Orchids;
Rope after rope
of Marigolds
Fuchsia tapestry
Dancing to the fast fingers
of the solo guitarist
Black Bird
“Take these broken wings”
“We are gathered here to leap”
Like your brother and cousin
So small (now grown)
Splashing water in 99º
The gathering
With hand fans
waving to the beat (the heat)
As we assemble everyone
who cherish us
to bear witness
To our love —
The Souls Mate
The couple hitched
And at 17
This life has grown
Into One
I no
longer know
Myself
Without
seeing
you smile!
Old oak,
Varnish and chrome,
Stability;
Longitude.
Why buy
New Furniture
for Anniversary?
Shouldn’t it just
be solid
Antique?
What better
to recall
a time when
“Things”, like
relationships,
were better made.
Not angry
and fashionable
like the mob,
But the
Old Oak Tree;
Reminding Me
That patience
and time spent cherishing
the things
We already have
is what make
Great these
Long-lasting
Moments
“Perhaps I am a dull reader; if so, these matters can be explained.
And in fairness to me they must be explained—if not by Dr. Wil-
liams, then by some modern prosodist sympathetic to Dr. Wil-
liams’s method.” H.C.
Yes, I am
Sympathetic to
the random form
The triadic
flow. We’re
sorry it causes you
So much
confusion. I
quite like the
Dalian comparison though
If my lines
could drip
Off the pages
and flow back
into the river
I would
have accomplished
My Art.
*April 8th, 1950. “Dr. Williams’s Paterson” Hayden Carruth - Studies in Paterson
The River Never Thinks To ask?
“Where are We going?”
The Rocks Firmly Saying “STAY!”
Caught Between,
In this Eddy
Choice The Sole Task
None Ever Seem Ready
Hold Your Ground Or
Let This Pass
“Every action has an
opposite and equal reaction”
Her curves cut through him
She is the center of his life
All roads in his city
End upon her shores; Her Mountains
–Earthquakes, Time and her origins–
Embrace him Day and Night
Wind and heat; parch and monsoon
She drinks from the sky
to bring his thirst to an end
He lights Her nights and
bridges her spans
They form this imperfect circle
One man, called by many names
Beeʼeldííl Dahsinil; Arawageeki; Vakêêke;
Alo:ke:k’ya; Gołgéeki’yé — now AL-bə-kur-kee
One woman, loved by the people
mets’ichi chena, posoge, paslápaane
hañapakwa, Tó Baʼáadi, Female River, Great Waters, Rio Grande
So much potential
Sewn up in the soil
A spring menagerie
Ready to burst
First green
Then yellow
Flaming orange
And of course
Violet
Fuchsia flowers
Pour out like
Bundles of Grapes from
Harvest baskets
And the promise
Of the feast
That awaits us
At summer’s
End
I sit with pen
Open Third Eye
Let go this “my”
And let loose
My mind
From pre-meditated
Preoccupation
Lose the I
Let go desires
Open up your ears
To the rhythm
And pace
That surrounds you
As it goes about
Its own business
Pays you
No thought —
Mindfulness
Begins with
Mindlessness
You must empty
The chalice
To receive new
Prophecy
So far The Distance The Atlantic To The Rio Grande
So Long The Time We’ve spent Drifting apart
The Arts We’ve slipped Away the years
Last Grains To come No chance To turn The Glass
Again Until small smiles Renew our Promise for Potential
Songs are to be written By Old Men Yet sung By the Young
What gifts might the distance bring
As we age and sing with growing wisdom
Life’s hard enough
On a wintering Eagle
A war to fight for
Every meal
But when this girl
Gets determined
A brutish male makes
No successful appeal
Stands her frosty
Ground again and again
Until one talon slips in-
to the chest
Of her challenger…
Razor requisite
To back away
Assessing mortal
Potential of this
Violent affair
To our mother,
We must most humbly apologize
We have been bad children. You have provided for us all these good years.
And, we have torn up the
backyard, dug up or
Cut down all the trees;
Stripped out all the copper
Wiring in the house and
Took a crap on your dinner
Table. We’re sorry…hopefully
Our children will treat you better.
PS – Hey, I’m glad at least
One of us is recovering
From the Coronavirus.