Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]

Gregg Glory [ Gregg G. Brown ] has devoted his life to poetry since happening across a haiku by Moritake, to wit: Leaves / float back up to the branch-- / Ah! butterflies. He runs the micro-publishing house BLAST PRESS, which has published over two dozen authors in the past 25 years. Named in honor of the wild Vorticist venture by Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis, BLAST PRESS is forward-looking and very opinionated. He still composes poems on his departed father's clipboard, which he's had since High School.

Night, Night

 [Poetry], Night, Night  Comments Off on Night, Night
Feb 112020




          I I 

          I I I

          I V



Birth defies belief.
Love brings grief.
Death, relief.

Reaching After Realness

I ask: how do I make my dented self 
with this old pencil? 
     ~~Daniel J. Weeks, Self-Symphonies


Our legs look broken when light bends them in the swimming pool. Once our heads are under, immersed in the experience of wetness, the illusion disappears. Our legs are restored to us in their wholeness, where they can be repurposed as impromptu fins to propel us elsewhere. Which of these sets of legs are our “real” legs? The broken set, the restored set, or the Aquaman set?

Entering a poem is like entering that other, underwater world. We are restored to a wholeness the pain of life and its deceptions has convinced us is missing. But, we can only hold our breaths so long before our imaginations burst! And still we go down like clockwork into the dark otherwhere of metaphor, easing past the shallow end of simile, our imaginations and lungs aching. However dangerous the journey, we will not be denied our diving, our entry into depths.

The act of writing is a way for poets to break the surface tension, to transform and explore with all of their sets of legs at the same time–water-skimmer and octopus at once. The act of, not just imagining, but creating the distortion of a written record, a pool for others to enter, is part of the mystery. This writing things down, however, is not what may be called a clarification; that’s a mistake many neopyhte divers make, arriving back at the deck of their exploration vessel with the bends.

Let me propose that both imagination and reality are equally real, equally imaginary. A grown-up Velveteen Rabbit has a smoking habit, perhaps; perhaps the dourest accountant over-charging on our tax prep is a weekend balloonist– or, more daring yet– a plummeting parachuting enthusiast.

Whether this need for othering ourselves, appropriating the ocean’s indigo, pretending a purpler sky, being winged in imagination whenever we watch a bird in flight, is the result of an evolutionary symbiosis of inner and outer selves or some kind of meshuggeneh co-dependency, I cannot tell. But I know that it cannot be otherwise. Real or unreal, one hand will always be reaching after realness–a stuffed, velvety rabbit dangling from the other hand. •

Gregg Glory
July 4th, 2017

I Confused by Honeysuckle, Childhood Misunderstood

Memory is liver than sight. ~~William Carlos Williams, Shadows

Night, Night

I sneak out to the fluid night 
Sky bedizened and soft grass 
Forever under my walking 
Trees besides assaying the hush 
Easing my looking, my seeing, 
Stealth in each threading step 
Holding stones I ache to unown 
Throw where vastnesses hide  
A lurker unloved among cosmos 
Among toads sowing yawps 
Into a black that is matte, that recedes 
As far as pupils' going knows 
Blue iris shuttered on nothing 
But stars' particulate light 
Fine as dust distilled 
Falling in my hair, on my face... 
As if the green, rackety backdoor 
Fixed and taped against winters 
And loosened each year for spring 
When mellow all comes welcome in, 
Now as I pass through to dark, 
Creaking the lintel, begins again 
To show the old summer places-- 
Constellations sleep had forgotten 
Opening straight into outerspace.          •

Tree of Death

I climb the tree of death 
My father climbed, his tree 
Growing in the cistern of a pool 
Drained for a winter longer 
Than any he knew before  
Where his bald cranium nailed 
The roots with a cross of blood. 
The tree grew with weeping, Dad, 
And I am climbing it, limb over limb 
From that empty pool, the cross 
That lifts from your skeleton  
Once quick with fat and wit 
Fleshed with a scorn of smiles
Lies that made you rich as sin 
And lost your sons forever--
How you derided the sticks of time! 
The sticks lift above me as I climb 
A brachiform blot on the stars, 
The knock in the ribs the heart keeps 
My only guidepost.          • 

The Niagara of Mothers

The maternal smell of water,  
That arrogant brake where  
The Falls drop into nothingness...  
Pillar mirrored by pillar and all  
Roaring white a colossal edifice  
In motion.  Where an edge  
Should appear blindness remains 
My hands empty before me 

Billows explode like ghosts  
Panting ripping toward the past,
The strained water--rapids  
Giving and failing like mothers  
Everywhere, and you  
No different, no worse.  
Mother, I would eat every lie, 
Every truth, to see for one minute 
You again!  A crowded brace  
Of mossy wreckage is teething  
The rubber bow before me:  
The glass plank hanging 
Over nothingness, deafness  
Roaring and then--          •

A Visit

          divine sparks or burning calories
          bodies and souls are on fire

The so-little graves of parents 
And the parents before them…. 
Are they only doused flames
The used-up candle wax sloughed 
Off, or resistless matches 
Held bravely aloft in the dark 
Tom Sawyer in his pirate cave 
Digging at crevices for treasure? 
I close my eyes for sleep 
And my flashlight finds you 
Instantly alive as Polaroids 
In pantsuit and dungarees, 
Bitching your way toward divorce
Even now, even in death
Even in the dreams I sought  
For solace.  I toe the muddled 
Earth between them carefully
Mother here, Father there
Looking for daisies among the weeds.
They lay there looking up and 
Talking:  Pity us!  Let the past 
Drop from our bones like teeth
Drip from our bones like wax
Or fade at least to pastel at last

So that you may paint your days
By what wayward light you find
And not these childish flares--
Vituperations, curses, our
Forever unfinished bonfire!          •


A spring resists its winding 
A road would rather be left alone 
A ballerina's slipper doesn't need 
A restless foot to complete it-- 
Entropy has ensigns of its own 
Signposts of rust, dusty accretions 
A look worn to translucence 
Like the detective's trick mirror 
Awaiting its awful candidate.... 
Fifty has given me a face 
Thin as a sail, as changeable 
Wanting only its original 
Darkness, the rubber bathtub 
That squealed me here, applying 
Disasterous brakes in a panic, 
Leaning into soft headlights 
That showed the indifferent road 
The ballerina's empty slipper 
And 10,000 empty days ahead--

But what could I do about it 
Sprawling in the icy nurse's hands 
The red spring in my belly 
Already loaded tight?          •

An Overturned Canoe

Under an overturned canoe 
We kept tacked in lieu of a dock 
On the edge of the old reservoir  
Welled like a waterbead overbrimmed, 
A height of welted skin but cool 
To the touch, I found my breath 
Echoey with surfaces among the ribs 
Of the overturned canoe. 

Fibrous light rooted in somehow 
Casting lines above me as I breathed 
In all that hollowness no one 
Visited but me, the lines strange 
As neon hieroglyphs racing bright 
Over my hands as I reached up 
Tangling in their starry business 
That swam the sky inside with me, 
An intruder in the web.          •

What Drought Brought

When our reservoir was holding  
Its breath, low, baring a shamble 
Hash of sticks, spills of pebbles, 
Dead trees like ribs of black water 
Or inverted umbrellas lost 
Straying in a storm that stayed, 
I'd slide on my dungareed ass 
To walk along the sandy skirt 
And saw how water corroded 
The world, the whole overcast woods 
Hanging precariously revealed 
As cloud bellies, wattles of roots 
Lumped above the nothingness 
I walked, fringed with iffy dust… 
Fragments of the caveworks still 
Wet with birthing and shy of light. 
I'd spend hours kicking stones 
All around the res's tender rim 
Wide as an eyelid limned in sand 
Getting the secret feel for once 
Where water had lapped and stripped
Of underground things unshadowed 
And made uncomfortably known-- 
Trees that couldn't run succumbed 
Spending years sometimes just leaning 
Over the horrible mirror.          •

Seasons in the Sun

How strangely the artifacts of childhood 
Grow in grown imagining!  When work 
Lapses like a gasp at dusk, a red wagon 
Rolls by the blue inflated pool 
Suzy splashed in, her puffy hair in knots. 
After dinner, among the table's bric-a-brac, 
Eyeglasses aside, the trees we ran through rise 
Acre on acre between the plates, games 
Of chase and war, indians and aliens. 
Vying like twin stags in the forest brake 
We pawed and clashed, cracking dead branches 
For antlers, bleeding after the prize 
Of who Suzy would take to the antic dance 
Beside her pink plastic Barbie player that spun 
Her one black record scratched to static: 
Seasons in the Sun.          •

The Golden Keyhole

We hid crouched, bunched to see 
What Sally had got on and what 
Took off, all those summer  
Days ago when no one knew 
Anything about girls, or boys 
Being dogs who wagged our tails 
And punched each other quietly 
Away from Sally's bathroom door 
Her brother had corralled us toward 
With stories beyond our ears 
Of slope and dip and fluffed cleft 
Darkly lapping like a wave 
Crashing us to pieces while 
We kneeled in mute accord 
Breathing the golden keyhole's steam.        •

Little Red Wagon

	when the thirst for love first came
	it was not calm or tame

Pell-mell and hell-all down the hill 
The little red wagon we rode on 
Skirted roots that promised gashes 
Skittled swaths of pebbles in a spray 
As the hill steepened its deepness 
And the battered path narrowed, 
A yellow ribbon in a dowdy wood 
Dappled for hand-held dawdling 
The naming of leaf and birdsong 
Not this rattled race to a quick crash 
Her smile big on my shoulder 
To nibble an ear while I steered 
With flailing handle in hand 
A gasp pushed back to teeth 
Jarring our muscles in dusts 
With an aftertaste of toothpaste 
And foretaste of ecstasy 
As we wheeled the last hairpin 
Squealing until the tears came-- 

And laughter after as we tugged 
Disheveled shirts and skirts back 
To playtime's regular order.        •


The grass burned with summer's green. 
We burned like grass 
With an end-of-school-fooling-
Around-the-playground fire 
Waiting for the eclipse. 
A midday moon was coming 
Like Pac-man to eat the sun! 
Our science class stood in a circle
Holding squares of smoky glass
Where horizons looked a moonscape, 
Our tree a hooded visitant
The school a blade of cave. 
At first the world went dimmer 
A weeping edge of cloudburst 
Closing one slow eyelid over us-- 
And then coldness seeping, a wave
A snowy wind from nowhere
Hastening through the grass. 
Half the sky turned turquoise,
Lapis lazuli wetted by a cloth 
Before we caught the sun 
Begin its blinking off: 
Its penlight kept getting whiter 
And smaller than a soul 
While a line of midnight skirmishers 
Advanced across the field;
Our school was disappearing fast 
Under the eclipse's dome! 
When we were fully underwater 
The birds forgot their song--
The silence kept us looking up
At wild ill-lit fins of sun 
Surrounding a dot of blackness, 
A circle like ourselves.          • 

Cutting Copper, Welding Voices

When the welder's laser torch 
Puts a blue tongue to the throat 
Of pipe length, a thin scrying 
Hisses pixel dust out of the pipe 
As it reddens in its vise-- 
When the cut is almost through 
When ruddy heat at one end 
Hurries hot air through the flue 
Dark arroyos of longing open
A soft moaning loosening
A low vibrato bass note 
Coming from the whole length 
Of scissored copper tubing 
The hopeless hollow sobbing 
Of a boy 
Not wanting to be heard.        •


Daily our fights like falling axes 
Felled love that buds in brothers 
Love that holds small hands like hafts 
Chopping winter wood in unison, 
Love that shelves all razorthin leers  
Of anger too high to easily reach-- 
Instead he teased snakestrikes over 
Nothing, over lies and pride, 
An inch chalked on a doorframe,
His fist with a reach like a whip
A slap that sounded like laughter
On cheeks red as slaughter
Until trust like a crumbcake was
Eaten, and your mouth full of spiders 
Cursed the dapper little fellow 
You first hugged, first learned to walk behind 
In his bleached and patched handmedowns 
To playgrounds and ponds and friends 
Who waved and climbed while you waited 
Alone, a little ignored, looking up 
Under high masts of sycamores 
His voice calling all pirates to battle 
And everyone in the neighborhood 
Crying ‘Aye, aye!' but you.          •

The Realness of Velveteen

At 7, the Velveteen Rabbit told me 
Real is a thing that happens to you 
Inflating himself off the page 
Left ear, right ear, a fuzzy balloon
Squealing alive into raw moonlight 
Decolorizing my room like 
Black-and-white TV into moon 
Valleys and moon hills, the fish  
A moon fish circling her lunar bowl. 
Two big feet thumped bopping 
Onto the polished floor, his rabbity 
Glance vulnerable as bubbles--
I looked down in surprise unfolding
Sleepy in my bluebird PJs
Watching his whiskers twitch
Unrolling my arm to hold his hand 
(Or had he reached up to slap
His long velour paw into mine?). 
Howsoever, barefoot together 
Floating over whirlpool bedsheets
We became realer and realer and realer
Like clouds do when their shadows  
Darken your house, a shiver arriving 
In the middle of limitless day 
And walked out the window talking.        •

Confused by Honeysuckle

Where tentworms had set up the dog 
Plunged through blindly his nose afire after 
The wet stick chucked amongst all them flowers 
Gowning down to grass like a giant's wig 
Old Dukey stuck with that ratsnest cobweb 
Blob of gossamer grossness, a felt patch 
Battened in his mane and over one eye  
While I hold him steady carefully combing 
Silken gauze off in knots from his pelt-- 
A mistake yes I'm sure of it for my part 
The throw all awkward at elbow and wrist 
Can't blame the stupid dog too bad really 
Dumb dog's just gonna sit there and watch me 
Catch it with the switch when Dad checks on us: 
Don't worry Dukey I won't hit you for it 
Confused with honeysuckle is all we were 
Really if you think about it fair and square 
The honeysuckle luminous today  
That had been beige grey just yesterday 
A riot of blossom and the scent like candy
Amid what yellow galaxy of stars--
As soft goodness as any nighttime Mommy kiss
When pillowy dreams come sifting in like mist
And now this unaccountable mess jesus 
My hands all full of broken silver threads 
The comb wrecked and suddenly I can feel  
The worms' irritated circling on my hands.        •

Cold Burial

One melancholy duty with a shovel 
Was chipping free bodies of birds 
Who threw themselves like snowballs 
Against our bank of 4x6 ft. windows 
Sunset after sunset thinking 
They're flying home to nests they know 
Through what looked a bit of woods 
Real trunks repeated back in glass
Hanging over a gorgeous splash 
Of frozen reservoir so white 
We played there wearing sunglasses, 
Cool skiers in ads for spearmint gum. 

Every evening like fireworks 
Birds thumped stopped against the view, 
Strange fish flat to aquarium walls
Leaving behind halo puffs of dust 
Lingering like fingerprints, then 
Flying off shaken and confused 
In a tangle of awkward wings 
Not ready to abandon air.
Others hit the snow jingling,
Icicles dismantled in a wind,
Small ribald scribbles of color laid 
At odd angles like a swimmer 
Photoed in Sports Illustrated, then 
Hopped afoot in one blink, one twist 
Flying away with a warning: 
Not all woods are woods indeed 
Nor home always where we expect 
Flying fast to beat the night 
And save our necks for sleep.

Next day I always found the worst 
Popsicled overnight, and carried 
Now by me to the frozen pile  
A pyramidal igloo sort of pile
Bigger every day until spring 
When wetwork and a proper hole 
Began to be dug--until then I
Nestled them gently down with "Sorry" 
And a shovelful of fresh snow.        •


Greggo the Great

I still remember when I first 
Saw a fan of cards like a wingspan 
Flutter from a magician's tuxedo: 
One fan, two fans, dozens fluttering, 
And from his upturned hat 
Into which a pitcher of milk 
Had threaded, doves--doves white  
As milk, their fantails crested 
Like wheels of cards appeared 
From the nowhere of elsewhere 
Black potentialities and spaces 
Emptiness like a new moon hiding  
The full moon in its shadow-- 
The trick of it invulnerable  
And real.  Afterward, backstage, 
I ran up to him, up to Gordo the 
Great, who simmered with the smell 
Of aftershave and success  
And asked if I, I too.... 
"If you, too, can be a magician?" 
He flicked a business card  
For his downtown magic shop 
From behind my ear with a whisk 
And a wink, into my palm, saying 
"The first thing you need, kid,  
Is a really good stage name."          •



Earthquake Minor,
Explained w/ humanity 
      not against it 
that's the kind of animal you are 
      not a robot, an angel 
      ~~Jacko Monahan, One-Legged Poetry



The world slides off in steam 
Not fire, not ice;  sweat runneled 
To a drain, and that is all. 
Skin snaps like a fresh umbrella 
And I am lily-new, lily-white 
In a rainfall of feathers 
Delighting the aging body 
Fold by fold that leap by leap 
Cartwheeled backyard sprinklers 
Hammered puddles in rubbers 
Through every storm that boiled 
Into cloudburst.... The world's no more 
Than a sentence away from youth, 
From death.  This rain has come before.        •


I run the razor on my face 
And wood shavings appear 
Around my bare feet, gathering, gathering, 
As the mirror's camera records 
My changes.  Whoever I am  
Becoming requires this quick 
Cutting away of old selves 
Face by ragged face, the razor  
Sharp and smooth, etching  
Occasional detours into highways 
The way a river basin ravages 
Itself into existence, in a new 
Groove among the ancient hills. 
My past lies in bleeding curls, 
Frets my wet feet--my ankles 
Are covered!  And my jagged face 
Is guessing its way out of its 
Riverine box, a man's face 
Not yet ready for death 
Slaps aftershave on a totem 
That slept in the treetrunk's grain 
All the days until yesterday…
It's rich itch of potential  
Bearded by bark, by years 
Adding ring on ring of routine 
In active indifference.  Today, 
My palm wipes condensation 
Like drawing a curtain--
With a shiver of hatchets 
A new, raw face arrives 
Chopped into the pole's  
Resurrected top.         •

The Bag of Oranges

Looking up through blue drafts 
My drifting boat spins, 
Knocks through narrows 
From the weedy wreckage 
Of an industrial wharf 
Wheeling to where breakers open 
In the flat-bottomed bowl 
Of simmering ocean. 
I left the dock I don't know when
Confident as a oarlock
A bag of emergency oranges 
Hauled along for safety's sake 
If the wind grew frisky
(Their scent a sack of sneezes). 

Now sky in endless arcs 
Roofs my journey 
Of hairpin skids and lapses 
Where water and weather 
Give no more guidance 
Than a drowning man's 
Weathervane arms-- 
I see that I am lost 
But not how I got here, 
Sense I am moving 
But not my motive. 
My rowboat's boundless arrow  
Spins like a broken compass; 
The bag of oranges  
At my feet 
Is nearly empty.          •

A Dance?

