WALKING DISTANCE

Sunday, December 30, 2012

DIGITAL

DIGITAL

who has digitized me

has reduced me to

a bar code,

a string of numbers

telling of my physical location--the street

number, the apartment number,

the suite number

zip plus four:

come find me.

come touch me if you dare.

come speak to me

Area code (XXX) has changed, again,

changed again.

the physical location, too, has changed

without the burden of ownership.

wherever i travel, I am trailed by nine digits

that prove my eligibility for so many things:

citizenship, of course,

right to work,

right to be taxed,

right to be traced--endlessly

pursued by marketers

intent on convincing me

that I need what they have to sell.

with sixteen digits embossed in plastic,

rewritten in magnetic patterns,

i purchase my daily bread,

my freedom to travel,

my daily clutter that

consumes so much energy,

time and talents.

ONCE

Once the raindrop loses

Its grip on the hovering cloud,

Once the river begins to flow,

Not the tree stumps,

Not the stones,

Not the build up of silt,

Will keep it contained.

As inevitable as

The rise and set of

The son,

The tectonic movement

Of plates,

The birth and

Demise of fires,

The coming and going

Of waves

On a beach,

The victories and

The losses of nations

At war: words

And deeds are no barrier

Between us.

ANGELS LEAVING

(For Newtown Connecticut)

angels leaving,

assignment complete,

drain the skies of blue,

the trees of green

just a little

as their wings fill--

they lift off.

what assignment,

over whom did they

keep their vigil?

Lightweighted silence,

the only evidence

of their presence.

by the power of their love,

they lift the leaden sorrow,

the molten anger,

words said and

those omitted.

New names

with dates of departure

and arrival

freshly scrawled

in ledgers

for divine bookkeeping

purposes.--the book of life

must be maintained

PRACTICAL IMPERFECTION

PRACTICAL PERFECTION

Practical perfection

< Reality

> Than the possibility.

There are always chinks,

Pieces missing from the human puzzle,

Scuff marks placed upon us by life's sharp edges.

Some imperfection is hard-wired

So that we learn--or know by instinct--

To find the pieces to complete the whole

In others.

Not tall enough,

Not strong enough,

Pretty enough,

Smart enough,

Not fast enough,

Patient enough,

Loud enough,

Soft enough to

Command attention.

Lord, let me trust

In the necessity

Of being created incomplete.

STONES

Stones have stories,

Never told,

Stories on top of stories

Make a wall;

held together by mortar/

by skill,

by gravity---

or by fear.

Stones flying through air

Know, but will never tell,

From whose hand they were launched

Into the world--

Across a stream,

Over a cliff,

through a window,

Or skipped over water:

One, two, three, four splashes

marking progress across a pond.

stones mark miles come,

or left to go,

Paths to follow,

Signals of safety

Or of danger,

For those who follow trailblazers.

Turn here.

Stop here.

Stones in lines mark boundaries

Some might agree upon.

Stones

in circles show where we

Shall gather.

Stay in.

Stay out.

We leave messages

Without verbs or nouns,

Without a sound.

many colors,

many different values--

words of love,

heft of hate

The final stones mark

Where journey's end--

The terminus from which

There is no return trip.

Here lies:

Thursday, November 1, 2012

invasion

Under the influence of

another boy,

(could I really think myself

truly innocent?)

I reached under

the doormat for the key

we both knew was there.

thinking no one is watching,

believing ourselves to be

invisible, we moved inside

without concern for the trespass;

we were invincible.

we weren't doing anything wrong

in our own minds.

into the kitchen, we greeted the parakeet

before seeking out the cookie jar.

will we find homemade chocolate chip

or store-bought Oreos--

or cash hidden in

plain sight?

we picked up stray items, examined

someone else's belongings.

what if someone else did this to us,

entered our parents' house,

touched our things,

inspecting for value not always

monetary.

we had minutes.

we had hours, if we wanted them,

to intrude into the lives

of neighbors who called us friends.

what secrets were kept--and where--

and why.

three bedrooms:

parents, boys'.

we pick up,

examine, cherish, imagine,

bicycle helmet and baseball glove,

soccer ball, (the same

one we've used in neighborhood pickup games--

then replace evidence

of life outside our knowledge.

One girl resides here, but we

are too young to be interested

in anything about her.

at some point, without words,

we retreat just as carelessly,

oblivious to the clues we left behind,

out to the driveway

by the side door;

two would-be juveniles

leave the scene of the crime

except where it remains

in the back of our minds.

TRANSCRIBER OF DREAMS

One word

Uttered on high

And I, a seed,

Exist:

Amoeba or

Zebra.

The power of

Creation lies

Beyond me,

And I, unaware,

Take up space

Set aside just for my body,

My spirit, my

Mind.

From the mind,

Through intervention, comes

This parade,

Idea

After idea.

Unlike my own origination,

The invention of me,

The thought of me,

The sounds and visions

That fall from my lips,

Stream out of my fingers,

Are only the result of

Being the transcriber

Of dreams,

The artist struggling

To find just the right palate,

Just the right weight of words

Before I can place them

Gently, lovingly upon

The page.