysterious sorrow—
a double dose of poison
from an atmospheric paragraph of G. K. Chesterton’s story “The Honour of Israel Gow”
sunset gold, low-slant
fires distant spark
starting seaside, spreading
beacon point to point to point—
behind my eyes
why did I glory in tales
of blood, fighting
remembered sword-grip
and how it shamed loving touch
of earth lifted, sifted
and firmed again
no more. I close the border of that land
with this drawing in, hurrying on
of cloak, hood, fences, gates
tamping down the pulse, the heart-fire
watching the thread of smoke lift
swirl, vanish
that bookchair thirst for travel
begun long ago on oak-branch horses
penciled blank-book stories
and no one had to know
your delight in these treasures
of every hidden world
what need to share? to boast?
how we dilute our all
in the cutting world
when stumbling tongues fail
to proclaim dazzling deeps of upblue
though they ever pulse the heart
1. infinity has an edge
like this ring, now
pinged lunar surface
to be worn smooth again
2. every day you go out, come back
changed, convinced of nothing
left to explore in the messy joins
of the universe
3. if anything proved the vision
within bounds
don’t say it was
just a mistake
At the library this morning, I picked up a new book called Explorers’ Sketchbooks, by Huw Lewis-Jones and Kari Herbert. The introduction mentioned both the New Horizons photos of Pluto and Scott in the Antarctic…
Just another mother waiting
in the orthodontist’s waiting
room reading a book about time
travel wondering should I go
forward or back? What to do
again and again or skip right over
and what if I cleared the cache
relying on insipid chatter?
(how I remember
standing just there
and saying just that
some proof if you want
tomorrow)
Nothing too deep today–though I am reading James Gleick’s Time Travel: A History.
to-dos
breath-paused, sun-warmed
books under pink-bud boughs
hyacinth, tulip, plum blossom
falling
NaPoWriMo Day 26. Spring-fed, draining…
armful of tulips
collected for tomorrow
paper, ink, comfort
Graceful Press Poetry 