The average hours of usual day. 
Of course it is a dance, of course.          •

Holy Mackerel

          for Gabor Barabas

Shellacked to a bullet sheen 
Set mantelpiece high and aimed 
For the Azores or thereabouts 
Where fins inhabited life 
Eye more than a glass bauble 
Scales more glittering than paint 
Alive to plunge and feel the weight 
Of water water everywhere, a bliss 
Of frisson shuttling the sea's loom 
As I pace the shallow fireplace 
Weaving memories like wires 
Recalling taut strike and strife   
Tapping my pipe in Morse code 
Tossed between ashes and ocean 
A fisher admiring his rigid prize 
Visitor eye to museum eye 
Archeologist and the mummy-cloth,
Fingers flush against Pharaoh's belly 
Lingering where silvering scales 
Fall that flashed a fist for years 
A wake arriving after each flash 
A thousand wakes together like a flag 
Woven in meaning and motion
Invisible threads thrashing, streaming 
Pulling the living garment wet 
From the rack--supple, shoulderless 
Slim as in a dream but real 
Their choir of buried voices 
Liquid in every ear.          • 

Turtle Poem

An old turtle crossed west
A primordial stretch of highway, wide
Where cars came on in thunder
Under sun's dead lightning whiteness.
Time lay flat beneath his feet
That liked a sempiternal heat
Stepping to keep his slow appointments
Made before his egg was digged
And left mooning in the earth.
He is as a wheel of fire
Eating the strangeness of time
Eagerly in mincing licks!
For hours he walks the asphalt
Pushes grass with his hawk beak
Seeking mud and reeds and release
In doppler ripples of the old pond
Where he sighs sinks down and shows
Shyly until nighttime only
His nostrils above the waterline.          •


	and the seagull flying like a crucifix 
~~Emanuel di Pasquale

Walking into my long morning 
Shadow where I stretch 
Where tarry pilings stand  
Like me, like me charcoal-touched  
By shadow, anchoring  
A walkway flatness for my foot 
Where sand is slipping always 
And water winning landward 
Throwing coins of tideline light, 
I saw an arrow's smallness 
A seagull's crooked cross 
Crossing me with shadow wings 
(With shadow wings endowing) 
Where forward wind had slowed  
Him, then he lifted slowly over 
The glassware of the sea 
Taking my dark wings away 
To rumors only ocean knows 
And keeps in a deepness more  
Than me--though ocean deepness shone  
More homey, more close-in, more 
Interior after 
Our long morning walk.         •

Dream Split

My head a bowling ball again 
Trying to make the split for the win 
Fingers stiffed in mouth and eyes 
Her engagement ring in my nose 
Then screaming red down the lane 
The room ass-over-tea-kettle spinning 
Blond boards blood-slippery, waxed 
A mile long before I knock 
Pins apart, skinning my forehead 
(That'd been kissed to sleep last night) 
To its nobbled and native skull 
The one x-rays show rivered 
With fine lines and cracks, the plates 
Where thought first stitched to thought 
Hanging my face like a grass skirt 
From its ball, a curtain which winks 
Showing live eyes, dead teeth and the whole 
Vaudevillian rigamarole  
That directs my life like a puppet show 
Has me bleat ‘love' and mew when scratched 
Obey all traffic signs, dodge hazards 
And generally walk erect when  
My recalcitrant head's attached  
And not hefted on elbow and aimed 
A pinball flippered in an unknown game 
Rolling, rolling, rolling.         •

Metabolic, Metaphoric, Metamorphic

Paint slops, and there's a daisy. 
Another slop, and the reedy stem 
Fattens to a skeleton a brush 
Emboldens into form, into firm 
Outlines on a canvas, all those 
Acres of whiteness that yet need 
To be invented like the night 
Gestating day in its egoless cradle 
To see what shapes darkness dreams 
Revealed filleted by the dagger day, 
And changing even then through shadow  
Rotations as a sundial tells the hour 
And events defeat imagination 
And love and hate and envy, pride 
Deride their painted lineaments  
Besotted by chaos as Rorschach blots 
Until dreams carve the mystery again, 
Put paper people at their marks 
Assign the scripts and invent the day 
Like a play that only needs rehearsal, 
Conviction that the fiction's real this time--
And we awake fresh as paint to watch 
Day go incorrigibly awry.          •

A Jazz Enjambment

A jazz voice never listened for 
Emanates in syncopation 
From behind the closed door 
Inside a littered taxicab 
Stale as wet cigarettes
I duck to enter.  "Where  
Are you headed?" the driver 
Says over the river of radio 
The two voices braiding 
In my ear live and lithe 
Inviting as in a new-spun 
Dream a night journey 
From the low-watt dimness  
Of the shut door behind me 
On to where the roadway 
Lies slick and glistening, 
Whispers of earlier rain leaving 
The black wide pupil brimming 
With overmuch of emotion almost 
Save that the jazz voice busking 
Broken hearts brings strange 
Comfort, pain easing pain 
Telling me whatever dream 
Is rolling like a tear tonight 
Has rolled this way before.... 
Forlorn elms and watchful skies 
No strangers to what muted me 
To what had those radio voices 
Unspool like talking smoke 
I could inhale, inhale, inhale.          • 

The Entire Sky

The gentlest racket 
The rattle of a doorlatch 
Opening to beach fireworks 
Come so soon again 
While my quiet world grew 
Warm as two rheumatic hands 
Holding my face all those 
Cold years ago. 

You kept this house swept 
For company, the model boats 
In naval trim as Granddad had, 
Fresh zinnias on the tabletop, 
Lemonade twisted by hand 
And left sweating--once 
A bee struggled to his sweet 
Death in the glass-cut pitcher 
Like Snow White in her glass 
Coffin, but a bee instead. 

Tonight, the entire sky 
Will whistle and celebrate 
While I stand on the bare porch 
Of this now disordered house. 
My life feels abandoned, 
A boat spinning from its dock 

Into darkness, the tide out, 
The stars a chaos overhead…. 
So I think to turn back inside 
And slide into sleep when 
The first crack arrests me, and 
The whole bowl of the sky 
Fills with zinnias.          •

Questions Are Beautiful

The wry neck of a swan 
Wrenched into a questionmark 
Answers as the beautiful always do 
A question with a question: 
--Are you graceful only on the water? 
Can you read what's written there?
--Does your flight echo the soul's after death? 
I've never died before, have you?

Still as a lotus on the pond 
They float like clouds, like blossoms 
Mirroring heaven, while beneath 
Black feet revolve dark, strong webs. 
Taken altogether they are 
An image of contemplation 
That pushes the mind's mirror 
With black feet, strong dark webs. 

Fifty-five years and the pond remains 
Crowded with beautiful swans 
And questions;  here the sunset grows 
More lustrous as the minutes pass, 
An ember edging the water's tongue. 
Half-lifted swans batter their wings, 
Shoulders like a swimmer breaking free, 
Necks straight out into darkness.          •

Earthquake Minor

Notice of it came like a nail 
Jerked from a new-cut two-by-four 
A spiral squeal as if the walls 
Were papier-mache, fingered 
At the seams, tossed unloftily 
As last week's overtipping trash 
That hit the kitchen floor rolling, 
A pup obscenely frisking; 
Water hiccuped in the goldfish 
Bowl, lensing the orange fish 
Into a convex abstract. 

A neighbor at her balustrade 
Shouted "Earthquake!" her infant 
Swaddled close and looking up 
Babyishly at a cloud.          •

Botanical Gardens

A thousand swats of water 
Stagger leaf to leaf 
In the Botanical Garden dome 
The jungle flora breaking 
Into blossom like a swimmer:
Helliconia, orchids, monkey brush, 
A thrashing passionflower 
Stigmata-red and starred,
Glow among moroser leaves 
As we navigate the catwalk 
And consult our heavy guidebooks 
To ogle this pulpy Venusian 
Terrarium in Brooklyn 
As stranger voices skreak, and
Hidden wings restlessly emerge: 
Macaws, cotinga, oropendolas 
Unlimbering their leider 
To tattoo our eardrums as we 
Climb a ladder stairway up among 
Throngs of heavenly feathery hosts 
Whose language is not our own-- 
Clear panes of sky have exiled 
Pure spirits with us sinners 
Condemned to eat the bread and 
Birdseed sweated from our brows 
So hot to hear them singing 
Enchantments like a new beginning 
Before brother beset brother 
Before a sword bolted the gate, 
Turning slowly the great green leaves 
Wherein we read their world.          •

The Parachutist

"Love is letting go," I hear, 
Slapped through the cutout  
Into a sprawl of cloudwrack 
Imprecise as serried dreams. 
The air pins my limbs back 
And pressures a rictus grin 
As I swallow curls of screams: 
Such beauty!  Such beauty! 
Idealized shadows hang blue  
As Plato's ruthless smile 
Enlivening the skies.  Below, 
The world's laid out like a grave 
Ploughed for seed, all that Iowa 
Loam beneath clouds' pageantry,  
The wind so loud it is silence. 
I never felt my body more than 
In that moment of first falling; 
My eye all eye, my stomach 
A helium balloon, hands claws 
Legs stiff in a sculpted vice. 
I realized all I was was a clod 
Of earth--misplaced, tossed up-- 
Out of my element among  
White spires, candelabra touched 
By some genius of whimsy  
As I fell my way back home.          •

Rembrandt’s Faces

Are the most human, rueful 
And ruined of masterpieces 
Chafed into paper with a sad 
Wit too aware of time and time's 
Humiliating erasures, pulling 
From the wreck the sensual 
Wrinkles of Diana at Her Bath, 
Her rust-colored puckers piled 
Like a couch too long sat upon 
Thoughts too deep and grave to give 
Voice to their sorrow, words to marrow 
Until only a Zen charlatan's  
Shinbone flute is left tootling 
The haunting airs of fieldhands  
Which Rembrandt also drew, noting 
A muscular rangy strength 
Bundled arms and thighs bursting 
Bunches of blood grapes unpicked  
Weighty with harvest, while in those 
Hands so sensitively rendered hangs 
The black heavy arc of the scythe 
Swinging the wheat headless, 
Stroke after stroke of sketched wheat 
Under a crayon sun.          • 

Walking the Talk

Conversations rise around 
Us like hossanahs 
Flock after the Ark 
Of the Covenant-- 
A blessing that bathes 
The ears that see 
The souls it blesses. 
Words for the mendicant, 
Words for the wife, words 
For the ticket-taker 
Standing at attention at 
The theater of your life. 
Weavings, meanings, they 
Hammock us in wholeness, 
Two peas in a pod 
Of words, words, words. 
Asleep or swaying 
We huddle together 
In our sheltering web-- 
Not one, not one thread 
Of our woven home 
Would I snap.  Together  
We've talked the decades real, 
Together our time 
Abided.  Together 
We pull the needle clean 
Of the housing shroud; 
Together hoist up 
To our narrow, old 
Shoulders the Covenant.          •

In a Parkinglot

Workmen in orange vests 
Hammer at a cracked drain 
Seeking beneath the grate 
The vat blackness where water 
Like a shadow goes only 
Lately its been sitting here 
Stiff as a mirror the sun 
Beats his gold face upon.          •

Landing in Bed

	a country far away as health
	~~Sylvia Plath

Illness, Illness, a brimful life 
Cancered, ulcered, reduced, abridged
To a flat plate of licked gruel 
Stinks and sinks and embarrassments 
Unending as a diaper rash, 
The grinding doing of others who 
Orbit you, you who were Pluto, a 
Planet demoted to a sick cot 
Down a few organs at last count, 
A chore for the devoted.
You issue mewling protests, how
Even memories go icky grey 
In the daily wash, how only the steel 
Bedframe is real, the mealy 
Pillow yellow with unworked sweat 
While dreams of drowning drip-drip 
To wake you in a gasp of tubing, 
Walls cubed as an Escher etching 
Receding in series, a white mirage.... 
The whole house of cards kicked 
Flat on its back--and you too, clueless,
Sure to the end that death's just 
That fuzzy, unfazed after-light 
After a flash.          •

Michigan Lumber, 1886

The saw blade worked white to lick 
Dust from the living core of wood. 
Held taut between us double-dutch 
It's rhythm slithered like a lullaby 
Of bees cozied in closed peonies. 
Sweat that felt the wind kept wary 
For what might come to pinch our work, 
Turn the day to waste and wreck the blade. 
The tree was balanced now on less than half 
Of what had held it lofty all those years 
Before we came to use its strength for houses. 
With a nod we doubled rhythm now 
To surprise the pine that couldn't run away 
And keep our luck to leeward.  We'd apprized  
It'd fall between two garland oaks 
And lay obedient to be timber.  At a crack, 
We knew we'd psalmed the solemn child 
Asleep, and sang our saw blade backwards 
With a twang to watch all sleepy nature sway 
Like a woman dancing for her man 
A moment--and then the horrible crash like
Tearing ears. And silence like a blanket after that.

The Haskell Invitational

	 for a quintet of poets 

A constellation of friends 
In a Pegasus configuration  
Abet my summer writing jag 
As a fence abets a horse's 
Jumping form, legs strained 
To effort and flight, flashing 
Most where crossed 
Highest where hindered 
In the muddy brown stream 
Of his strong running 
From the starter's gun. 

Beyond their stoppages 
I canter in circles,  
The sacrosanct circuit  
Their stars have lit for me: 
Speech like a bettor's prayer, 
The finish-line a typewriter ribbon  
That breaks against my breast 
When a poem's intoning  
Is done. 

Each critique sticks 
Like a jockey's whip 
And foams my lips, the blinders 
Tight beside my eyes that
The little man above me might
Wear a new hat, I a hoop 
Of flowers like a yoke. 

All night I watch my brothers 
Revolve in races of their own, 
Myself a glimmering participant-- 
Summer's final star, perhaps, 
Shining under a coronal 
Flare of tail.          •


Clouds rumble their thunder bubbles 
Piling nimbus on nook and crag 
On etiolating white tendril where 
Shadow shoots like a handkerchief  
Patting away effort and sweat 
With cool assurances of talk. 
I talk my way around the lengthening day 
A simmer of indifferences
Affinanced to the lazy scuds above
Reluctant to come again to ground 
The dark of earth, the insistence  
Of grass... I am a brush that moves  
Among watercolor clouds.... 

Such afternoon summeriness  
Has left me leaning  
On dreams, the rifted  
Fabric of skies 
Tall as my leaning eyes.          •

Cry of the Cat

The cry of the cat 
Fat as a baby's cry 
Pricks me from sleep 
Up the long slope of day 
A ladder of witless pegs 
And serial embarrassments--
The stubborn self shudders away, 
A red stain licked on thick
Bruising splinters. 
Quickly everything is gotten  
Ready and dispensed with; 
Speedily the road rewinds 
From work to home. 

The cry of the cat 
Takes my coat, seats me.
Like a grinning cannibal I 
Dine on the dinner of myself: 
My heart a purple plum 
Gone splayed with waiting, 
A liver in ribbons, lungs 
Two worthless wordless sucks 
Of grey breath, a foot 
Coy and uncallused as 
A princess' palm.
I eat until the sky 
Is black.          •

Smoking the Pipe

Pulling open the tobacco bag 
To a stir of leaves 
Autumnal brown but moist 
As breath, the careful 
Mouth of the pipe 
Roots among rummage 
For a shovelful of coal 
I bring to my lips 
The bit between my teeth 
As a feather of fire 
Comes instantly close 
Enough to start a star 
In the bowl of Cosmos 
That had been blackness only 
While I inhale 
The furious engines 
As deep as lungs can go 
Without remitting breath 
From lips as round as song 
Which sends a signal 
Of heavenward smokes 
In spiral galaxies, a wreath 
Of woven laurels 
I dream may yet come 
As I shut my eyes 
To taste it all again, 
Redolent and resonant.          •

Dark Cypresses

Dark cypresses without sound, 
Soft upright voids, lofty flames 
Erasing the mission of light 
Standing as you do for night 
No matter how burnished the day 
Cut-outs hanging substanceless! 
Where are you going, where arriving? 
You black pantlegs on the march 
You dancers moving in plush rows 
In shoeless midnight dancing 
Touching the dreamer's cheek 
With moon shadow and snow shadow 
Drawing darkness from what depths-- 
Vaporous chill of damp earth, 
Living earth we know nothing of 
Who wander its surfaces like grass 
Noisy and dry in our myriads 
Like grasses perishing innumerably 
Full of the empty sounds of wind 
Passing, passing  
Beneath your great, grown silences 
Dark cypresses without sound  
Under sigils of your bonfire.          •

Among the Whales

Far off the port-beam sightings 
Of sainted spray, feathers 
High as houses, rollicking 
Toward the tourist powerboat 
Like quilled teams 
Of Shakespeare's copyists 
Hammering away at Hamlet. 
Soon enough their acres 
Of skin were all around us, 
A smell of industrial rubber 
Enclosing us in a dome  
As the spouts circled. 

Hills of humping muscle,  
Ailerons of fatal flukes 
Dark as midnight soil 
A midnight rain had wetted-- 
Sheets of living tissue 
Near enough to slap, it seemed, 
And we enraptured in the dream. 
Down came the feathered 
Waters, the bowing plumes  
Of drum majors among us 
Dancing a disparate rhythm 
On the slick deck.

