Poetry

God Has Come, Or Not

It is the wet season

when the rains wash the village

carrying off the detritus of poverty.

On the adobe wall

of the ancient town hall

some villagers say

a face appeared one morning.

To some it was

the face of Christ

to others that of an old man

a former mayor, perhaps,

to most of the tourists

from the nearby resort

no more than random discoloration

of the aging plaster

that clung to the beams

by the force of will.

They arrived by bus

and rusting pick ups,

bowed to the wall

and reached out gingerly

like children touching

the flame of a candle.

To the mason it was

a job that would feed

his family for another week.

Future History

The history of modern literature,

at least to those who purport to create

it, is inextricably tied up with technology.

The quill and inkwell ceded only

reluctantly to the fountain pen and ballpoint.

Foolscap was affixed to corkboard

by countless pushpins, but one wasn’t

a teal writer until one stuck in the sole

of your foot as you wandered in the dark

in search of a pen in the night while

trying vainly to cling to a thought that only

moments before had dragged you from sleep.

We have progressed far, the pen falling away

beneath the great weight of the keyboard,

paper now a wrapping for electronics

which now serve as both paper and book.

many are no longer writers at all, dictating

words which appear on the screen, the machine

at once editor and publisher and bookstore.

And we know the day is approaching when

voice and hand will cease to be tools, when

mere thought will be the poet’s task, and reading

will be a lost skill, something the ancients did

when they still had poetry and literature.

Into the Tide

The woman at the next table

stares at her fork

with eyes which appear

bottomless pools of sorrow.

She picks at the noodles,

raises and lowers

the glass of wine

without sipping.

She is lost within herself

and even the waiter

approaches with trepidation

for fear of falling in

and drowning

in her sadness.

In her eyes

are pools of cabernet

spilled from glasses

cast aside

by retreating lovers,

the blood of a mother

who died in her birth,

tears of a father

hopelessly alone.

You see him returning

to the table

and a smile of faint hope

crosses her lips,

lingers a moment

and is drawn

into her eyes.

She watches him

finish his wine

and with a nod

of his head, hers,

and she sinks back

deep within herself.

In a Prior Life I Was

Reznikoff, casting words to paper

after the last brief was filed,

Aleichem, finding peace

amidst the hordes,

Red Deer Running, watching

as the horse soldiers drew aim,

a child, never understanding

why the old ones only brought death,

a poor Jew, hung on a hill

from the crossed beams, for believing,

a ram, led from the thicket

to the altar, as the boy was freed,

alone in a hotel room

fearing sleep.

Obscurity

a winter night

clouds digest the moon

cars drive

turning lights out

disappearing

neon signs

stare

beckoning

vacancy

open space

super condensed matter

she moans

I love you

to starched sheets

shrouds

wrap her loins

a cat

scampers

into a bush

dragging

the sun

melting

the highway

electrons

run crashing

into nothing

quantum

leaps

On the Mesa

At night, in these mountains

you see a million stars, but

all you hear is the silence.

It bothers you, this silence

and you strain to hear, what?

There is no one here but you

and your breath is swallowed

by the night sky. Be still

for the wind will rise,

and these mountains

and these trees herd us

into ever smaller spaces

as we have been herded

for generations, we

will gather as we ride

among the peaks and down

into canyons, listen

carefully, for inside

the wind we dance around

your ears, our songs faint.

As the full moon rises

slowly over the mountain

listen carefully

you will look for us

but we cannot be seen.

You will hear our song

dancing across this mesa,

one voice to another.

You will imagine us

coyote, you will feel a chill

along your spine

and we will fall silent.

The stars will smile

for they know our stories

but to you we are

simply, the songs of coyotes.

Listen to our voices

we will tell you of the land

of the grasses once here

where our herds grazed,

now gone to endless sage.

As we lick at your face

taste the tears

which have watered

this now arid soil.

Look at the flowers

pushing out of the sand

and rock, see our faces

in the stones about your feet.

You may return to your homes

and pull your comforters

around your chins, hiding

from the night’s chill,

but we shall remain

among these peaks, in

these canyons

for another ten thousand moons.

Screw You, Aesop

So Androcles,

how did it feel

when, in the pit,

the lion sidled over.

You saw his paw

finally healed

and no doubt

remembered the thorn

you had extracted.

Did you rub his mane

as his jaws snapped

around your thigh

his teeth tearing

into your flesh.

As you saw

the blood spill out

did you curse

the fabulist

for his detachment

from reality?