floating and leaving no trace
nature is a mouth
longing to kiss
to force open our mouths
and drive in a frantic
desperate tongue
it runs its hands over
the sensitive parts
of our bodies
causing shivers
and tingles
and longing
inflaming the flesh
like a lover
bent on seduction
that sky
those clouds
even the hawk with
his breakfast
still squirming in his
talons
just fingers seeking
the quickest way
into our hidden recesses
there is no resolve to break
Today I am reading Song of Myself #51, by Walt Whitman. I grabbed the text from here.
51
The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day’s work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?
F-f-f-f-f-friday ha-ha-ha-ha-haiku
my eyelids close like
lazy clams destined for chowder
–a long sleepless week
the course
straight and narrow
an atherosclerotic artery
we squeezed our way through
shoulders narrowed and heads down
for years
it opened up at last
and suddenly
the sun beat down on our backs
too stiff to straighten
the ground remained our focus
seeing only broken feet
in lush grasses
in the pressing of wine
–a drink for forgetting–
and olive oil
–a balm for old wounds–
the angels’ hands
turn wheels
their feet stain
purple-blue
not with grapes
regret
despair
and unanswered prayer
we scan the page
but the map
is not the territory
here, some skin
the curve of a hip
and a long sigh
there is nothing
written down
in the instructions
the sky has assumed
a shade of blue
that hurts the eyes
with an intense
purity and clarity
if not for that one cloud
Today, in honor of the end of summer, I’m choosing a poet who is–gasp–still among us in more than just words. Here he is, talking about the end of summer. And of all things, really.
Edgar Oliver, reading his poem, “The End of Summer”
the last official day
of commercial summer
so many sales
and a day that feels like
a repeat of sunday
no one considers
that the second day of summer
the day after the solstice
was shorter than the day before
with less daylight
minute by minute
the light shrinks
and now, the evening comes early
and soon
the evening will come earlier
i long for autumn
and for a change in the leaves
and a change in the air
as long as you don’t change
as long as summer shines
resplendent in your smile
every tree on the planet
can change color
and drift like snowflakes
and carpet the yards
sidewalks
and carports
like one of those science books
with transparent plates
of the human body
where the first layer has the skin
–always the best
because you can see all the dirty parts
even though it’s usually ugh the guy–
then you peel back a layer
and it’s all muscle
which is still kind of cool
after that
arteries and veins
and viscera
and you keep going
past the nerve tissue
until it’s just bones left
that’s how i imagine you
after peeling off your layers
year after year
getting through the outside
which is pretty damn exciting still
and through your guts
all the way to your bones
the first football game
aside from the ones
i attended to photograph
for the yearbook
in high school
and the one game i
took my son to
while he was still
in high school
was at the rose bowl
go bruins
the first game of the year
against virginia
and the thing i remember
aside from the heat
and the traffic
and the parking on a deserted golf course
were hundreds of dragonflies
plump and red and brown and green
rising up out of the grass
floating over water traps
hovering around the walkers
who had to trek over a mile
to the gates
one of them flew sideways
like an alien spaceship
with an antigravity engine
and no restraints on inertia
and i’ve already forgotten
the score of that game
but those dragonflies
Words and Feathers 