And it was hot, hot as a kiss,
Hot as blood the spume spray
Splatting about us in blots
Viscid as afterbirth, 
And we grinned like kids 
Shamelessly running, running
Through tumescent sprinklers-- 
No awe, no shame at all in all that 
Fantastic whiteness blown 
Hissing around us.          •


III The Curve of Her World: Love's Conundrums

[Women] will do what they can once again to warm our gut and heart ~~John Logan, Dawn and a Woman

The Seneca Doe

The white Seneca doe is rare 
And here;  she nibbles on a swale 
Of cantilevered grass half past 
Its greenest age, more stale than hale--
Even so, the eaten grass becomes
A part of whiteness, swift whiteness 
Stepping quick like a compass tip 
In tentative exactness 
Measuring the left-alone landscape 
Two miles off the highway way 
Amid a mix of wood and field 
This buttery day I came to sit 
Stiller than a cenotaph 
And watch the Seneca doe awhile 
Go eloping with my hopeful soul 
Paper-white and puppet-limber 
Leaning through tree shadows like a ghost 
To eat and depart forgotten 
Had I not come in expectation 
To eye her oil-dark watchful eye 
In silence, and count the motions 
Of her lips as if anxious myself 
Of a lover's kiss, or writing 
Now of what I saw and did not miss, 
A lover's kiss recounting.          •

The Lost Rib

Flow gently, sweet dreamer who 
Lies beside wandering lost 
A lax magellanic cloud 
Of impulse and perception 
Shimmering rivery in summer 
With a sheen upon which desire 
Floats downstream sweetly 
Unswattable as starlight 
Reflected in water.  Desire, 
Is that what had the lost rib 
Run off by herself and grow up 
Into this unknowable companion? 
You would laugh to hear me  
Say it, but it was written  
Before we were born--a story 
More relatable than the news' 
Imaginings that twitter 
At us unprompted!  Un- 
Prompted as the dream that 
Seizes you curling your 
Fingers like ribs in tension 
Of a new birth;  what child 
Are you shuddering into life? 
Your eyebrows bow, approach 
And meet each other where 
A stream appears between them 
Dark in a pale brow, pinch 
And pang of the new-- 
Not novel, but new again, new 
To us, the forbears of a dream…. 
After a while your breath 
Slows re-regulates relaxes 
And it's as if the new thought
(New as you lying here was 
To me) was always here 
A ripple rubbing the stream 
Something for moonlight to touch 
Cascading beside me when I'm 
Prompted out of sleep;  or not, 
Always shining your own way 
Onward through what bonnie braes 
Sweet dreamer, flow gently.          •

Birds of Summer

Ladylike birds gather summer 
Like a brace of arrows 
Snapped in a fist, 
Their fetching feathers fletched, 
Their beaks stone arrowheads 
Out of pre-Colombian mists 
Darting at a spillway of seed, 
Eating the grain I gift them 
With the quick attention 
Of surgeons plucking shotgun pellets 
A childhood accident had left 
Inside my scarred left knee 
Keeping me bent-legged 
As a bird up any stairs, 
My ascent slow, unfeigned 
On wounded and winded wing 
To where Jenny sits at table 
Grading boughs of assiduous sheets 
Her student flocks have gathered-- 
Birdscratch of pencilmarks, false 
Flights and failed landings-- 
Her face in a nest of lamplight 
Looks up at my entrance, 
Offers me the golden grain.          •

The Curve of Her World

Tears that pepper her cheeks 
Refresh a softness in her gaze, 
Give back grace now the monster 
Sorrow has swum away to sea 
To bother other deeps, other shes 
While my darling thoughtfully 
Walks barefoot back ashore to me 
From over the curve of her world
Spatted amazed, pinching her top 
Back into place, even smiling 
And almost meaning it, meaning 
To mean it in the near future, 
Her face a new polaroid  
Shaken slowly into focus-- 
A dolphin of shadow darts 
Into tidepools of her eyes 
Come from her lone sea-sojourn 
Not all the days ahead will keep 
From circling the boat of us 
As she approaches my hammock 
Swinging like a hanged man which 
In tarot simply means ‘change.'        • 

Without Thought of Harvest

One summer we were proud 
To watch our overmuch of flowers 
Overpour their beds and out- 
Match the virtue of their stems: 
Downward nodded every head  
As if golden damozels  
Were bowing in rows.  It was  
An avalanche of flowers! 
Some tidal wave had landed 
And left the coastline richer-- 
Flower on flower beyond bounds 
With woes of colors cresting 
With splendid displays of petals 
Until overfull of feasting 
We closed our eyes to rest them 
As if blind inside the rainbow 
Dumb with a moment's prayer 
Amazed at what summer had made 
Of our refusal to be of use, 
To stop and stoop and pluck 
To sell at a corner stand 
At two dollars a bunch 
Sharing our garden bounty 
With the whole neighborhood,
Refusal to dazzle
With blossom and art the household 
Vases left shelved, closeted in dust 
 That last year blazed the tables-- 
How instead this untended gift,  
This unweeded bounty, had burst 
Without thought of harvest.          •

The Housewife

	Nature frightens us into love. 
	~~Richard Poirier

I kiss my husband's cheek, 
A fine grit that acts like teeth. 
Every day I wear away another 
Layer in a kind of decay until
I wear a face like a knob. 
Turn me, I'm too smooth to complain! 
I fall backward like an open door, 
An empty rectangle you lean on-- 
Come in, I'll lead you everywhere.          •


I feel that she might just be 
The medicine that I need 
The bland to allay my acids 
The dagger to scissor my spasms--
Her blasé cloud covering 
A sun of pain like a figleaf,
Tinsel edges forge-orange
A spiky halo hinting fire. 
But a bandage is not a cure 
For self-harm, self-alarm, for
All the selves I peel back, rank 
Tooth and sputum in a dish
Sordid splats of blood, of blood. 
Still, I feel that she might be 
The balm-calm bee in a mad hive 
Dancing the buzzing huzzahs 
In my mazy eyes to hush 
Me to sleep like a spill of inks 
Blotting out the bastard day 
To dream and dream again, the dream 
Forgotten as they always are 
Telltale shreds of mist diminishing… 
The bandage renewed as the 
Wound's renewed, my hacked scabs 
Growing spider legs 
Tearing themselves off and running.         •

The Mistake

Love has torn my life in two: 
Before and after the--then glad, now sad-- 
Mistake as I have come to call it, 
Defining my eras by error as 
I look back upon my footsteps' track. 

Love had pulled me through the needle's eye 
And stitched me witless with desire 
Told my tale upon a pillow seam 
And rocked my soul from its lonesome groove, 
Locked in a dance I could not unchoose. 

When the ship of me then foundered sundered, 
My wreck picked to ribs by bony crows, 
Naked I arose to mosey onward, 
A worm escaped from Eden's apple. 
A gate slid shut with a sound of oceans.


A tourniquet of love 
Enwounds my finger now 
Like honeysuckle holding up 
Its triumphant yellow bloom 
On a dead net of twigs 
Too long alone with the sun. 
This ring of elfin silver 
Braids my knuckle white, 
Brands me with a lash of fire, 
Connects beyond abandonment 
Another's troubles with my own. 
My fear that love would loosen 
Like teeth, and leave me to worm 
My way to death alone, 
Our small ceremony atones-- 
Hands held lightly, like branches cross- 
Ing, two pines that share a shadow 
In acidy sandy soil for all 
Their lives, bristling against the weather, 
Pinecones cuffing like coughs 
When wind beats them sideways.          •

Spines of Light

The black conveyer belt 
Hauls rivers of diamonds 
To a mouth of slush, 
A slurry of vomit 
Only patience can screen-- 
Patient implausible fingers.  
Some raven that lives in  
Midnight with a beak  
Like a drill-bit pecks  
Earth's holocaust crust 
To perch upon a finger 
One tear of the sun.  

It takes a diamond 
To find a diamond:  
The three-faced drill 
Cores stone and coal  
Seeking a vein  
Of light, a ripple 
In the earth where  
A finger, a snake  
Of sunlight died, 
Crushed multifaceted 
Into permanence-- 
Spines of light.           •

Juliet Manqué

The moon pulls me from bed 
Like taffy in my long gown 
Tittering slipperless on marble; 
Its wide craters effervesce 
Champagne I drink pinkly
Pearling my snub nose. 
I am pitiful and alone. 
My legs ache for embraces 
Like a bad tooth--pull me
Out, pull me up, dentist moon!  
This pain's too intimate  
To forget, too stimulant 
To ignore, painted wet 
With every cup of breath, my 
Loose arms open like a noose 
To hug the tainted stone flying 
Away, away from love, from me.
Come down!  Come down!
You foolish light!  I am your perfect lover-- 
A windowed prisoner pressing 
Her moon-face to the glass.          •

The Beauty

She cut off her nose 
And offered it up. 
She trimmed her ears 
And offered them up. 
She kissed her lips numb with a shot-glass 
And offered them up. 
Her skin broke out from her makeup, 
But that was to be expected. 
She punched her feet into guillotine shoes 
And offered them up. 
She prayed on a yoga mat 
Until her back broke. 
She despised her eyes as too small 
And offered them up. 
She coaxed her nails into claws 
And offered them up. 

She offered them all up 
Again and again in ritual 
Until there was nothing left 
Until she was finally beautiful.          •


Hazel streamers from your eyes 
Entangle in ribbons from mine 
According to Renaissance lore-- 
Love pulls us through the eyes 
Feels the ganglia tugging taut 
As rainbows arise between us. 
I hold your nipples like a rosary 
Sensitive this week as eyelids 
While always this prayer is rising 
To dissolving lips a red scarf 
Thrown over the bedroom lamp 
Burning swollen as a heart.          •

Finding Fossils

	I hugged the ignorance of stone. 
	~~ Stanley Kunitz

She lies next to me sleeping 
Quietly alive, foot off 
One end of the double bed 
Steadily paddling home  
On a pool-float, her breast  
Milkily over the summer sheet 
Draped loose in summer heat 
That breath might sustain an ease 
And stillness enter at last to rest 
As at last she rests, yes, while I  
Remember her ceaseless wheels, her  
Doing that goes like a hummingbird 
In circles of forward and back 
Around the daylit apartment 
Around work and it's circuits 
Pacing the corners, igniting  
With fingertip tricks and a match 
Candles when evening loving comes 
And touching stretches, being thrums 
Until at last this sleep arrives 
Slows the breath undoes the eyes-- 
Her able hands for once so calm, 
A fernprint on a stone.          • 

Dream No More

Wordlessly you rise wary 
Into day, pitch awake 
On an L-elbow, pried eyes 
Carnivorous for coffee while 
Birds pinch your face with their 
Enviable singing outside, 
The flimsy scrim of screen 
Inundated by waves of sun 
Defining you out of darkness 
Like a rediscovered key 
Picked out by drunken headlights 
Last New Year's Eve, or last before-- 
And you moan into the mayhem 
Of consciousness again 
Pressure of bladder and bowel 
How feet flatfoot the earth after 
Flying for hours in nightgowns 
Knowing nothing but wind 
The occasional cloud-fluff 
Stars everywhere like friends.          •


I mend an image worn 
By sitting, by fluffing, by naps: 
A spatter of nasturtiums 
In a delightful but unnatural pattern 
Printed on the drugstore's  
Two-dollar needlepoint kit 
In 1983.  Now I mend 
A confusion of nasturtiums 
Back to crimson, petal by petal, 
A task for Ariadne 
My spidery fingers finesse 
In evocations of thread. 
My heart dreads 
I shall not survive to renew 
This pattern again-- 
Some stranger's backside will come 
To endorse all I've done, 
All I've left undone... 
My basket of needles long sold 
Garage sales ago. 
I pause my pace 
And stare at the half- 
Resurrection in my lap, 
How the new infects the old, 
How the old degrades 
Beautifully as a sunset 
By Turner perhaps, or some 
Byzantine icon touched 
By too many lips.          •

IV Tightropes: More Formal Poems

Wisdom changes hands among the wise. ~~Sophocles, Oedipus Rex


Gently, without hurrying, try it: 
     Be the bowl of shadow in the valley, 
     Go with the river over knowing stones 
     Smooth as a catfish belly. 

Let pine trees breathe needles in your hair: 
     Follow that compass where it points, 
     Walk until your feet are padded, 
     Your toes as black as a fox's. 

The wind is trembling to begin it: 
     Are you ready to be led by the nose? 
     Forget your own life and inhabit it! 
     Gently, without hurrying now, 

Try it.          •


Walking curb edges for practice 
The tracks of departed trains 
I've sought, I'm always seeking 
A kind of balance in the brain 
An equipoise, a perigee, a grace 
Where thought and its subject 
Equally displace 
Each other (and themselves) 
On principles of mutual alliance 
The way Earth pulls back  
Her punch into the sun, and sun 
His enthusiasm contains 
To less than hellish flame. 
So that survival might feel 
Restful, I beaver at my niche: 
I count my words like beads 
Into the sorting dish: red, 
Blue or black, alive or dead, 
I've all the signifiers assigned, 
All the labels that I need 
To have my cusséd abacus succeed 
--To keep my accounts unsettled 
That entropy would nettle. 
I count the wordy beads: 
Charity, dignity, hope; 
Keeping your head up is like nothing 
So much as walking a tightrope.        •

Water, Water

        ...deep dark surroondin' darkness I discern 
     Is aye the price o' licht. 
    ~~Hugh MacDiarmid, Milk-Wort and Bog-Cotton

Downcast as thoughtless waters' face 
When a stormfront steals the light
I boot the edging muck and wail at fate 
A boxer simmering for a bout; 
But when the spry sun cast coins 
In cash on bricolage waves 
My spirit like a new-washed face 
Shines benign, myself am salved and saved. 
Well long lying I've watched for dawn, 
Well known the subtle cups the moon 
Pours on darkling waters' scorn,
Sibilant ease in which night is born….
And oftener still felt sprigs of spray 
Whip, dot and whisker me for spite 
Turning my inmost grouse of thought 
To imp-laughter and wet delight. 
A thousand hours down on elbows, low, 
I breathe the skirl of air from off 
The dance, the mantling of the lake-- 
Shavings, glintings of light and self.        •

One Afternoon

The sun swarming on my upturned face 
Warms me into place. 
If ever I moved from where now I lay, 
Love, it was not today. 
Long hot summer holds me so hammock-snug 
Gott could call, and I would shrug. 
I'm a cat whose paws overstretch its stoop; 
Night is when I leap!          •

New Places

I thought we were going somewhere new, 
A place undiscovered, at least by us, 
Where new day would startle us quietly 
And new night silently confound. 

But there were all the old stars above us. 
We hadn't taken the turnpike far enough 
To reach escape velocity, despite our losing 
Home and cell phone coverage along the way. 

All around us, trees kept on being trees, and  
Although the land crept up the sky somewhat 
More than usually for us in old New Jersey, 
The clouds came down to meet it just the same.

A Map of Bones

Tiptoe on the mountaintop was not enough. 
Some part of me sparked up crying: more sky, more sky! 
My eyes swept the flowered hills, and the gulfs 
Where the water went, and sometimes hazed, 

And none of it, sparkle or living quilt, was enough. 
Inside me, full of burning teeth, was the eater of days, 
Dissatisfied dipsomaniac of incalculable thirst 
Dragging me from mountaintop to top 
For vistas so magnificent they hurt. 
The body follows its map of bones, laying out 
Fingertip, fingertip, fingertip--or tilting 
The pelvis upright to see how we're not alone  

As we walk the flat unpatterned plains between 
Thunderclaps of mountains that help us up, 
Whose stone bones grow so long that they poke 
Through the scenery.          •

The Dancers of Sleep

The dancers of sleep hold flames in their hands. 
We follow them down into caves, under the earth. 
Stones glare into existence, bursts of incredible light. 

Tall blade-shouldered creatures fearless in daylight 
Walk like Egyptians down the dusty path clapping hands 
To awake the napping bats entangled in edges of shadow.          


All day the steeple bells 
Harangue an empty sky. 
The sky is crowded with clouded 
Now, and will not answer why. 

The trees themselves are swinging 
Like bells held up to skies. 
The sky is silent and itself 
And will not answer why. 

The birds compete with tinny 
Bells alert in tree and sky. 
The sky is blue, alarmless 
And will not answer why. 

A man comes late on silent feet 
Between trees and bells and sky. 
The sky he looks at satisfies; 
He will not answer why.        •

Day and Night

Into the woods we ran at ten like Indians. 
Into the pond we dove at twelve like crocodiles. 
Into the grey fields we walked at thirteen 
Holding hands until stars nosed close 
     And loneliness fled. 

Before the old fire's fine red we sit, and stare 
Into the old years we've passed together here. 
Into our old eyes unbidden rise grey tears 
And old stars come down close to us 
     And loneliness flees.          •

This Soil

The soil is ready before I am ready. 
Already a youth's beard of weeds 
Greens the garden plot, and March 
Just barely by. 

This soil has turned up old arrowheads before. 
When the hoe tapped a hardness more than stone, 
I bent and cut a finger open 
Down to the bone. 

This soil loves a tender thumb pushed in, sighs 
At the tamp of my palm under our one sun, 
The gurgle-tinkle of water from the rusty can 
A baby's cry. 

The soil boils with vegetables all summer long. 
I stoop like a mother, attend to weeds 
And pack my ratty baskets to a crown  
While singing songs. 

This soil needs turning under, now winter's here.
Hoe, rake and shovel lean idly in the shed. 
Dry leaves blow among the picked stalks lisping 
Death's easy hiss.          •

The Trouble with Simple

Simply put, is the loss 
Of detail that staring entails 
Until a total blur besets 
The doilywork, and only 
Loops of cloud remain. 

The trouble is where to begin 
Sanding the filigree finial, 
Erasing the Hindu panoply 
And awakening the grain 
Of Amish monotheism. 

The trouble is when to stop, 
When polishing reflects the polisher, 
When steel and stone, spoon 
And moon, are one--and only 
A mirror to your circles. 

The trouble is with hummingbirds 
And bees and butterflies, all those 
Eccentric improbable flights stopped  
Cold, or reduced to arrows, or 
Gravity's earthy entropy. 

The trouble with simple, simply 
Put, is how one keeps forgetting 
To edit, adding totem on totem  
To the pole, chop by magnanimous  
Chop, in beneficent indifference.          


Childhood's millpond margin smells of peat; 
The black water drowns thirty feet; 
Millenial mulch slowly sifts to silt, 
Soft on my ankles as tongues of guilt. 

Our laughter echoes to where woods turn wise 
And dark beyond intelligence; 
The pulpy water we swallow and spit 
With shredded swimming light is gilt. 

Arms to arcs, we frogleg to the mill-wheel, 
Catch an edge where supple water spills, 
Turns small voices to shouts against the rush 
Of liquid Time's naked churning push 

Piggy-backing shoulders, while the stone lip 
Syllables oblivion, invites a slip.-- 
We grind ourselves red-handed as we grip 
And watch the jagged water jump.          •

The Homestead

The house that had me call her home
Where I went from pip to grown
Showed me, among her nestling trees,
Our reservoir's sparkling restful ease
Where a thousand flattish stones were skipped,
Quizzed the surface of what is with ripples
Then sank to nothing known by man or wish
Who would not plunge awhile and be fish.
This house that had my childhood kept
Has herself grown double with subdivision
And invited others into her provision
To hear new voices slide from treble down
And down and down and right on into ground.


Time, faceless, stares all faces 
To tatters;  unarmed, disarms 
Quick bullets with slow rust;   
Legless trips the sprinter 
With age's crutch;  breathless, 
Breathes first and last. 
Of all songs the tempo, time; 
Of all debates the winner.  Time 
Furls the trimmest sail, marches 
Crowncrest mountains down 
To hills, pounds hills to sand, 
And sand to I know not what. 
Killer unkillable, time;  death 
That dies not.  Time is free  
That imprisons me, that,  
Senseless, robs me of sense--is dust
That drowns my every word 
In oblivion and silence.          •


Where our engagement flowers have fallen 
Flares awaken, soft forceful eyelids  
Like light-stitched depths of gems held close 
(As this amethyst ring in earth was held, 
Loved for the fireworks it reflects: 
Diamond-pointed lotus petals--perfect.)

Fox and Rabbit

She knew all 
And I knew naught; 
Thus the Fox 
The Rabbit caught.          •

The Gift Refused

My mistress is throwing away her scarves 
That had wound in her tresses like tentacles 
Tightening coils of beauty like the stars 
In the black of her night hair, heavy and full.-- 
One by one they flutter in bright spirals 
Dropping to the pebbled earth below her, 
A pile of starshine like vines in piles 
Throbbing with wind only, no longer her fingers. 
"Out of my hair, threads and deeds of yesterday; 
Out of my house, Tommy, whatever you say."

The Pig of Day

VanGogh's hills arise like muscles 
Blended with broken sky--a blue 
Of veins and midnight tears and 
Much else besides.  A wand loaded 
With oils random enough to curse 
Clarity from eyes' wilderness of use 
Until the pig of day had ravaged him 
Calm with truth or tooth.          •


Age is a nylon stocking 
Pulled distorted over the face 
The waxen features melt and fall 
The under-eyelids distort 
Like gutters torn from the roof 
Their salty waters tumbling 
Past a warty demeanor  
Into weak neck-drapes tacked back 
To showcase the final act 
--A farce, a tragedy, whatnot. 

Chase the kisses you once reviled 
In your most secret heart. 

