Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
While I don’t necessarily agree with the old feminist notion that the personal is inescapably political, I do try and write about politics mainly through a personal or literary lens. For the rare exceptions, see Rants.
nine knuckles are gathering
in a room appointed for sleep
theirs are the only shadows
not checked at the door
nine claws are judging
the entrails of a suit
flies have been eliminated
but still there’s a hum
nine knives are carving
a number into a bare back
even under the eyelids
it’s white as a cloud
i compose myself
for the sniper
the hundred-year flood
the flint of winter
spring-loaded
like a mountain rabbit
i could be the type specimen
for a new extremophile
hardy as a tardigrade
tender as an endolith
the laundry basket holds
all my changes of heart
still warm
from the late Carboniferous
like the wood lice
that wander under rocks
i am crepuscular
my sky is stern
this fragile midnight
its rich veins of blood
let a tooth take root
in a soft skull
at the end of the earth
this very crescent
a high C
guttering in a puddle
or lodged like an eyelash
under your island
at another end of the earth
a drone army
firing tree seeds
into clearcut mountains
if you have a price
you’re not a prophet
go self-censor
for the bathroom mirror
between sleeps
knowing they no longer knock
you rise and then what
whose hand will throw your stone
there’s a shape in the sand
that’s got your name on it
a cartoon heart perhaps
or half a castle
let’s snort the headlines
and see who sneezes first
play a game of hashtag
among lifeless bodies of evidence
and collect our empties
for deposit only
five cents for a jack boot
ten cents for a child’s shoe
twisting our tongues as she sells
spent shells by the seashore
i’m not waving but droning
unmanned and wired
to go off
so what if the labile moon
becomes your emblem
the half-shell upon which
your camino is served up
sew it into the lining of a coat
for use in emergencies
a subway token for the underworld
or an owl’s limitless eye
stirring up the birds
in your bedroom tree
its screen will sell you nothing
in glowing detail
it claims one egg
from every clutch
it brings out your darkest shadow
once a month
a found poem from the WHO
What is to give light must endure burning.
—Viktor Frankl
a white to yellow waxy solid
with a garlic-like odor
ignites spontaneously
until it is deprived of oxygen
used in grenades and artillery shells
to produce illumination
used as a rodenticide
and in fireworks
exposure to white phosphorus
can cause severe burns
affected areas of exposed skin
may appear yellowish
may show necrotic
full-thickness burns
death may occur from shock
hepatic or renal failure
central nervous system or myocardial damage
particles that have penetrated the skin
may start to burn when the wound is opened
white smoke may be seen
emanating from wounds
Our lives are an amnesty given us.
William Stafford
meanwhile the trees
are relaxing their grip
turning toward sleep
in a kind of hypnagogia
vivid and hallucinatory
against the gray
‘HUNTERS WEAR ORANGE
SO SHOULD YOU’
though the sign itself is yellow
as are many red maples
it’s the most primary
that school-bus color
meanwhile children play tag
outside an Amish school
in clothes so plain
it marks them as exotic
one of them rooted to the spot
scrunching up his face
a hole opens in the clouds
but not for any missiles
meanwhile skeletons
are unsettling in front yards
one pushes a lawnmower
towards several bony arms
like barked sticks
sprouting from manicured grass
in the distance some engine
i don’t notice until it stops
and i’m left with the sound
of my footsteps in fallen leaves
walking the empty bed
of a former coal country railroad
past pastures and high hayfields
up into the autumn hills
just below the clouds
a raven gives his voice box a shake
and out tumbles
something like a child’s cry
crossed with a horn
18 October 2023
a great grey worrybird
chirping in my ear
the key to a sugar maple high’s
downward spiral
or white lightning bugs
going on on on off
these are the winged agents
of an implacable cosmos
the scarlet manager
on vacation in the tropics
chickenhawkers online
flipping whispers
engorged hornbills blowing
for a credulous newscanter
shock-jawed death heads
emptying their payloads
till no unfallen
angels remain
and it’s back to the fire
and brimstone age
don’t look
you pillars of assault
What does it mean to look forward to something any more, in a world hurtling toward ecological collapse if not thermonuclear destruction? There was a bestseller back in the 1970s called Future Shock about the social and psychological damage incurred by modern society’s relentless drive toward progress… or so I imagine, having never actually read it. But it’s been on my mind lately despite that minor detail. I’ve also been thinking a lot about ignorance, both in epistemological and sociological terms, and not coming to any firm conclusions because I rarely do. That’s a poet thing, I suppose. Not knowing the future, though, seems essential to mere survival, let along progress, as the Rene Char quote in the sidebar here says: “How can we live without the unknown before us?”
This has been a horrific summer in many parts of North America, but here in central Pennsylvania we went from a severe spring drought to a very wet but relatively cool summer. Trees went from nearly dropping their leaves at the beginning of June to massive growth spurts in July—aided, I’m sure, by all the extra CO2 in the atmosphere. And part of what kept things cool for us was the haze from burning forests elsewhere, as I’ve mentioned in various poems. But one of the pleasures of haiku is being liberated from having to explain things. They can just lurk in the background, mostly inaudible to the reader. Distant flashes that can mean whatever you want them to.
The fireflies, who had been scarce early on, had their highest numbers toward the end of the season. I shot this 30-second clip of them on my phone at dusk last week, just as the weather was turning from muggy to cool. Three nights ago the katydids started up; in a week or so, their throb will be all we hear. I look forward to weeks of good sleep.
the way boulders come together
to make a mountaintop trail
like a puzzle with missing pieces
into which a foot might fit
or a yellow birch root
or a plush runner of moss
it becomes a sanctuary
from the sicknesses borne by ticks
the rashes fevers and nausea
fatigue and brain fog
all the gordian knot holes
untied by death
just off-trail where the fallen
collapse into themselves
and an alarm call passes
from red squirrel to red squirrel
among conifers where the wind
can’t stay still
but the trail rejoins the road
there’s no escape
the bumblebee at my feet
has a fling with some wild basil
dance partners in a small hell
of roadside weeds
the ecological consequence
of a war of each against all
hermit thrushes conjure
a melancholy sweetness
in one key after another
a sob catches in my throat
overhead a vulture banks
on heat rising from the gravel
blue stone gouged out
of adjacent valleys
where the pits someday go back
to shallow seas
wave upon wave of blue ridges
vanishing into the haze
