How It Is

I live anonymously
between breath and hum
and the erratic flights of crows,
their wings a rustle of taffeta
through which I strain
my Pu-erh tea and dreams –
reaching, breathing, ascending…


I’m mostly behind the trees now -
their branches growing
so close to me, I can’t
see my own arms anymore.


But, at night, I do see
the slow drift of stars
and can’t help thinking
that Astraeus must be tired
of keeping all those fires burning.

N.C.'s Studio

In your studio,
I want to wrest you
from the cerulean blue
and the viridian green
of your inscribed palette.


Or - if I cannot pull
you, body and spirit,
out of the dried paint -
won’t you at least
come down from
one of your canvases
to stand on the worn
floorboards again
like a giant
among your props;
costumes, guns,
swords, pipes, jars,
bones and busts?


Standing alone
in the north light
of the studio,
I am much aware
of your technique –
of you.


With no more
than brushes
and oil paints,
you showed us
both dazzling light
and deep shadows -
and how the contrast
of the two could
heighten tensions
that alluded to the
dangers in life.

Thawing Out

I’m being
unfaithful
to nature –

coming out of
dormancy early,
splitting into
two halves,
and sending
up flowers…

The sun says
I can live forever,
even if the crows
around me fall
to the earth
in silent
ambivalence.

Quinta Essentia

The smell of oak moss and lichens
from the corner of your bungalow,
lingers on my skin like balsam and
sanctifies me in this winter light -
allowing me to respire ancient air
from a distant and temperate wood.

The universe holds nothing more that can heal me;
clary sage, lavender, cedar bark, resin of myrrh -
not even the holiest of chrisms could offer more.

On Being Human

i am changing colors
like the leaves…
claret, pale orange,
butter colored -
and falling through the
atmosphere, drifting down
through the ages


landing upside down
at the foot of a statue
standing in the commons
forgotten by children


and here are my tears
streaming on ivory faces
in all the places
that come to mind
when the skies are
filled with bare branches
and stars that shine
down on every thought
that threatens to unpin me


what can i tell you -
that i don’t feel pain
that my mind is stable
that prayers are answered
that life is fair
that a heart doesn’t break
that everything will be alright
that God is watching over us?

For Now

I had given up on spring
when you called me to the
kitchen window to show me
the orioles in the quince bush,
like small brilliant suns -
buoyant and cheerful.


Watching them,
I tried not to think
about the mountain birds,
with their dark shiny eyes
like tiny glass marbles,
and their somber evening calls
heard from clear across the river –
where they roosted shadowy
in the branches of the redbud,
some missing parts of their
hind wings or tails,
proving that life is hard
in the upper Alleghenies.


Even on this dismal,
cool and rainy spring morning,
I’ll not think about the cold
that got inside of me there –


For now,
I’ll take pleasure in
our delight of the orioles,
so busy with the quince blossoms,
they hardly notice
our smiling faces at the window -
or our love for them that leaps
and bounds from somewhere deep.

MORIBUNDITY

away from the creamy
smear of a gibbous moon

I hide myself in Shakespeare’s
coat sleeve breathing only

when I remember to breathe
and coming out only to eat

the stale offerings from
an old man’s crooked hand