Your grave's turned down like a bed, 
Grasses pulled up to the chin; 
The time you had is passed, is passed 
Never again to begin. 
Your last supper is laid with wine, 
Fillet the time most finely; 
Taste the avid meat upon your plate, 
Tuck in, tuck in! 
Tear the knotted nylon from your chin 
That faded lips may part: 

Chase the kisses you once reviled 
In your most secret heart.          •

What Scent

What scent is this but dust: 
Lilacs in their manifold bloom 
Bluebells dangling from vein-thin stems 
Red roses reaching up in wrath 
Thistles with their blistering hats 
Dogwood eating its feast of whites 
Moonflower showing her face at night? 
Inhale, inhale, till lungs burst! 

Here's silly Annie, not two, not yet, 
Old Stan crotchety in granddad pants, 
What scent are they, what role fulfill? 
Marjorie panting on the pink bedspread 
All those kisses new love's been fed, 
What scent they, for breathe we must? 
What you, what me if't comes to that, 
What scent are we but dust?          •

Deceptive Airs

Spring again has brought 
Such loveliness, such access 
To one's pores 
How can one conceive 
Of death the ogress, or guess 
One's rotten to the core? 

Oppressive summer sweats 
Too aggressively, undresses 
Our thoughts of nimble ambling 
Through woodlands and the wild-- 
Reduced to indoors and nude 
In a tub of ice cubes: 
Less adventurous, more umbilical. 

Autumn's rousing storms 
Reminds the body of its bones 
Drops fruit in wanting buckets,
Blonds trees, hawks walks; 
With every wand'ring breeze 
Fills bellies fee free 
With a salesman's generosity. 

Winter's icy indifference 
Deepens the sense of deception-- 
The false clarity age manages, 
But only in its cage: 
Trees scribbled with a writer's rage, 
The sky an empty page.          •

Like Cake

"God's a phony," my professor said, a hipster.
"Even the news is fake.  Prayer never works." 

At midnight I drink my Pabst, kneel 
And throw the dice;  prayer never works.

I emptied my pockets and took my hat;
Pulled over halfway home;  prayer never works.

"Three hundred dead" the newscast said.  
I sobered in the dirty dotted light.  

"Sarin gas smells like incense at first,"
The translator said, "like cake."  

By daybreak, my eyes a sandpaper glitter,
I hear myself say: "Gregg, prayer never works.

Put a prayer in every word you make." 

Playing in the Orchard

You had run up into an apple tree 
In a springtime game of hide-and-seek. 
All the world was empty as you hid from me, 
And I ran down aisles of apples for a peek 
Of your skirt disappearing, or a shoe fallen off 
Into the green green grass, empty and soft. 

It was apple-blossom time, and time 
Told me you were lost, the last year's 
Apples weighty and rotten on the ground, slimy 
Beneath my hurrying feet.  In fear 
That you were lost to me, I collapsed 
Beneath the scent of blossoms in the air. 

I was looking up... it was the nearest thing to heaven...
A soft blindness of flowers everywhere... 
I looked up... it was heaven... and you were there!

The Hummingbird’s Apprentice

 [Poetry], Hummingbird's Apprentice  Comments Off on The Hummingbird’s Apprentice
Feb 042020


Gregg Glory
[Gregg G.  Brown]

Roadside Wine   1

Counting the Stones 

Summers Ago   5
A Batch of Blackberries   6
Counting the Stones   7
Grief House   8
Tough Cutting   9
On the Porch Swing  
(with My Widowed Aunt)   10
Just Once   11
The Lost Sun   12
Hangovers   13
Evening at Last   14
Where I Sit   15
Aquatic Life   16
The Enormous Teacup   17
The Hummingbird's Apprentice   18
The Years   19
Apple, Bowl, and Book   20
Afterburn   21
Far in Winter   22
December Woods   23
Duck Pond in Winter   24
Hunter's Lament   25
Advent Calendar   26

Music for Beginners 

Being Born   29
Music for Beginners   30
The Go-Round   31
Counting Stones (2)   32
Going Long   33
Yard Work   34
Black Keys   36
On the Open Prairie   37
Road Trip   38
Momlets   40
Dance Impromptu   41
Tulle Girls   41
Almost Lost in the Ladies' Department   42
Origami   43
Arranging Chairs   44
In Right Field   45
In Darkness   46

Star Rise 

Identities   49
Night Thoughts  in a Time of Quiet   50
Star Rise   51
The Black Dog   52
Guitar Lessons   53
Balance and Air   54
Stealing Little Things   55
Catnip   56
Bleeding Hearts   56
The Neighborhood Peacock   57
Licking the Frosting   58
The Pillow   59
Winter Nights   60

The Eat Line 

Turning Forty Alone   63
Breakfast on the Patio   64
"In the Widening Gyre"  65
Three Martinis   66
The Eat Line   67
The Outboard   68
The Retired Sheriff   69
Bad Dreams   70
Still Life with Sunflower   71
Minotaur Eyes   71
On Winning the Pulitzer   72
The Metaphor for Ordinary   72
‘68 brought the riots   73
Swallowing Castles   74
Through Mullioned Glass   75
Blind Feathers   75
Reading Light   76
Sentences   77
The Days   78
Packaging   79

Seeking the Fathers 

Appalachian Spring   83
Circles   84
Swimming Lessons   85
The Adulterer's Dream   87
Divorcing   88
At the Dock   89
The Bronco   90
The Busted Greenhouse   92
The Craftsman   93
Freshening the Day   94
Cart-Wrangler   95
Black Rat Snake   96
Meadow   98
A Frozen Waterfall   99
Rearview   100
Dad's Navy Cap   101
Casting Lines   102
Laundry List   103
Burning Wasps Nests   104
Workbench   106
Going Bald   107
The Jellyfish   108
Seeking the Fathers   109
Swordfishing   110


Seeking the Fathers   113
Coda: Persistence   129

Under the first stars, there by the back gate, secretly, I
Would relieve myself on the shamed and drooping hollyhocks.
~~ Don Justice irritation of pearls...
~~ Emari DiGiorgio



Pull off 71 suddenly, onto
a wide shoulder of dust and grass.
Yellow loads of honeysuckle
weigh down a length
of brown barbwire fence
like a wave of honey breaking.
Excited, splash ankle-deep 
into the unhurrying surf
full of velvety bee sounds, and select
one perfect blossom.  It is
so sweet in the slow afternoon.
And, where you've cut your thumb,
a thrill of air catches.




Our house was not a house until we built it--
Cobbled together like lincoln logs,
	Pegged, dovetailed by pain,
		By tragedy
	Where the corners stain
And the past gets lost, frays to fog
Surrounding nothing until the house was built.

Here, eons flit quick as mayflies--fireflies
Flooding summers ago the orange-rusted screens
	With night light, untouched
		By tragedy....
	Or so we had thought
As we looked upon the shining scene,
Our faces lit with the glow of new-born bodies.


Blossoms along the briars, then waterfalling 
Berries the barnstorming birds beak up, berry 
By berry, like jugglers swallowing beachballs,  
Eating ripeness to the core.  We picked    
And pawed through hooping crooked aisles, picked 
Pecks and bushels box by box, till the cart up-  

Ended its gorgeous, uneven load.   

Hands speckled purple with theft and blood, 
We said grace in the evening kitchen,  
Mom kneading, then flattening, the dark pies fresh,  
Crimping crusts and stabbing little V-birds  
Neat as her needlepoint stitches  
Above the hot talkative core of berries inside.  


Always I count the stones
Flagging the mausoleum walls
Smooth-bore as a musket barrel
To find where Mom is housed.

Flowers poof from trumpetlike tubes
Screwed in along grey walls;
Here errant bees half-drowse
Beneath one skylight's encasing blue.

My sneakers squeak weakly.
I'm almost ready to go home
Right away.  To sit upright, alone
On my red, narrow balcony

Until the eerie eaves at sunset
Flare tears from eyes they castigate
--And I go inside to escape
The scattershot dusk.


an unfathering
This is the house that grief built:

Mute and shuttered in morning sun,
Painted in place, dead end of the street--
A still life dark-shingled with welts.

This is the house that grief built:

Old closets half-full;  old belts, hung ties.
Kids elbow the sill, close oil-laden eyes,
Asleep in a house asleep in the silt.

This is the house that grief built:

An ordinary house if anyone looks,
Newspapers in piles, the phone off the hook--
Unfinished, uneased from easel and stilts.

A portrait uneased from easel and stilts.



Tough cutting the thorny rose-shrub stems
Short to fit a pouting vase while mouthy blooms
Put their tongues out to the empty room.

Your absence pricks, a resisting briar.   
I suck the blood that comes--to quiet fear,
And taste myself what heart to lips may bear.

If green thorns toggled must auger hate,
Who's to say love's rose is not as great?
Tears release from me what would hesitate.

Each rose is soft as skin, nodding sure
And warm as a love-wiped tear,
Close as you yourself once nodded near.

Daily we twist stem and stem more twin in love,
Cultivate a trellis beside a sunny grove,
And train our cultured roses to rise above.


What I remember most
(Beyond the rack and creak)
Was how the sun got lost
In memories of ghosts....

Her voice had the shake
Of wind in a weathervane,
Trees isolated by a lake
Before the rake of ice-storms.

Father gone and brothers, then
(As if such conversation were the norm)
The dark years of pain
Intensest before morn.



I don't know exactly what to make of it. 
Out in the early frost, a yellowish, dull  
female cardinal hops, eyes black as coffee, 
her feathers patchy with winter hunger. 
She hunches at the feeder as at a fire 
and snaps whatever bursts from the dark seeds-- 
then wipes her beak on her stale overcoat 
and takes off.  Just once, I'd like to jump 
off my porch and out of my own life like that. 


It seemed dawn was coming out of glimmering black,
Like music lifted from a scattered page of notes
And a few straight lines to help the lost sun back.

No, I don't think the sun particularly like Hamlet,
Too much itself, and, so, blinded and lost.
I think the end of night deserves its little speeches yet:

Here and there a lover's alba, cracked and strained
With adolescent rage, a cheater's charley-horse.
Song anyway is all of a piece with pain,

The vertigo of a wildly spinning top
That brings the blood to our fingertips, makes voices hoarse.
We want it to go on and on, or desperately to stop.



a middle-aged alba
Lace lifts like ladies' hems
Up sunlit hillsides--
Last of the evening chill.

A muffled alarm, then

Light's beaten 
Stark along spindly tree spars,
Masts of burning bark.

Coffeeless, craving, sore

Out of sleep's black seas
Eyes wrestle to shore,

The tears, the light, the loss.  



There was less there there
Than there seemed.  Diminishment's

The word, maybe, for how
Sailboats on the Navesink

Butterfly along lemon rinds
Of Sol's oracular light.

I and my mortality
Diminish with the harbor-bay;

I remember how tender acne
Ached where now I'm grey.

All the day I'm left with
Feels brief and hot as breath.

How half-sides of buildings, at sunset,
Darken and congeal--

As if dark rain poured forth
From torn gutters, red, and real.


The quiet accumulates
Visibly.  Invisibly, I mean--

Like a weight of dirt
Deep in the heart, moist.

On my lap the embossed album,
Bound and fading, of Polaroids.

Dad had clambered here, as a
Kid, on this ticking porch;

Like a weight of dirt,
The rocker's metronome, now.

Ripples of time accumulate
Toward the lake-rock where I sit:

Mostly it's memories, the quick
Eyes of the dead ones, now.

They look at me with all the slow,
Awful power of sunset.


All night the hum of the aquarium 
breathing, the soft babeo
of the electric respirator 
hitched at the back of the tank, 
the last fish in there a widower. 
He swims around his sand castle 
day and night in circles,
nibbling flakes of manna that fall 
in slow gold from a mercury ceiling,  
spinning like a mad flamenco dancer, 
gills flaring in aggression displays, 
rushing the mirrory walls of his life.


I slip into an enormous teacup 
broad and smooth as an Olympic pool, 
simmering, minty and tinted. 
Faint greenish steam curls 
my heavy hair as I backstroke  
toward the regulation diving board 
white as a horizontal monolith-- 
I am impatient to be perfect, 
to lift from the dazzling waters 
and jackknife and disappear 
beneath its opaque surface.  
The tannic tea surrounding me
is warm, like blood, like I am
swimming in my own blood. 
I open and shut my body into the flow 
like a diamond, like one of those 
origami fortune-tellers 
kids knead in easy fingers, 
happy with random answers. 


Stand still like the hummingbird.
    ~~Henry Miller
If only I could stand 	
still like that hummingbird 
looking carefully into one honeysuckle 	
blossom like a bargain shopper, 
tipping the small blossom forward 	
until it, too, was bowing. 

(If only I could be 
patient, patient!) 

Just that one, 
as if those thousand other flowers weren't 
bursting like gunfire all around--
as if the hummingbird itself 
had nowhere else to go 
on invisible wings. 


His mind is bright and empty as the sky. 
His head is shiny too, as are the shoes 
He polishes each and every Sunday. 
Life makes sense in the Great Accounting. 
When, one day, the ambulance arrives  
To ferry him prone to the hospital, he notes 
In one corner of an almost clear sky 
A crow whisking the clouddust. 


Arranging a few, nude things (apple, 
bowl, and book) on a flat table 
in the flat light of Tuesday morning--
one way one day, and another way 
the next (bowl, apple, and book), 
and pushing his paint against them 
steadily as sunlight over everything 
(book, apple, bowl), the painter's 
irreducible poverty (self, self, and
self) intrudes on his objects (bowl, 
book, and apple) and saves 
rags of them on a rag of canvas. 

When done for the day, having run 
out of evasions, he wipes the sunlight 
from his sticks with a rag, and drowns 
them in turpentine.  


Tired of my own thoughts 
I turn out the light 
watching my wrist disappear 
with a hairy flicker. 
There's that afterburn at first, 
the wire inside the bulb 
still burning with self-importance 
keeping me light-blind 
for forty blinks, and then 
just as I settle in for sleep,
I spot through the window slats 
that scintillant blue bowling ball 
the moon. 



I have gone as far in winter as I care to go.
Hard frost, harder than a farmer's hands,
Is swirling in from far northern lands--
Harder than my dim intent to pace
Far afield through empty winter spaces.

I have gone as far as wind and feet allow.
I have slid alone down frozen hillside lanes,
Passed pond and ditch spidered by icy panes,
Spyed clouds' unearthly faces blanche as snow.
I have walked until all walking lost delight--

Far, far, until clabbered skies blazed skin-white,
Indifferently applied as universal night;
Too far for hands to reach and rest in touch,
Or tell if they themselves are smooth or rough.
I have gone as far in winter as I care to go.


I stop and wait in winter's wet mid-night. 
Snow-dust is sifting on upturned face and pine. 
A desolate wind sweeps up sleep and haste
And confronts me with the waving woodland waste. 
(How sighs magnify to owls when you are lost!) 
December owns these winter woods alone: 
Her zero laughter gives dead leaves a shake, 
Her cold moan shivers choirs of stunted cones.
I weep, and wait for her in secret delight. 

Slow as the passing of some hypnotic wand,  
I watch inching ripples of the lead-dull pond 
Huddle dark waters to a solid field of white.... 
How one touch of ice turns our world divine!
December knows the bones in molten water's core.
Knows the ice in water.  That tears are nothing more.


Now set in winter brown, the old pond in spring
	Livened these reedy woods gone flat,
		Scuffily ensconced 
		In frozen leaves that once 
Greened the summer skies with leafy wings, 
As if wild ducks in lush squadrons circled it.

Yearly a new mother lands and incubates her brood
	Under a dun feather muffler warm as suns
		Until her breaking eggs
		Toddle on webbed legs--
A duck who loves, and whose love does good
By being mother to what gold pufflings come.

Now, a splotchy Fall has sent them flying
	Off in maiden flight to scenes uncertain--
		To southern ponds
		Comfily ensconced
Beneath balmy constellations.... At home,
Her crosshatch nest uncoils, hurriedly abandoned.



Am I to lie 
ashamed among cattails
if, before ducks
V away in winter
with their rising
scale of notes
and scattershot
choral creaking
of wet goodbyes,
if I
want their small
long-nosed faces
to stay?



Departure, now, instead of arrival.  Dad's 
Vaulted the ICU's sterile rungs, 
Where December visitations had dragged us 
To watch a father drowning in his lungs. 
Beyond all this stubbled haste of Jersey freezes 
He's climbed into a greyness of light-polluted stars 
--Each pin of past light striving to stay sharp 
And remain named.
                  "Me!  Me!"
                            Two nieces  
Battle beside their first advent calendar--pulpy,
Saw-toothed, oversized, glue-glitter daubed 
And draped with ropes of hopeful popcorn 
Laddering a stylized Christmas tree.  A light-up  
Star crests dark waves of evergreen, 
Twinkling as if that battery will burn forever. 
Every day, two breathless nieces applaud  
A new surprise behind a hidden door. 





You wake up in a coffin, at night, 
Sliding downhill one hundred miles per hour. 
That's how it feels.  It's dark, the air sour. 
There's a vague sense of friction.  After 
Some fumbling around, you discover 
One box of matches. 
How many do you get to light? 



The baby grand, bulbed
Like a black, half-cracked
Heart, throwing the throb
And beat of exposed strings

V-thighed on the long black
Bench stuffed with squiggled sheets
Of Music for Beginners,
Impressionist drips of quarter-notes
Arching and arching....

How the swaying metronome
Danced (neither slow nor swift),
Mocking ambition patiently....
My small thumbs at rest
On G and middle C.



At recess we raced to the go-round
Painted color-wheel slices of color,
Pushed galvanized handrails hard
Until our schoolyard world was blurred.
Laughter rang out like lightning
And wind in our ears was shards
And only the circle stood still, and
We longed to enter that stillness.
Our feet ran out of our shoes,
Impatient to rise from the ground....
And in that grace of levitation 
We each took turns at center,
Leaping like flags for the heart
--To be the source of all colors,
Of the go-round's big pinwheel, the pin--
Skies spinning like carnival art.



Carefully we counted stones
No bigger than their eggs--
We aimed to break the bones
Of sparrows
Wing by wing.

Feeling brave and hurtful
Beneath the swinging tree
Three brothers formed a circle,
Knee to knee.

Though pity shook my hand
I took good aim to knock
Each sparrow's nest to ground,
One by one
With careful luck.


Helmet to helmet in the high school huddle
tight as a nest of snake eggs, the quarterback 
said "Count ten and turn around.  Trust me."
After the snap, everything went silent,
the small stadium crowd that surrounds us
uniform as a tub of popcorn, silent.
Other players grew mute, dull as a blur.
I went deep into grass, grass silent as snow, 
running down a long and lonely plank 
that narrows as it goes, all life's details  
shifting off the pounding plank like sand
shimmering into silence, my leaps 
all one pounce of now.  I passed line after 
line of quicklime, looking only ahead,
my heart sounding out the seconds to ten,
uprights bright as a tuning fork before me,
going long.


Leave your yard to weeds 
one summer, till grass 
springs higher than your armpits 
and woodchucks go boldly by 
right up to the porch. 
Have dandelion wine in barrels, 
and violet and primrose stew; 
cut flowers by bushel and peck:  
arrowhead, aster and balsam, 
bayberry, beardtongue and wild 
carrot like cartwheels of lace. 
Cardinals and swifts in trees 
will whistle your days unsilent 
and saw-whet owls sweeten each eve 
as switch grass and creeper appear 
in your sideyard gone over 
to meadow and downs. 
Where now you have footpath 
and pavement, let wildness 
come up from the root. 
May shy Adam-and-Eve orchids 
visit the shadows you've sown, 
holding hands in forsythia shade-- 
and where now you walk  
on owned acres, by August 
you'll be swimming to noon. 


A proposition on the keyboard 
Comes back inquiring, a minor E, 
Or resolving major chords, giving thanks.

The afternoon enlarges sash and cord,
An intimate of misery and of me
As yellow loneliness falls and fills my lap.

When I look at nothing, I feel adored--
An expansive Narcissus of the sea. 
I hear only, in my hunched piano's plunks

(After the final heightening of a pause), 
The ocean's application of applause.


Rice grains of rain pattern feathers on the dry
Sides of silos here, red and full of rye.
In the open prairie, all we know is sky.
Yet live on we must--on earth alone and dry.
Somehow you know the whole thing's a ball
Beneath your feet, and you can feel it roll.
Every day I travel on, waiting for a wall.
Then night comes, that shadow there, and its hole.


We traveled in our car
Whole school summers
Forgetful of the calendar
From wonder to wonder:
The Natural Bridge's catlike camber,
Spelunking Crystal Caverns with lanterns,
Singing in chasms together,
Swimming in Delaware rivers,
Sleeping in camp by those waters
Enchanted and nimble as laughter;
Ducking impossible weather
In the concrete lee of an under-
Pass, Dad smoking as he leaned by the car;
We spat from speeding windows, 
Balanced flat rocks to slide off the fender
(And full sodas forgotten on T-bars),
Screaming through tollbooth and tunnel;
Counting crazily crippled deer
And license plates stamped Nevada,
Swinging past capitols in order,
Kentucky, Tennessee, Carolina;
Shopping at "South of the Border" 
For Ace-Safety firecrackers
And double fistfuls of sparklers.
Never was summertime lovelier 
Than those summers we wandered together.
We kids got happier and happier
While Mom's matchstick face, dumbstruck,
Darker and darker and darker.


I can see my son, aproned, up early, 
training among his chef tchotchkes,
selecting eggs with effective fingers 
and rolling the oval winners into a bowl. 
Next, he gathers his spices, pinches 
tipples on his tongue to test them quick, 
and says ‘oh' or ‘no' to each. 

Two real-life princess dolls bowl in, 
dandelion-headed and sleepily slippered, 
standing suddenly seriously silent as totems. 
"Dad's kitchen is all business," 
whispers one to the other in litany. 
And Dad has them help, of course, 
even the whipping, even the delicate 

Egyptian procession of raised bowls 
over their princessly heads to the stove 
where Chef does the final fluffing.
His long arms akimbo, he trawls for air 
to fold into the scramble, the Momlet, 
his swimmer's arm lifting and going around 
and around again--going for distance. 

I see him there.  I see my son. 


There really wasn't alot to it:
Girls too shy with us to laugh
Corralled by a battery phonograph
--And, here and there on the wretched grass,
A pink and tinsel pirouette.


Girls are not like us, no.
They watch impatient behind taut veils
Of soft thoughts, as we come and go
With our pockets full of rocks.
Girls are not like us, no.



On department store safari, at four,  
I scoped out translucent loose folds 
of whispery flowerprints, deep meadows 
of hanging pastels, and lacy clouds 
of padded bras and ladies' legs 
staunch as departmental mannikins
or the infinite limbs of grazing giraffe,
their shopping voices elated, angelic. 
I ran awkwardly in my new black shoes 
zigzag through disheveled grasses 
of matching pantsuits, a pampas of 
pantsuits flowing higher than my head, 
my lazy hand rippling the materials 
like a tailor between appointments, 
like a zebra sampling a strange stream, 
killing time, growing older by moments,
a pygmy among these women's things,
until I arrived at the end of a long, 
open aisle, my hand clanging a gang 
of faintly skeletal empty hangers 
ringing on their rack after the season, 
like Christmas bells swinging in July, 
like waterbuffalo ribs from past monsoons,
and, brave and out of breath, confronted 
myself amiably at the back of the box-store 
in an empty dressing mirror, tall as the sky. 


14 folds and you have a butterfly
ready to float from the tabletop
amidst the snippings, the open hands
and astonished face of the girl who made it.
The whole secret of life folded right there
so quietly beneath her as she sits.



In here early, arranging chairs in lanes,
The otherwise empty room's a spray
Of local artists' ocean watercolors
By local docents netted in place, prismy
Mists and dark wakes so ably arranged
Familiar things grow haloed and strange
--A broken white fence, now luminous, or
Sea stones folding under a wave.


Planted in a green corner of heaven
	I watched patchy grass
		And I counted
Intricate, parched clouds as they passed
	Serene in solitude.
Then, as now, old shapes soon forgotten.

Skinny Beanie, our speediest pitcher
	Curtailed the sharp claps
		Of opposing homers
Till into Death's ant-lion trap Old Beanie slipped
	And kept slipping forever.
Then, as now, Death our speediest pitcher.

Playing right field has always allowed
	Me to lean back and sit out
		Whole innings--
Keeping watch in green solitude, content,
	Looking at clouds and counting.
Then, as now, the world passing by in its shroud.



Late into autumn we boys slept on the porch, 
Listening to October's stiffening crickets 
	Compose their last passes 
		At minuet masterpieces 
		In darkness, 
The invisible slim river still tuning its flute, 
Our dreams as baroque as a monarch's. 

Zipped to the neck whenever night temps blew 
Low, we kids kept up chirping and peeping--
	Lazily nested in chaises, 
		Whistling boy wishes  
		In darkness
Until clouds snugged the moon off to sleep
And we woke, cold, mufflered in the drifted snow. 




I pull my life down off the shelf. How many fisheyes in the jar? How many stars, like fisheyes, in the sky? The night around me is dark, no matter how I stare. I, too, am a star. Inside. A fisheye full blazing with wet possibilities. Lover, brother, poet. My cold fisheye looks at the night sky through waves of rivergrass, subtle panes of flowing streams. Pushing onto land, I gulp muddy breaths. Running on all fours, I hunch into my dinosaur suit. Later the next day, I ache upright, feeling my ape shoulders burst back from their hunch. Long I walk with my brothers on the blazing plains, racing after buffalo and elk. Or we go leaning our nets together into the rich river, pulling. Tonight we are poets, we sing of stars, sharing the fish around the fire. Singing. The fire falls into the dirt, its near star gone dark. I turn to you under the warm skins piled deep. You stare silently. We wear our masks as lovers now.


Night pine-tree sweeps, shush-shush, 
Against the window like a bird asleep, 
All song calmed to intermittent cheeps-- 
Half-conversations halfway overheard. 

A stranger lays beside me in my bed. 
Her body is a blazing blossom, her head 
Full of whistling voices frail and cold-- 
And hard to hear, my love, so hard. 



When dinner bells stopped clapping
after our parents' court-ordered partings
lonely as ship horns mourning, 
one east, one west--we would each
duck out in darkness, tiptoe stowaways, 
into newly empty backyards.
Too young to kiss, or even hold hands, 
we met at the fencepost to stargaze. 
I was sad, and you were sad, and
neither of us said so.  Stars rose 
like sails around us, the dome 
of the planetarium cracking.  And then,
invisible as grass, our two little voices 
stippled the sky with stories. 


looks up with questionmark ears 
at the blonde woman who,
a little sad maybe at being 
almost forty and the dew still 
frosty on the ivy in early May, 
stops walking the dog briskly 
to sit in meditated misery 
a moment too long, or longer, 
on the bench's flat slatting--
and who curls up into a sudden smile 
when the dog whines and water- 
falls into her small 
lap, plop, 
generously alive, 
its black tail pumping. 



A wife is playing her guitar 
with inexpert authenticity. 
She is neither too loud nor too bad, 
like an old parrot that learns slowly 
to repeat a crackerjack punchline 
or an embarrassing string of expletives 
the owner leans in to repeat each night, 
pouring encouragement along with birdseed 
and fresh water into the cage's cup. 
Even so, her guitar is getting worn out, 
like a shoe one always dances in, 
like a husband's face smiling as he listens. 


First love never leaves us. 
Like a first bicycle, all balance 
and air, we learned to go downhill 
blind, with our hands out wide 
as if flying were forever ours. 
After the fall, a flash of pain, a flag 
of blood, and the bones jerk back 
into the body, like a handlebar 
wincing ribs when the wheel turns 
unexpectedly over a stubborn pebble. 
And later, you peel the bandage back 
from an inflated knee, biting a lip, 
to check the wound's "progress." 
And, even later, absentmindedly, 
while sitting on a folding chair 
at the school dance, waiting to ask 
or be asked into the moving circles-- 
you roll a fingertip over the scar's hub 
the shape of your own private nation. 
It leaves something with us.  Even 
years later, when we see someone else 
skid or stop short, our breath 
catches as if we ourselves are falling. 



and the cup ran away with the spoon
I'll confess:  sometimes I steal from restaurants.
Oh, not much;  a cloth napkin for the hell of it.
Something both fine and tough that lays in the lap
and feels like quality when you kiss it.
But now I'm afraid Jenny's caught my old habit.
Slick as a jewel thief last night after the movies,
she palmed a real big soup spoon under a pile
of casual paper napkins right into her open purse.
Smooth as glass, not even a guilty twinkle in her eye.
This morning I've washed it for her and set it
shining in a stolen dessert cup with crenellations
purpling all around the lip like a sticky jellyfish--
that mint ice cream and oreo crumble was so good!
The washed spoon with its big plain silver tongue
stands like the Seattle Needle in the glass, twirls
just the least bit, flashing:  welcome to town!



He was catnip to the ladies, they all said so, 
licking their paws when they saw him, 
washing their small faces adroitly, 
or rolling smoothly over onto their backs, 
switching their tails. 


Above the weathered bench, 
Swaybacked where I sit 
And damp with summer night, 
An archer's bow of branch 
Drops its heart-shaped blossoms   
Steady as a sleeper's EKG or some 
Drip off a leaky faucet: 
Heart, heart, heart, heart. 



The peacock's stubby stiff-legged strut 
chops short along downy lawns gone over 
to puffy dandelions, as hook over hook  
row the steady tines of his claws.  His high
eye rises, a tower, an outpost, a lighthouse 
above whitecaps, and one sees then that he 
is all eyes, a carpet of eyes, a sail of eyes, 
a sky unto himself of sheer irised iridescence--  
seeking a portly peahen on which to squat 
his rainbow glory, Odysseus upon Penelope. 
It is for her that his neck bends and his beak 
cracks, and the seed of his dandelion cry goes forth, 
filling rainy afternoon yards with his loneliness. 


The long night is being carefully frosted 
By day, like a butterknife spreading vanilla icing 
Over a round new moon of devilsfood cake 
While she yawns wide as a sea-lion pup waking 
--Dressing slowly, nakedly in her mirror  
Where dawn-colored curtains flutter.  
Her hand disappears into her jewelry box 
And, frosted with lights, her fingers emerge,  
One light on each fingertip like a constellation: 
The Starfish.  After a moment, her ears appear  
Dangling dark earrings like bats drifting  
Out the cave of sleep and into our morning  
That sits above blue bowls of Frosted Flakes  
Before we each skate off to our workdays 
Synchronized as Olympic champions.  
But, for right now, she takes a sleepy  
Pirouette in her mirror and approves: 
Of our lives together, the sweetness of our night. 



The pillow where you last were laying 
keeps a spoon's impression of your head 
and even a swirl, a dimple, of your ear 
as if this pillow were a seashell, where 
a thousand voices enter which we later hear 
as the constant susurration of the sea. 
Can you hear me among them if I whisper 
so close my sipping warms your pillowcase 
while the rain goes on snoring in its gutter, 
and all the house closed up in a sort of sleep? 
I love you, yes.  But what I whisper now 
is something other, something just for you. 



Nights accumulate, turn December.
Turn Xmas, with its sparkly galaxies 
Of discarded wrapping.  The fire's chaos
Recalls other heats, other faces....
And, shaken, sparks traces of your long departure--
Last Independence Day at the park,
Fireworks' wild sunshine in your eyes
In hot summer dark.




Life is empty.  A wind rises sideways
until my pant legs stand out, twin rudders
steering nowhere.  Between one housefront  
and the next, irritated lightning, 
brief and naked.  Rain, a thousand miles  
of zippers unzipped at once.  Puddles  
swell like bruises and connect their black
softnesses, as they did for Noah.
Forty years I've been on this dark voyage.
The straw is stale, the bursting stalls
fecund with rancor. The lions, male and female,
have slipped their tethers and roam the galley
all night, roaring and shaking with hunger.
Their matted manes are thick as rat's nests. 


Early memories have an edge of tragedy,
The trace of a child's hand
On construction paper, faded.
Or the half-loops of letters, so rudely
Learned, living forever unfinished--

Time behind crouches near one then, 
Ahead lies far.

The coffee's graceful steam unfurls
And morning stones glisten like stars,
An irritation of pearls.



The worrying leaf twists,
Its race arrested--

Maddened leaves repeat it
In iterant wind.

Down the long hill at sunset, one more
Leaf doodles and cavorts--

Now doubly, trebly muddled in a ditch: 
Murmurous leaves.



for Joelle
The first one is cool, refreshing as a cucumber, 
A meeting sweetness lapping at the back of the throat 
As if sugarcane dripped off a fat icicle, and then 
The slow burning to the waterline of your little boat. 

Now a power growls and routs small talk, dissent; 
Convictions gather like a curtain pulled, mauve, 
Revealing the pitted shallowness of daily talk, 
The world set to rights as easily as this olive. 

At last simplicity arrives, looking through life itself 
As through a clarifying piece of glass, this 
Glass, contentedly in fingers twirling triangles-- 
Contemplating it filled, and its present emptiness. 



Nimble goats tremble on split tiptoes
Eating knots of pine and holly, leaf and branch
As far as fingering tongues can go
Toward heaven for their lunch.

Loosed to clear Sandy Hook's woods
Of poison ivy, their saliva drips, they say,
Immune to poison, and that's all good
We say, going out ourselves to play

Splayfoot on barren beaches.  I spread 
The checkered cloth, pour figgy semillon
Below the "eat line" where they've passed,
Coppice chewed flat as a billiard green.


Motor's propeller coughs, catching seaweed, 
The intake valve gritty with chaff, the starter flooded, 
An unwell something moaning under the hood, 
Catching and stuttering loudly when it should 
Slur tigerlike, leaping purring for wavepeaks 
In choppy Keyport Harbor's uneven arena. 

The men, popping beers and flyreels, 
Lean back, deckchair masters from mast to keel; 
They survey the costal waters like a lunchbox 
Stuffed for munching while the boat knocks. 
They're happy.  Their spouses, tan and sheen, 
Watch children thrash trash off the stern: 

Survivors in a drowning world, careening and green. 


Saturdays he sat on his porch in his old uniform, 
Old like satin slippers stained and torn 
But worn anyway as the last fancy thing   
To go anywhere in, but he never did--
A general blown out of his war, gold braid 
And buttons so much parlor-curtain finery.   
Even his silver revolver was a kind of watch fob 
(Thirty years service, Bob, and thanks) 
Spun by a restless tic in his wrist  
That wouldn't quit--the watch hands shivery,  
And the bullet chambers usually empty. 


He drools like a cow, that one.
All night in his sleep, mumbling
Nightmares, an old knife of stone
Whittled by sea and season
To the one dread:
Wife and kids over the cliff, tumbling,
And his dog dead.


A still life still requires faith
That life itself has stopped
Just for you, your fist of brushes,
Your dripping pots of gauche
Fetishist yellow-red.


Eyes almost closed beneath his hat
The old smoker blows gold smoke out,
His agate eyes almost sedate.

Eyes half-shut.  You've heard the phrase.
It isn't done to keep smoke out
But to keep dreams in, as in a maze.



My darling friends, I am afraid
This once-worthy prize is unmade--
This glittering thing has gone to shit.
A bad generation ruined it.

And, indeed, my winning here
Has me question many years--
Makes me doubt what value, use,
My life's devotion to the muse.


The metaphor for what's ordinary 
Ticks rickety, and breaks its wicker back, 
Cracks sciatic with the dumbass weight  
Of my emphatic Great Aunt Kate. 

The ordinary's too circular for metaphor, 
A bridge to the same side of the stream 
Where everything is as it was before 
And no balloon squeaks loose from its dream. 


'68 brought the riots (we needn't speak 
Of them), arriving in a crash of days
Washing away the city's soft authority, the meek
Back-and forth of beach cleaning machinery....
At least we suffer no more the illusory 
Union of then and now--that tomorrow's kids 
Are the same as yours, that yours today
Are you....  Too apparent's the decay.
No fashionable derelict genteel twilight
Fades us towards this stripped finality,

This painted concrete scratch-graffitied grey. 


Strong clear brilliant air drawn into the mouth in a moment. A special flavor of life, like the south of France. The dusty maybe of Marseilles. The long wet unrolling tongue of the Mediterranean Sea. Sweet dollops of cloud-stuff hardened to minarets. Minarets made sweet by the singing of prayers during the Middle Ages’ Muslim occupation and shrunk by forgetfulness to the size of a lozenge. A lozenge that moults my throat awake. Awakes me to think of melting time and swallowing castles.



The bird, a blackbird, flies
Up--words tear at his wings:
"A crooked cross in damask skies"
Or some other flitting fret or fraying
Its vapid purplish flapping bethings.
Some black clash of shadows
Where blue bleeds in at the window.


White blind feathers, wintry February,
Stale cereal fluff dumped from a box.
We stare at the unlocked locks.


I read, midnights, until the haloed lamp
	Flares meaningless,
Charon's guidelight on Styx's everlasting damp.
Words once fit for granite no more affix,
	The storyline dead;
The sculptor's hand grown bony,
The lover by love abandoned.

The looming book in my hand's a wick,
	Flaring, spluttering--
Burns words, rotten words, until I am sick.
My eyes dry, drugged, bug-eyed, drained,
	My life illegible.
I sit alone beneath an S-shaped lamp
To which I feel inextricably chained.


for Dan Weeks
Sentences trick us out of time's traps
The way a song will go back around
And around on itself to the beginning.
Songs and words, especially drum-taps--
Those dry discrete silences in sound,
Change how long each quiet seems
As if time only lived inside the drum.
Music and writing are much alike. To begin,
You first must stretch the skin out tight.


Days falls together like brushed curtains.  
Dawn and evening flutter together   
In silence, interlacing their delicate edges   
--Light comes up one side of a grassblade  
And goes down into dusk on the other.  
That's how it is, too, when I remember 
Suddenly, washing dishes, my name,  
And the sink shines with an identity:  
That's mine.  And all the yesterdays  
Come snapping into place like played cards, 
And tomorrow's a fan of questionmarks 
Laid down beyond the kitchen curtains   
By a hand that flutters them lightly 
In my field of sedge and flat grasses,    
Interlacing their delicate edges.  



I pile brown Christmas boxes, stiff
With stuff: ribbons, tinsel, elves, lights
Untwinkling and tangled--
Hooped in a humped death-wreath
Giving no glistering whiff

Of merriment.  Wires and briars
Hang black where torus roses had made holy
The tree's abstract angles.
How noble!  How dopey!  How phony!
As if Christ hunched curled in a plastic star.



Lace lifts like ladies' hems
Up the sunlit hills--
A memory, almost of snow,
Dissolves with evening's chill.

Sticks of light beat time
On spindly spring trees,
Flat zags of lightning,
A storm in morning calm.

Every day, as out of a cave,
My eyes wrestle to shore--
I want to see still more.



Father scuffled off to his daily office 
Where racks of coolly efficient fluorescents 
     Left his smiling features half-effaced,
          A circle 
Seen briefly in a cavern, at a distance.
At home we kids were laying out the plates

And fanning out the flatware for family dinner, 
Our hour of bad jokes, day tales and talks. 
     We debated rawly, sheer beginners-- 
          Our circle 
Of faces a boardroom of love's assurances 
Over potatoes, Mom's burgers, asparagus stalks. 



Our childhood redwood house stood surrounded 
By dry leaves in a time of dryness.
So Dad placed beside each bedroom window 
A rolled-up field fire ladder, and assessed us
As we spidered out of windows backwards,
At ease and ready to catch us dandling, 
Chewing his raw black tobacco chew. 
"Whole damn place is no better than kindling." 

Down the short tilted hill through oak trees 
Lay Swimming River reservoir--its scratchy tangles 
Skated over winterlong, doing loops--soon
Grew warm and treacherous as a betraying hand 
With June, its rich mud silt as quicksand. 
Dad surveyed those greenish waters warily, 
His lips pursing and going still like ripples. 
"Boys, tomorrow there'll be swimming lessons." 

Saturday he took us, one by one in puffy trunks, 
Into a cool space of water he'd backhoed clear  
One drought last fall of underbrush and stumps 
Sharp enough to shred whatever entered bare.  
One by one, he had us straighten out at once 
As if flying, and practice the long Australian crawl,
Turn our heads and spit out breaths of water--
Holding us up entirely at sternum and solar plexus. 


Something he had swallowed earlier  
coiled in his belly, and sat there 
aimlessly striking his stomach walls 
and making him gulp like a toad 
for night air.  His wife looked at him, 
her hair piled high and pinned for sleep, 
with twenty years of love and pity 
while he gulped and gulped, his eyes 
helpless, and out of his wide mouth 
leapt lie after lie, and the snake. 



When Mom was done with yelling
At Father on the phone
Waving gestures in the air
Breast-stroking for some shore
That receded more and more,
She continued telling the cat
In a voice like water breaking 
About both this and that
Until cat would purr asleep
In the exhausted swimmer's lap.



My father's head,
the classic cannonball
tan and slick and fringed
with foamy tufts of grey,
spat black tobacco juice,
ate raw oysters, nipped the tips
off green jalapenos
and cursed easily as he chewed,
cutting the small bait--
having a grand time, 
it seemed, in the world 
of freedom and fatherhood.

Between his bare red feet
a bucket of crushed ice
cradled long-necked naked beers
sweating freely, floating
until he walked away.


...our closeness is this:
anywhere you put your foot, feel me
in the firmness under you.
Dad rounded us up weekends, happy, 
to his Dad Ranch, permissive as a belch,
with an occasional locked door or verboten 
shotgun only Dad could manage sanely. 
The old blue Bronco snorted down 
the long unweeded drive, siphoning us 
boys off, a skim of childish excess, 
to buggy wild dunes in South Jersey. 
Dad steered a fireworks pinwheel 
spinning dizzy between his hands, 
leaping wave after wave of sand-drift 
all night, headlights hitting the tall grass 
like lightning, thunder cracking under us 
rev after rev like hooves, the moon 
skimming the night's grey undulant surf 
as if chucked hard, our stomachs light 
as laughter in our throats, we grinning  
even when smacking the roof with our 
little league ballcaps and wet palms, 
riding bareback our parents' dark divorce 
scared as cats in a carrier. 


Radiance of light-strobed clouds,
a crinkle of thunder, and then
hours watching rain stitch and slicken
down the cold prow of the greenhouse roof.
The wet smell like a captain's frisky deckrail 
racing through the stiff chop 
against other slant yachts on an inland sea--
the shores gorgeous forests of flowers.

At times, there'd be stars,
And leaves flat as soot against hanging glass.

I put my head through the blown doorframe:
you can hardly tell there'd been
any windows at all.


for Tom Pedersen  
This is the door at the front of the house, 
the one that goes everywhere and always 
comes home.  This is the craftsman 
who works on the door with his wood-plane, 
trimming and smoothing it continually  
to a flatness, his mind like an adze. 
He carefully screws new butterfly hinges 
flush with the doorframe, oiling them quiet. 
He trues up the top of the door in the 
doorframe, checking with level and thumb. 
He tests the lock, then leaves it open. 
He stands back a pace, looks his work over, 
hands on hips, and hat brim pushed back: 
closely, carefully, critically.  He spots 
something, licks his thumb wetly,  
like a lollipop, unselfconsciously, and 
pulls it from his mouth with a low snap. 
He spit-shines the doorknob, spinning it 
buff, his red kerchief cradling the knob 
like a hand-sized hammock, until both he 
and the door fit distorted and brassy 
in the small curves of its world. 


The porpoises were beautiful, their grey skin shining like plastic in the morning light.
~~Det. Harry Bosch, The Narrows by Michael Connelly

Rain on charcoal shingles
makes roofs shine pearly grey,
like the slowly turning backs 
of whales that have swallowed 
whole families alive. 
Spring trees put out their leaves 
in the waving spray, and laughter
falls like mist in the dim dawn.
Sidewalks whiten and renew themselves, 
straightening their ties, ready again 
for the old routines--
A father running late, returning 
to work under still-pink floods;
fresh clouds lifting over domed strollers 
gleaming wet as birthing calves;
alert dogs following the pack, noses
tense as harpoons in the spray;  they 
tighten their leashes, anxious to piddle.


The cart man returns to our parkinglot,
lowing his cattle-car song in morning air
as he backs into a primo spot and starts
routinely jostling the sleepy carts to life.
He heaves them into his beat pickup,
his ancient varsity jacket scraped soft
from hugging the heavy carts up and up.
The carts nudge together unevenly as cows,
their grey faces skeletal and condemned.
Most of them expect nothing, in for the long haul,
but occasionally one breaks free, rollicking
off the truck in a mad rattle and hoofing it
as far as the dumpster.


Why such evil in the world, 
asks everybody and the Bible. 
Outside, by my garden hose 
a cold shed snakeskin   
rejoices in the causeway breeze,
a single-fingered glove 
for an absent injured hand, 
weightless as dried froth, as airy 
and helpless as a weathervane. 
Gray lifeless hose, your sole  
inhabitant has slithered off 
effortless as a stripper's zipper-- 
you the discarded clothespile. 
Whatever kept you company,
intimate as a ballroom dancer,
has bulked too thick in snak- 
iness to linger in you any longer,
your diamond-patterned mask.
It's gone, a child's taffy shadow 
pulled toward dark horizons. 
I touch the rocking feather
still curled as if to strike 
fearfully with the toe of my boot--
How quickly life escapes!  
I see how, at first, the living skin
must have split no more 
than a tear duct swelling-- 
and then all at once 
like a leathery egg, 
from snout to shoulder, hissing. 


A grasshopper floats off my palm 
Like a prayer... then, its tin helicopter 
Ditches, the splayed skids stir 
My skin with itches: to swipe, to swat. 
--How little things, even the green things 
Of meadows, can vex a morning's balm! 
I wipe the tidy corpse off like that, 
Small as a bullet casing. 
Now I can return to fields and nature, 
The grasshoppers shifting in the grass 
As a thousand hands at prayer. 


Swing with me down a winter river 
on sneakers, zing past a grandstand 
of widowy birches petrified forever 
washing their sudsy hair in the stream. 
In the circle of their nakedness is 
a frozen waterfall, tall and white, 
with a patriarch's great fall of beard. 
Studying the topless columns, I see instead, 
in their myriad crenellations and odd 
glittering rockwork organic as a vapor trail, 
the uncut pages of a book--of what 
secret litany of nature the lexicon? 
I find myself crossing over, pulled as if 
those furious waters still exhorted motion. 
I pat the tall rough face of page-ends 
sealed beyond the genius of knives, 
impenetrable as a meteorite's message, 
and rub a few blind valleys like braille....
Only Spring will read this story, 
after long winter writing has loaded its rifts, 
calling forth, tear by hidden tear, a waterfall. 


Beyond whatever trouble brought me again
(Past circumstance, ennui, a wish fulfilled)
I drive by the white mailbox a final time 
Forgetting even the address that led me here,
The map that was less map than maybe
This once, minor hopes that would not let me be:
Years of loving Dad and getting nowhere,
Defending my life as if it were a crime.
Beside me rolls field after field, untilled--
The road behind shaky, small and clear as pain.



Stowed back behind a slipped stack 
of power-equipment instruction manuals, 
Dad's navy cap from the war, wilted white, 
looks a sort of ruined sandhill now 
with a thin black brim for a shadow 
and miniature crossed gold swords, sewn, 
recessed under a dented-in ledge  
like a shallow cave in a sandy river bank 
eroded deeper by all that water gone 
under the bridge, years of echoing hurry 
belowdecks in the engine room among 
rolling waves of steam and steel, 
come ashore to this quiet spare bedroom closet 
with its dusty mirror and its 40-watt bulb 
triggered by a dirty string. 
Turned over, there's one old spot of blood-- 
a dead crab washed to the crest of a dune, 
just where the inside of the cap  
touched the peak of his skull. 



I stepped, a tenderfoot, into the pebbly stream after Dad, 
Reeling as he taught, casting out from 
My center as if toward nothing, 
Feeling light as the 

Now wicked twists of river water press me as I pass 
To deeper ranges with my casting, where if you 
Try to stand in utter stillness 
You feel that you could 

Why was I always wading so slowly, so far behind Dad 
All those years ago?  Still ahead of me today in 
Memory I see him striding, reeling in, 
Fall-lit leaves streaming  


The ice cold stares of neighbors
click across you like fridge lights.
Washing machines neat as teeth
line one cement-block wall beneath
a whole row of closed windows.
A flare of florescent cleaner like a tongue
lays cut in two by red rubber cart wheels....
The scrambled contents of their lives
empty hurriedly into the loud Charybdis
mouths of machines: a pillowcase,
yellow with age, tons of undies,
a child's bed padding princess pink,
shirts waving farewell, yoga pants 
pantomiming embarrassing positions....
Lives stuck in spin-cycle listen for a bell....
Dryer sheets flicker in corners of the room
like stubborn
popcorn husks, eternal and inedible.


Unsholdering his shovel, Dad pointed 
to a unnoticed hole, down 
in the meadowy dirt, in the field 
behind our house--little more 
than an ambitious ant-mound really 
with a perfect circle centering it. 
We could hear what went on below: 
small muffled buzzing huzzahs 
like a covered pot of spaghetti 
or the sleepy voices of dead folk 
still warm under desiccated grass. 
Dad took the gas can from me, 
its fluent scent flaring clear light 
into our nostrils, and giving a pinch 
like hunger somewhere in our bodies. 
The matchstick arced and landed, 
a lady jumper with her hair on fire:
gasoline flames came like a whiteness 
that's hard to see--but the heat 
had us stagger back, Dad's hand 
on my shoulder like a broad blade. 
I just stood there, staring at where 
those scrambled buzzing voices 
rose more and more angrily, like 
the deepening sizzle of an unwatched 
pot, its jittery lid shimmering. 


He kept his grandfather company summers
by the beat-up workbench in the garage,
a piece of fine dovetail sticking halfway
from the red vise--a kite's-wing of Icarus'
in for repairs.  He shook a coffee-can of nails
real loud, and sang loud, too, the one tune
they knew together, "That'll be the Day," 
to keep his grandfather entertained 
while old careful hands swept curls 
of sawdust to the floor among gluepots 
and chisels fine as infant fingernails. 
The wide blond grain of the bench
was blasted smooth as a turtle's back 
by hundreds of restless broken things of grace
dragged there and clamped in the vise
until they were useful again.


Stray hats perch here all seasons, 
like birds who abandon their nests 
of stuck-up feathers, and one egg, 
whenever I duck out of the weather. 
Where once a loyal brown dog lay curled, 
guarding hearth and home genially 
unless tangled with, the August sun  
scalds me through an open skylight, 
and cold slaps bone every December. 
In a gilt-edged mirror at the stylist, 
I can just about squint Caesar's laurels 
into existence, tilting weirdly above my ears. 
After a shower, with my two-days' beard 
shaved, my face is born again, pink  
out of the steam, while above eyebrows 
my pate rises mottled and bald,  
a tombstone with a single date. 


Below my knees, the sea
wavers my feet into fins
spied through a stormy porthole.

Wobbly toes grind sandgrains
as if each minuscule stone
were the whole world.

How many summers, Dad,
had we cast ourselves breathless
into such endless days?

The incoming tide
makes me sit down--hard--
as if I were drunk.

Ghosts of jellyfish
hem my waistline, frail
as collapsed lungs

until I'm transparent.


Searching for the fathers
of my baffled heart, I hid
my head in long books of poems
that were forever ending
too soon.  Once, I was a modern
Native American standing silent
beside that affable man William Stafford,
leaning together among polite prairie dogs.
Once, kneeling in deer-soft dirt,
I counted countless red streams of army ants
Bobby Bly knocked from old gopherwood.
He smiled, and we listened
to our spirits whisper in the grass.

Each volume in the columned hall
stood slenderly beside me, my arm
draped lazily around its lettered spine.
I found many fathers under the yellow suns
of those aging, open pages--
we fished whole summers barefoot together,
casting our lines, our lives, one word 
at a time: word, word, word.


Let my boat have neither anchor nor motor
~~Emanuel di Pasquale
When they were running good
you could spot their sails
like dinosaur aileron
above the spoiling waves
tenting nerve-grey and blue.

Our new boat, a fast fiberglass
hull, was christened "Mutha II,"
and replaced an old wood 
Hacker-Craft, "The Pastime"
for our swordfishing adventure.

Each handsewn belly-bait
carried weight enough to drop
long hooks to the ocean floor
where swordfish often loiter
for prey dragged by the Gulf Stream.

Every Christmas we were pulled 
to hear the hissing line
to feel the arch and snap
of heavy fishing wire
disappear in our boat's shadow.

And to witness all alone
on the ocean with our father
strapped in leather harness
and reeling for the kill
how swordfish fight and die.





Beginning to fabricate the music of poetry 

Starting Out

It was back in college that I really began to take on poetry as a life-mission. Every serial killer has his first blooding, and mine took place in the leafy precincts of Monmouth University (née College). It was there that a trio of instructors really set out the map I was to wander for the next thirty years, exploring the Hundred Acre Wood of literature, leaving my own poems scritched into the easier pines, or a duck marker where the trail splits to show which direction I’ve gone. Thomas Reiter, Prescott Evarts, and Robert Rechnitz were the three that did me the most good overall. And, although I don’t mention him here, Bob Sipos and his Shakespeare seminars and knack for interdisciplinary studies gave me two of my lifetime hungers, one for anything to do with the Bard, the other for science in combination with literature.

Seeing Skies

I leaned lazily against the dirty ductwork, my rump in a rumpus of dry leaves, beside me a stack of Cicero (Loeb’s ed.), Auden, some modernist trash. I looked past my tilting sneakers to see the edge of the roof of the Guggenheim Library. A mix of field and woods front leafy Cedar Ave., a terrain that cradled my college days. This is where I ate my way through french fry piles of poems, feasts of history, big burgers of science, and lemonade gulps of art. With the open sky above me, a good book beside, and a building full of poetry behind–the world was my oyster!

On overcast days, or when the librarians were marching about, whistling me in from my aerie on the roof, I’d lean against the doorway at the top of the second floor’s curving staircase. The staircase had an ornate Swastika trim that flowed up alongside the marble steps and was cast (I hoped) before the rise of the Nazis, when civilization had already been rescued once so that F. Scott Fitzgerald could pen his Jazz Age prose for my delectation. It was nice to lean there at the top of the turning stairs, and read, and look through the long window at the bending cypress trees (fluttery as flame-drops) all spring, or to imagine hearing the wind shake snow from them in winter while the old heating registers creaked.

Occasionally I’d see Dr. Reiter or Prof. Prescott Evarts in the “poetry hallway” that led to the staircase–rows of tall bookcases filled with narrow volumes, like a quiver flush with arrows. I’d have to fold my legs into my chest to let the tromping professors pass, who’d offer only a laconic greeting while I’d proffer a phrase from some poem that was trying to absorb me body and soul.

Seeking the Fathers

Back then, I was seeking the fathers. The long beards who could sensiblize this enticing chaos of experience, with its shaggy roots entrenched in history, and its mystery made gritty by dirty Time. Of all the fellows I came across who seemed to hold this sort of full focus that could harrass chaos into the momentary clarity that I longed for, was Thomas Reiter–a poet, I think now, looking back, more of precision than of delicacy.

He had the tall, inquisitive look of a microscope, with a focused intelligence that could reduce callow poems to a tear-stain on a lab slide, each line investigated for signs of microbial activity. Gawky in glasses, Dr. Reiter spread my too-tall-by-half pile of high school scribbles before him on his cramped office desk, post-it notes stuck here and there, and announced that he would proceed by a method of “divide and conquer” to guide me out of my juvenile shallows, and into the Odysseyan deeps that a man might sail for several lifetimes.

He saw the junctures where past wisdom and present experience overlap. And at that overlap, always there burns the bright arclight of the sculptor’s welding torch. Inflection points, capacitances and resistances (as Dr. Reiter might say), all come within the domain and to the mindful moment of the artist–whose hands guide the welder’s fire, whose fingers impress new patterns in the steel. Layer upon layer pressed into palimpsest, and palimpsest hammered into meaningful mandala. It is the completeness and complementarity of his patterns that allow Dr. Reiter’s welded Iron Giants to come to life–and to stay alive. Every capillary has been laid to its destination as surely as any mile of rail. A shield for Achilles made with American hardware. But not made with the willful loss ideology uses to shape its tin minions; ideology that can only cut to create, snipping experience to fit its blinders; ideology that mistakes the narrow road for the wide landscape. Instead, the craftsman works with the simple, slowly learned, touch of humanity. That is the artist’s way: adjusting, assessing, remembering all the while. Such strength of touch we learn from watching our fathers work every day.

And Dr. Reiter loiters along my skyline yet, a shaper of the landscape.

Excellent Faces

Prof. Evarts always remained a mystery to me–or retained his mystery, perhaps I should say. Tall, with close dark curls grey at the temples, he has a passion for excellence–and for excellence alone. And here I think is his true poet’s touch: he never wavered in his ability to even silently emanate that dedication. In his poems, he casts his heart continually back to the Greeks–as who must not who seeks for excellence? He saw, and shows, how this pursuit of attainment and mastery is what sets our humanity most nobly alight. In his person, the man seems simplicity itself, with some humorous inward gleam withheld–or held within, more than withheld. But, like a prize grouper in his weedy redoubt, when some tempting excellence fins by, he nabs it without fail, adding to his hidden store.

What’s the secret that lies behind every face? Where do the rubbery strings that tie on our masks attach? Something of that esoteric knowledge is what a useful culture can impart to its devotees. And any useful human culture must believe in the best of the humanity of which that culture is composed. Teachers are the intermediaries here, being shaped themselves by the best of the past, and shaping that which is yet to come. It is a moral course, whose compass is composed of Euripides’ “warm droppings of human tears.”

The self-contained individuality of Evarts’s stance toward life and culture (or a life of culture), has taken me decades of rocky yearning and mossy slip-ups to really begin to appreciate. It’s a life-lesson from an old classics prof of mine.

A doze is a light sleep
the mind dips into,
then wakes from, achingly,
into little Iliads
  ~~Prescott Evarts, "The classical world," 
             in The New Criterion, November 1994

The Importance of Being a Proscenium

Dr. Rechnitz taught me that “Literature is an education of the emotions,” and I’ve noticed that when you read a book openly, getting involved with the characters and letting your imagination be deeply invested, you actually become capable of feeling things, of being sensitive to feelings, that you didn’t even know you had! You really are inventing yourself–your capacities and imaginative possibilities–every time you crack a spine (not to re-evoke the serial killer simile). Like Christian aping the words of Cyrano under Roxanne’s window, we grow eloquent within ourselves when we kiss genius. For words, spoken or viewed, do all their golden alchemy within us.

Dr. Rechnitz also directed plays at the college theater, and is now, since his retirement from teaching, responsible, with his indispensable wife Joan, for the Two River Theater in Red Bank–just the most beautiful theater built in New Jersey in the last fifty years. And when I saw him in the context of the stage, I got hip to the fact that for Dr. Rechnitz, “all the world’s a stage.” Everything, as in a poem or a well-ordered novel, has meaning in three basic ways: what it is in itself (either as essence or fact), what it is in relation to others, and what it pretends to be to itself or others. You see this in Odysseus, who wears many masks on his voyage home to Penelope, but never loses mastery of his essential (still mysterious to us) self. And with Dr. Rechnitz, it was seeing a different version of himself under the proscenium that clued me into how our awareness guides not just how we see the world but what we see of the world–how large our perspective can be. It’s related to growing with that “education of the emotions” stuff.

There is a criticality, a reserve, in even the most audacious clown. Ask the French about the slapstick genius of Jerry Lewis–they get it. Our essence, understood and held by ourselves within ourselves is always under observation by a part of us that doesn’t exist in any single discrete moment of time–but is the “wisdom” (for lack of a more boisterous term) of all our time of acting and observing. This gives the interior quality of good actors, and of happy people engaged in creating meaningful lives for themselves. It’s an open secret, a fun, doubling sub-plot with the power to intensify the main action.
And for letting that cat out of the bag, my thanks, Dr. Rechnitz, wherever you are.

* * * * *

Years later, outside the Two River Theater, I had parked and debarked to see part of the cycle of August Wilson plays they were putting on that season–Jitney, I believe. A long late-model sedan pulled in behind my car, and began a series of seesaw adjustments in attempting to parallel park–first gently crushing into my back bumper, then backing into the bumper of the Jeep behind it. After observing a few of these poolball style bankshots, I leaned in to the passenger side of the car and saw a bank of modern ‘park-assist’ technology displays brightly arrayed in the dash of the car’s dark interior; recessed screens showed in dynamic color each bash of the sedan into my car’s duct-taped bumper like the radar display on an aircraft carrier; and the picture-in-picture safety cam spotlighted a grainy close-up of my old torn Ramones bumper-sticker.

“Gregg G. Brown!” A staticy voice burst from the driver’s side. It was Dr. Rechnitz, grinning gamely as his gold sedan slipped into reverse for another bash at the Jeep.

“Would you like me to pull forward?” I asked as the passenger, the ever-lovely Joan Rechnitz, further lowered her power window with a near-silent zzzzt.

“You’ve got to see this August Wilson play,” continued Rechniz. “It’s a magnificent American original. And no need to move your car–this boat has auto-park.”

“I’m on my way in. I’ll let you know how I like it.”

“Yes. Do that. Do that. You won’t regret a minute.” And he went back to studying the wild displays, digital sweep and counter-sweep lighting up his circular eyeglasses.

I stepped back out of the crash zone, and kept a backward eye on the sedan’s awkward tipping and turning, expecting to hear the Jeep’s car alarm larruping behind me at any moment. At the next play the following month (not King Hedley II), I left my book of literary essays, Vindictive Advice, at the box office, saying only that it was “for the Doc,” and saw an email acknowledgement pop up in my inbox a few days later. I assumed the note would be something in the form of a UPS receipt, one you sign sloppily for the downstairs neighbor before accepting a questionable package wrapped in plain brown paper–and no return address.
The note was indeed brief, but far from perfunctory.

How, he wondered, had I gone from being the homely noticer in the back of the classroom at Monmouth to the well-read raconteur evidenced in the pages of my book? I felt deeply complimented by Dr. Rechnitz’ note. It had not been too many summers before that I had suffered the slings and arrows of 2,000 rejection notes from poetry magazines–without a single acceptance or even a paternalistic pat on the back. And here, in this small note, was acknowledgement of years of literary effort. The note even included a touch of that real writer’s compliment in its bob-tailed paragraph–envy, glittering in its bitter rarity. I felt embarrassed, but glad. I didn’t know what to do with his praise:

The bell's tongue
Struck me dumb. 

Dr. Rechnitz’s note had managed to park me twenty-five years into the past, back up onto my perch on the Guggenheim Library roof, the view renewed, a fresh bucket of icy oysters by my side in the summer sun.

Scrutable Totems and a Human Heightening

What exactly did I learn from these guys? Let me talk about the poets, since I think I covered some of what I gleaned while in the good graces of Dr. Rechnitz. From Dr. Reiter, I learned (or observed) how a poem can set itself up as a generator of paradox, or mystery. By that, I mean that the circumstances a poem places before the reader recreate the moment in the poet well enough so that the reader, too, must try and manage his way into meaning from what is presented. Hmm… Let me try again. Wallace Stevens has said that “a poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.” I think what I saw in Dr. Reiter’s techniques is that that resistance can be ongoing in the poem, can remain in resistance to any sense of settled ending.

Dr. Reiter manufactures artifacts that embody the dilemmas they explore. They are scrutable totems of immense experiential value–and you could say of explanatory power if you are willing to include being, manifestation, as a form of explanation. If the story and its details can be set up the right way, with enough technique, enough craft, and enough justice to reality, the elements that the poet exposes to the reader go on making the poem long after the poem is over. It’s like striking a cymbal. You haven’t just hit a circle of brass, you’ve touched the nature of the cymbal and evoked it into resonant interaction with the world at large. So, Reiter would be able to set the scene–a plowed field, and country grave-marker, for instance–and turn the description, or evocation, of each of these elements toward a meditation of the relationship between living and mortality in a way that wasn’t a one-off noticing. The elements themselves, in their arrangement, remained deeply provocative. Like an ethics problem or a moral fable, but full of the super-sensible subtleties of poetry. And this is what life confronts us with all the time. And this way, life insinuates itself into the poem, and the poem has heightened life.

Dr. Reiter’s work is difficult to excerpt because of this well-crafted relatedness of parts, a sort of perfection in sum that resists summation, but here’s a few lines from “Sodbusters,” whose circumstance is described just above (ellipses are mine):

Say the child died that first winter
Say Matthais Bell kept 
clear of the new stone
that spring the prairie blazed with space

Say year by year he plowed closer--
not that he forgot
how the boy's hands were the color
of freshly opened apples
I see him turning the earth
beside this graveyard where the prairie
compass  marks the meridian
with its deeply divided leaves.

And it is also with this matter of a heightened life that Prof. Evarts’ poems most impressed me–as well as his whole demeanor. Exemplars, standards, a larger life seem always very near him, like presences. If anyone I know knew where Sophocles was hanging out on the down-low, it’d be Evarts. And by having a ready and eloquent access to these past exemplars, Prof. Evarts constantly calls us to our better selves–not some phony more moralistic self in any narrow sense–but in the very real sense of being ever-alert to our highest excellence. Don’t be good, be great. And he always seemed to have a long enough perspective to avoid the pitfalls of Romantic subjectivity–where the greatness is in what the ego, the I, is feeling–and if you couldn’t feel it too, you are just some kind of lame lumpen-proletariat. No, it’s actually a kind of heroic ideal, a human faith in human faithfulness, if you will. That our capacity to act matches our possibilities–and that the work to move in the direction we are heading is life’s one joy in some final way.

     The snail, inch by inch, climbs Mt. Fuji. 

And Evarts just always knows which way to Mt. Fuji! Directionality, combined with work and not accepting less than your own very best effort, creates a life and a poetry of excellence. A note that always plays true. I know this sounds a bit like a business seminar, with the way they wobble on about ‘excellence’–but I mean it in the olden way of the Greeks, the becomingness or arête, with man as the measure of all things. Less an appeal to ideas than an appeal to a comprehensive human experience that includes ideas. In this way, ideas are neither excluded nor exclusive. Ideas are simply another, and necessary, ingredient in the meatloaf.

Gregg Glory
[Gregg G. Brown]
April, 2015


The sea comes into the rock.
The rock mocks the sea.
The sea comes into the rock
Until the rock ceases to be.

Secretly the book is being readied. 
Obstructions and obfuscations 
Are being blown up and shredded. 
The book, the words, are come! 
Beat thou a merry drum! 
Don a motley cap, and a gown fine-beaded. 
The book, the words, are come! 
Beat thou the drum! 

Uncivil Hours

 [Poetry], Uncivil Hours  Comments Off on Uncivil Hours
Oct 072019

Let us! my dear friend, console ourselves for the unsuccessful efforts of our lives to serve our fellow creatures by recollecting that we have aimed well.
~~Dr. Benj. Rush to John Adams about the day they signed the Decl. of Ind.

Battle Lines

Nor cringe if come the night: 
Walk through the cloud to meet the pall, 
Though light forsake thee, never fall 
From fealty to light. 
     ~~Melville, The Enthusiast 

Long I’ve plotted an epic poem, a poem to stand in relation to my native country as those broad stripes stand in relation to our flag. The subject would have to be the Civil War, of course; it was then, as at no time since the Revolution, that the country grew articulate in self-definition. Lincoln was the poet we elected president. The Civil War generation was the most letter-writing cohort of warriors America has ever produced. Brother fought brother, fathers took up arms against their sons, and slaves escaped to return fire at their former masters–and then forgive them when they stood in post-war relation to each other as citizens.

And when articulation failed, and all the buzzwords of secession and abolition grew sharp as bayonets, the forges of war found their tongues, and vile shrapnel was vomited in Shenandoah’s sleepy dells. The Civil War, like every war, found its heroes on both sides of the battle line; unknown men arose who proved equal to their times and mastered the moment presented them.

* * * * *

On a personal level, as I contemplated my (potentially calamitous) approach to a Civil War epic, I found myself confounded as much as coddled by the breakneck immensity of resources available to investigate the old wounds of yesteryear. All things lead to all things via the lightspeed factcheck that Google presupposes. And where facts were in dispute, the very best disputations were available–along with interactive 3D battlemaps, and endless chances to reengage and rejigger the results with computer game simulations or alternative history sci-fi. As a poet, I am most drawn to pipe-smoking and twiddling long strands of grass between my thumbs. Books are fuel for mules; how much more senseless was a digital dive into the cacophonous black hole of internet archives.

Still, in all, I did a fair amount of death-grip gazing into backlit screens, and mumbling over luminous words in book after book. I felt the hair-raising chill of listening to surviving veterans cry out a final Rebel Yell on YouTube from a 1923 reunion, each man aimed at the microphone and camera and instructed by a friendly fat man to “Do your worst, Grandpa.” And then one last cry in unison, and every cat in the house snapped to look at the speaker as if at a ghost. I’m sure a dog would have returned the unearthly howl.

* * * * *

How, exactly, I asked myself, was the Civil War that “most American of all America’s wars” after the Revolution itself? Where, exactly, is the anchoring pin in this crazy pinwheel of deeds? The Gettyburg Address? The glum dignity in the surrender at Appomattox, where Lee surrendered his sword while Grant attempted polite small talk to ameliorate the sting of defeat his fiercest foe surely felt? I take some comfort in Yeats’ statement (who midwifed modern Ireland into being in many ways), when he said “It is always necessary to affirm and to reaffirm that nationality is in the things that escape analysis.” Perhaps all my moody brooding was for naught. I should be content to be a teller of tales, a stenographer of fact. In any case, hesitation on my grand project was no longer an option–whatever America was and whatever being an American meant would be an emergent quality that arose from dream and poem. So, I’d better start writing.

* * * * *

You may have noticed that you are not holding an epic poem in your hands. That ambition my muse has decided to deny me in this round at the foundry. But, page after page, you’ll find flickers whisked together; you can follow muddy footprints to Shiloh, or pace over an acre of Petersburg’s siege as I have done. Whether these poems are equal to their theme, the reader must discover. Every poet has his Zoilus, as they say, and if mine is reading this book today or is yet to be born, I do not know. Still, there’s something here that time has folded and put in my pocket.
I give it to you.

Gregg Glory
May 5, 2019

True and Untrue;
or, The Facts of the Matter

	I hadn't seen a piece of soap in a year.
	     ~~John T. Wickersham

Yeats’ “affable, Falstaffian man” is as much a part of the story of his Irish civil war as those great public events of the rebellion in poems like “Easter 1916.” No one wants to distort the facts, but even a selection of facts slants the story. And poetry is more than mere story, it is the soul of every story. Poetry tells the facts why they must be true. Like the formula of the alchemist, or the equation of the quantum mechanic, poetry arbitrates, through exploration and discovery, the bounds of our reality.

The historian has a hard road, and must site map and affidavit for his every step. A poet, when his soul’s alight, burns away the tightrope that he treads. These poems seek a meaning in-between these stark extremes. Helen and the burning tower is no more evocative than Lincoln in his tophat. Well, not necessarily. The eye that weeps the tear, floods the landscape. A nation’s history is crafted by its participants; they see, they feel the meaning of the thing. For one’s truth to become a public truth, it must resonate–in both emotion and in fact. History is no free ride for those with an ax to grind, for those who would delete the subjectivities of the past with their Buzzfeed-fresh agenda.

Accordingly, my approach is hedged round with doubts. I’m trying to find the seed of things in the desiccated plant on the sill. Sometimes, a very personal approach, a singular story, helps flesh the skeleton whose hand I hold while he tells his dead man’s tale. Sometimes, it is only through the torrent of future events that some aspect of the past has grown significant. And here, the mirror is watery. I fret and pull the threads of fate; I squint and wipe the ocean from my diver’s mask, hoping to reach the beach.
Quotation and epigraph abound in these poems to lessen the culpability of Clio’s amanuensis. Lee and Lincoln are brought to the docket to testify on their own behalf; or words recorded by others are introduced to damn or indemnify the figure on trial. Such a strategy has its own half-life, and the phrases used can cut against the organic unity of the poem even as they apply a thin veneer of authority to the proceedings. Rhythm is the one vitality that no poem can do without, and my slinky attraction to quotation can leave me in the unenviable position of a mynah bird, eerily reiterating the last words of a murder victim.

There are several other common dangers in this sort of poeticization of history. One can succumb to the expert’s hip elision, a habit of reference that only communicates to those already “in the know.” This is already a danger in poetry generally, which prefers by far to implicate than to provide evidence. With factual antecedents, the danger of missed connections increases, and the poem’s secret limbic system is liable to go offline or develop incoherent buboes. “Only connect…” was James Dickey’s rigorous dictum, and maintains its imperative strength to this day. It is ignored at the author’s, and, more importantly, the reader’s, peril.

In this collection, abortions along the highway to an epic birth, the language alternates rather harshly between a creampuff softness and the bony planks of bare narrative. In “Night Ride (Toward Gettysburg),” there is so much dreaminess that the rider on his horse literally falls asleep! The entire poem is a subjective guess, almost wholly an invention born of one small act of fact. The epigraph to the poem tells the fact: completely exhausted regiments fell asleep in their saddles while riding toward the next day’s battlefield. And this detail, to me, was the seed, the soul, of the contrasting humanity and inhumanity of war–in all times and places. Still, there’s a queasy awkwardness I feel in filling out a page that history left blank. These men in blue and grey, and all the others, slave and civilian, are my national companions, and I am loathe to touch their suffering as if it were my own.

And sometimes, of course, the stars are gone and the moon is down.

As a kind of dry repentance for my sins of invention–a Lenten giveback to God above–there are a number of passes at narrative verse in these pages. These can feel too simple, “ripped from the headlines” as the TV movies say. A pristine example is “The Midnight Ride of Abraham Lincoln,” which is just literally Ward Hill Lamon’s report of Lincoln telling Lamon the story of his nail-biting escape from a gunman, gussied up a touch and poured into a vacant vase of verse. Lincoln is a master storyteller, and I couldn’t improve upon his shaggy dog tale if I had two MFAs.

An ampler, and more typical, example of the process of transition from history to poetry is available in “Pieces of the Old Battle Flag.” It is practically unrhymed, and virtually without invention. I changed John Wickersham’s name to Ned. He left his own narrative about coming home from the war, and I read it in B.A. Botkin’s collection of Civil War tales and folktales. Its simplicity and reality left me trashed with tears. My poem, direct as it is, manages to miss a great deal of his easy poignancy–and yet it is my best attempt at a teetering retelling. I left all the symbols in de minimus outline, and make the reader rip his humanity on the hard edges of the words. There’s very little “mood music” to queue up the reader’s response. Even reading it out loud, the old-fashioned sound of it is more like a grandfatherly wheedle than a poem. And yet it stands, returned to the page even as John/Ned returned to the uncomprehending arms of his family.

Between fact and abstraction, there is certainly room for legitimate invention–coloring inside the lines, as it were. But how different from the satisfaction of Milton’s Satan, standing shaggy-legged and monstrous against a Deity of perfection! I’m as reconciled as a pendulum to my method.

As for a third kind of poem, those that have grown truly unfashionable, anthems of anything other than naked identity, I can refer most reassuringly of all to the historical record. Many are the casuistries and verities of that distant day. Even the nimble Timrod parsed out his “Ethnogenesis,” mad with reified abstractions to unseat the Northern tyrants from their “evil throne.” But, to me, the “terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,” of that poetry, like Thomas Read’s “Sheridan’s Ride,” has more in common with the verified goodness of verse than the many idiot rants that assail my ears in the New Yorker, each one banking on the slim authority of “my truth” to avoid a scrupulous accounting of their faults. These are my chosen battle lines, where poetry and history meet and conflict.

I have squared off in my corner, and will defend my stance against all comers. And so I can say, with unironic vigor:

Ghosts of a time not yet made witless....


Uncivil Hours

What tragedy befell us in those days 
Is not mine alone to toll, to tell--
A thousand voices, a million all 
Wailing in abominable chorus could not 
Convey the terror, anxiety and waste 
Of those dead days. 

Whatever one man can carry 
Out of Hell, I'll carry to tell you. 
What words cannot do, let bones 
Knitted by raw time at the breaks 
Display in mute witness.  

Ghosts of a time not yet made witless, 
Armies whose worn shoulders show 
As increasing mist, gather without regard 
To blue or grey, and let your old voices 
Roll coldly now that once had the hot 
Imprint of youth.



All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys.
     ~~Herman Melville 


The Abolitionist Congregation

And about this time, I had a vision–and I saw white spirits and black spirits engaged in battle, and the sun was darkened–thunder rolled in the Heavens, and blood flowed in streams.

~~Nat Turner

The preacher in his pulpit blazed: 
"One God for them and us! 
Never once since the seventh day 
Has God divided races-- 
It's man by man we're saved 
Or damned and thrown to Hades." 

A peace surpassing passed among 
The Boston congregants; 
They knew a truth and knew it strong 
Beyond all argument. 
They stood in choir and raised great song 
Above collars starched and neat: 

"Let salvation's mustard seeds 
Be blown among the nations--
Where it grows their taste shall be 
Sharp for generations. 
Let war pour forth the blood we need
To hasten our germination!" 

Why the Confederacy Became

Fanaticism is inculcated in the Northern mind and ingrained in the Northern heart, so that you may make any compromise you please, and still, until you can unlearn and unteach the people, we shall find no peace….

~~Overheard at Virginia’s secession convention

Attack our ways and wound our own
Who'd brought Jefferson and Washington
And all those famous firsts to stirrup--
Rebel men who would not give up
Beating pell-mell into the dawn
Virginian steeds, and would not stop.

Now that revolutionary dawn
Grows stale and cold in Northern hearts,
Tyranny grinds with iron wheels
All minds and every thought.
How can they who hammer and cog
Find valor in a ball of cotton?

To no king nor any petty liege
Shall rebel spines bend what brave
Steel runs through them yet: let
All come!  Let gamblers place their bets! 
Before the first Virginian grieves
Yankee widows will pace and fret.

The War Comet;
or, Oola’s Prophecy

You see dat great fire sword, blazin’ in de sky? Dat’s a great war coming and de handle’s to’rd de Norf and de point to’rd de Souf, and de Norf’s gwine take dat sword and cut de Souf’s heart out.

~~Oola’s prophecy, as told to Lincoln

A shadow at the bedroom window 
Tall without his stovepipe hat; 
Long his looking at the ragged coal 
Of the fiery sword of comet. 

His tan hand patted a padded pocket    
In time to a nameless tune; 
A time was coming to grasp the sword, 
And the time for peace near gone. 

The comet flickered, weak and wily, 
While clockhands met in prayer-- 
His eyes upcast to skies to read 
What was written there in fire. 

What moved one heart would move a million; 
Both for and against, it flashed; 
The man in the black coat turned, and turned 
Again, in the shadow of fire and ash. 

Restless fingers in his pocket then 
Moved upon the restless words: 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning
Of his terrible, swift sword. 

The Anaconda Unwound

Winfield Scott takes McClellan aside after a White House winter dance

Comes the winter as came the summer, comes war 
As sure across the Potomac when spring unhinges-- 
All's a dance, McClellan, verily a dance.  Dash and pause, 
And pause, and dash.  I've seen it snake across the years, 
Wily or swift, snap-jaw or anaconda pressure-hold, 
Mate and checkmate as the tables turn, as time 
Reveals the pattern waiting in the dance. 
When the Whigs put me up for president in '52 
Our notions for the nation were leggiero, 
Lightly, lightly, the high baton mocking the drum's 
Hard-tapped time;  but the country then was all 
Lilt and liberamente, the dour South already skittish 
At school-marm abolitionists preaching through their teeth
Sturm und drang drama from Northern pulpits. 
And Time the snake hissed me out of office:  
Ssstay a sssoldier, Sscott, await the drat of duty's drum  
When time's old do-si-do comes round again. 
--Yes, yes, as you say, tonight's cotillion  
Was an elegant affair, you the prettiest man, 
McClellan, ever to show a leg upon those boards. 
The ladies smiled as if some young Napoleon 
Had asked their hand, and turned a tune with them. 
Fine times, fine times, but as I was saying--
The plan, the plan that stays unstated says: defeat!
Must return to the topic, as the snake to his coils.
I've heard time's sad lento movement unroll 
As well;  spent a dead year imprisoned in cold 
Canadian irons, legs listless that had been restless.
In 1812, I little knew, and less guessed
How such lento languishment led on in time
To hazardous pizzicato punch and push:
At Lundy's Lane, one fighting night above Niagara,
Troops unready for the Brits' fire and bitumen-- 
A blaze of blood to end all advancing, 
Rifles' firelight a flame of snake in the waters,
The falls a sourceless roar around us: war! 
The dead spilled everywhere like Indian beads.... 
I would not have such red spillage now. No, 
Dash and pause is the plan, a sidewinder waltz. 
Wait, and work the odds, then pitch the table  
Hard enough, and the most stubborn marble rolls. 
Confine the Confederates from advance, cinched 
Hip-by-jowl in our close contredanse--slow 
The fiddle, and slow the fife--here at Washington. 
Then twenty loaded gun boats, and forty more of men 
To sweep the Mississippi's spine quite clear, 
A slithering pas-de-deux, in one blasting pass; 
And make what blockade we can at oceanside, 
Threading in ships-of-the-line at adagio speed. 
Soon you'll see, without the terrible expense 
Of invasion and defense, the dance'll come 
Back round to us.  Cotton will go rotten on their docks! 
Plantation men are money men, McClellan, 
Those fire-eaters will be in a fix but quick, 
With cold water hosing down their backs! 
It all winds round to politics--the dance 
Of dash and pause, the slink and strike of snakes. 
If, by gunboat and blockade, we impose a pause-- 
Dash against dash must annihilate in peace, 
As self-meeting ripples cancel when they kiss. 
Let's spare our southern brethren and ourselves. 
I would not raise my hand against my feet; 
The dance is not a dance that has no steps.... 
Let us lace our anaconda constrictor  
Around the rebel states, and let the pauses 
Pull them home by inches to our loving arms. 

Choosing Sides; or,
Mark Twain Enters the War, Almost

If the bubble reputation can only be obtained at the cannon’s mouth, I am willing to go there for it, provided the cannon is empty.
~~Mark Twain

Here at Hannibal, Zeb, unhurried waters
Ain't much in a fit, so let's us not rush 
As war turns its great gears--let time loiter, 
Turn the riverboat wheel like a paint brush, 
And see what water greenesses unfold.... 
War's not such a thing as we've been told 
Reading chivalrous tales of Ivanhoe 
And gettin' on a horse dressed up like a stove. 
What it is, though, I don't likely know. 
Saw little kids parading, yelling ‘Jeff Davis!' 
Since there's not yet no song for all this  
Whatever it is the country's doing, tearing  
Itself to nothing like a worried bone. 
What dog's got us in its teeth?  Go wary, 
Zeb, them Union men mayn't leave us alone 
As we row along to Memphis.  At home 
They'll be busy choosing sides, picking teams 
For all this folderol of flags and hats. 
Take the bend easy, who knows what dreams 
We may disturb at the blockade, or what-- 
(A cannonball smashes the pilothouse windows out.)
"Good Lord a'mighty, Sam, what'd they mean by that!?" 

A Parade of Gallantry

“I am Henry Wilson,” said he, “United States Senator;” but the teamster, perfectly unmoved by the announcement of the dignity and importance of his petitioner, cried out, “I don’t give a — who you are,” and lashing his mules, sped on his way.
~~Cornelia McDonald

"A parade of gallantry, surely," she said, 
Servants fetching fourth the wrapped roasted 
Chicken and basket of champagne to pop the cork 
When push becomes shove, and those rapscallions 
Run high-tailin' it home.  "They look so small, 
Even in the opera glass, our men, Henry--
Have a glance where dusts are gathering some."

Unfolded by their picnic, idle congressman and wife
Thought a day of arms would settle a ten years' strife
And snug closed the fraternal argument sprung
Open among wide America's battalion of brothers.
"There's a snap, hear it? And some skinny pink fingers
Amid the cotton balls. Must've crossed Bull Run, swung
Left into their scattered flank. Soon we'll see, dear.
Pass the asparagus, thanks." 

                             Sometimes a little cheer
Rose among the checkered blankets, ragged and thin
As half of Congress applauded itself, the creek 
Thickening with skirmish, and, after a few hours, 
Ghostly and sickening, the Rebel Yell, 
As if from those about to die and win.

The Traveling Darkroom; or,
Mathew Brady Carrying a Camera

Eyes that… stare too wide to close.
~~ W. D. Snodgrass

A spirit in my feet said ‘Go,’ and I went.
~~Mathew Brady

More dark!  More dark!  Let's see at last 
What war has left upon my plated glass. 
Carrying my heavy camera to the front, crumbed
In dust, I frame the conflict with an artist's thumb.
Here at Bull Run the NY fire zouaves 
Put a sword in my hand that I might preserve 
Life and limb a minute longer when the Federal line 
Collapsed snakelike, a windtorn kite's dead twine. 
Each plate I rescued from the field of battle, 
Slimed with collodion like a salamander's 
Skin, mirrors in miniature the exploding world:
Shells like sunbursts, spasmed faces angry and bold.
I follow troops in my long duster;  a black tent,  
My traveling darkroom, dragged on horsecart. 
That's where alchemy becomes advertisement, 
So newspapers can print what war has wrought. 
With exposure, light passes through a glass 
Darkly and excites the emulsion, as 
God shining down upon the soul does. 
Bathed in ferrous sulfate, I bring forth those 
Final images of modern men from time's 
Gluey muck, shuffle the glass cards, and then 
Fix 'em like an insect pinned in my collection. 
The mortician's touch of potassium cyanide-- 
Too perfect to change!  Let's see what verified 
Heroes come jumping from this chemic pool, 
The square of ruby light catching me coolly 
Red-handed at my work.  When John Q. Adams 
Sat in studio with his lion's mane, 
I felt Franklin's lightning beat my fist and let 
The shutter drop on history, my best 
Camera lens the doll's eye of posterity.   
From the first, I pledged to my country 
To save the faces of historic men and mothers 
So we citizens might recognize each other. 
Something's coming through now, shapes of shapes. 
I see the tilde of a zouave officer's flying cape--
Would-be blue blurs are moving over clearer 
Figures grinded to a stillness nearer 
The killing ground... are these all dead bodies? 

In cartes de visite I made my first real money; 
I told departing soldiers packing their haversacks 
Down at the recruiting station: Tell your Mom that 
"You cannot tell how soon it may be too late."  

Trouble at the Ford

Sometimes by losing a battle you find a new way to win the war.
~~Donald Trump

Did that dread-sick blue-grey couple spin 
Drunk about a cracking axle? 
Broken music of the grand battle 
Swings mud-laden boys around again 
Where Bull Run stream breaks the land 
And a gambler nation lays its longshot hand. 

Congress came with cakes and wine, 
Gallantry to make fine ladies swoon 
Shot and counter-shot done by noon, 
Checkerboard kings crowned by dying men. 
But the dancers of that great game 
Were blind, and soon enough grew lame. 

Soon confusion enfiladed every line, 
Filleted the Union on their back 
Reversed them down their beaten track 
As if all clocks rewound the time; 
Although new blood flowed by the old Stone Bridge 
Defeat was all men had to give. 

10,000 men in grey gave hellish chase; 
10,000 blues threw down their guns 
To ease the striding of their run--
A wild rebel yell bid them haste 
While summer ladies whipping parasols 
Raced pell-mell through Congress' halls. 

A Bedside Whitman

Bacchus-browed, bearded like a satyr, and rank.
~~Bronson Alcott’s description of Whitman

Two boat loads came about half-past seven last night. A little after eight it rain’d a long and violent shower. The pale, helpless soldiers had been debark’d, and lay around on the wharf and neighborhood anywhere.
~~Whitman, The Wounded from Chancellorsville

Whitman loped through hospital wards 
His brotherly shoulders huge and stooped 
Over the endless injured. 

Whitman bending through hospital wards 
Wiped the weeping white-hot iron brows 
Of heroes held down. 

Whitman sat attentive in the hospital wards 
Big spry hands cradling an inch of pencil stub 
Taking restless dictation. 

Whitman walked the rounds in hospital wards 
Dripping water careful as communion wine 
Where dry mouths chirped. 

Whitman exited backlit hospital wards 
Nightly beneath the rapid stars 
Striding, striding, striding.


I sit with Shakespeare, and he winces not. Across the color line I move arm and arm with Balzac and Dumas, where smiling men and welcoming women glide in gilded halls. From out of the caves of evening that swing between the strong-limbed Earth and the tracery of stars, I summon Aristotle and Aurelius and what soul I will, and they come all graciously with no scorn nor condescension. So, wed with Truth, I dwell above the veil. Is this the life you grudge us, O knightly America? Is this the life you long to change into the dull red hideousness of Georgia? Are you so afraid lest peering from this high Pisgah, between Philistine and Amalekite, we sight the Promised Land?
~~ W.E.B. Dubois



We come in clothes of yesterday to save tomorrow's history. 
With lifesavers of facts, we enter Heraclitus' stream 
And run time backward until we see fons et origo of 
Today's catastrophe.  With Thucydides we wade to war 
And drive our wayward Volvos home by GPS and guess; 
Here, Lee. There, Buell camped or tramped, tents speared 
Heavenward in plea and supplication--a million Iphigenias 
Sacrificed upon the bow when confounding headwinds blew 
Us back upon ourselves, pledges that've rattled packed 
Since Adams and Hancock fled the Redcoat flood to Concord. 
Words must amend what time upends. So we, doughty 
In our woolen socks, with crates of hardtack rations bought 
By ApplePay, are walking words buttoned up to do some good 
On Instagram and Facebook, where kids will laugh at Dads. 
"We inhabit the post-apocalypse of Lincoln in blue and grey,"  
I say beneath my Union selfie. "We're the zombies of that day!"  
Young emoticons undercut me with memes and zingers 
As I pace my final picket circuit and whistle back to camp: 
"We will rally from the hillside, we'll gather from the plain..." 
And wild in the woods, when the moon intrudes on shoulders 
Tapping us back to a fantastical past, it is for us alone 
The campfire hustles, the smell of rashers real in air, 
Cold muskets carefully at-ready, our scripts pre-written 
Who believe no more in God or Fate.  Are we the men  
Our forbears were, wakeful where they slept? Tomorrow's  
Tableaux vivant tautens invisibly in dreams, the battle lines 
Drawn in ready dust, the punch and counterpunch of armies 
Arresting rest, until we, too, fill our diaries with prayers. 

"I do not know what comes, my dear, for me, although I know
Great forces constellate about this present nexus, with only 
Inches of river between the drowned man and the saved. 
I remember you, the farm, our home;  and you again, my love."  

To the North Star

When I found I had crossed that line, I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over everything; the sun came like gold through the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in Heaven.
~~ Harriet Tubman, crossing the Mason-Dixon line

Follow me, follow the North Star 
That parts the Red Sea darkness, 
That makes us strangers at freedom's shore   
Arriving proud and chartless. 
Woods are full of sounds tonight: 
Every owl a hooded accuser, 
Invisible rivers galloping hot 
Are horses of bounty hunters. 
Brothers, we were not called to birth 
To live and die by starlight;
Cast into a cage, or worse,  
We were born to run tonight. 
Toward no stray star we climb, 
But follow unhesitating 
The northernmost that abides, 
Its steady fire not forsaking. 

Ben, don't be the runaway horse  
Who losing his way returns 
To the master's gate perforce,
Half-tangled in his reins. 

You won't find love awaits you,
Harry, calm words and a patted snout, 
But a whip and a hiss that you 
Had ever ventured out. 
Keep the trail and keep your feet, 
Through root and wreckage spur;  
If we lose our way we'll navigate 
By the sturdy Northern Star. 

It's one star that snaps our ropes,
One freedom that we chase,
One freedom's constellation trace 
In footsteps of escape....
Once past the Pennsylvania line 
Where choirs of stars stare down,   
The jewel of all that shine     
Will be our hallelujah crown!   
And there, as kings and queens we'll dance 
Who never dreamed of scepters-- 
Ben and Harry, please, just this once 
Follow me, follow the North Star. 


The broken light, the shadows wide--
  Behold the battle-field displayed! 
  God save the vanquished from the blade, 
The victor from the victor's pride. 
     ~~Ambrose Bierce 

The Rebel Belles

If you knew my brother, I’m sure you would not fire upon him.
~~A Warrington belle, down at the Green Hotel

Southern girls circle floors in their hoops, 
Rebel belles who obligingly dance, 
Slim fingers stoppered in ears 
When "Battle Hymn" music is heard. 

Caught in the crossfire of chance, 
Deftly circling floors in their hoops, 
The rebel belles were ladies first 
When partisan cannonballs burst.   

Whatever victory, whatever defeat, 
Love waltzes on pass after pass....
Damsels circle floors in their hoops, 
Their dancecards folded and neat.

Heavily their families' hearses 
Driven with seven fine horses--
In defiance of death they dance, 
Circling worn floors in their hoops.

The Quiet Man

Afterward, men could remember nothing more than the fact that when he came around things seemed to happen.
~~ Bruce Catton, Grant Moves South

"Well, he had a hard look, and soft way of talkin', is all." 
"He weren't nothin', just a slouch hat and no rank 't'all." 
"When old Colonel Souse was howled out of camp, Grant 
Sauntered in with a shrug and said ‘Guess I'll take command.'"
"The fairgrounds were a fair place to preach and practice 
Discipline: first, last and second place, as they say." 
"Them Illinois farm boys was sweat into an army 
That long summer, parading every sunset after 
Daylong drill and drill again, under a brunt sun." 
"Springfield to Quincy is about a hundred miles 
Footsore marching.  But we'd be damned, if the gov'ment 
Wanted to send us to war by freight car, we'd walk." 
"And walk is just what that danged Grant had us do, 
Whistling to keep awake: Jordan Am a Hard Road to Travel." 
"Our feet taught us more than any Army Manual." 

Years later, in his memoirs, the quiet man explained: 
"Give anyone, even a volunteer, a reason good enough 
And he'll follow you to hell, smooth as Aristotle; 
Common soldiers are as smart as town folk, you bet." 

Night Drill

[He felt] strange in the presence of men who talked excitedly of a prospective battle…with nothing but eagerness and curiosity apparent in their faces. It was often that he suspected them to be liars.
~~Stephen Crane, Red Badge of Courage

Out of the old wood with whicker and stamp 
A soldier's horse escaping camp--  
‘Coward!' cries the owl, the moon balloon-huge 
Caught in branches bare as a dirge. 

The rider listens for the picket's hist 
Then taps his horse onward to grassy mist--  
A burnt shadow moving in a cowl of milk, 
Steps soft-fallen as a kiss on silk. 

Soon enough, reeds arise and the river wakes, 
Silver manacles clasp the horse's shanks; 
The far bank lifts a lover's face, 
Heart and foot find quickened pace. 

Horse and soldier race in moonlit circles, 
An empty lasso whipping endless; 
Fires from camp catch the deserter's eye, 
Stars sunk in woods from a fallen sky. 

The solider faces the remembered camp; 
His halted horse shakes his reins and stamps. 
Slowly the river's cold molasses is recrossed. 
"Who goes there?" comes the picket's hist. 

Another City Night

What hospital nurse has not a bone ring or trinket carved by her men in the ward?
~~Jane Woolsey, Hospital Days

He passed away with less than a whisper-- 
That agony more than mortal finally 
Relieved.  The cap he kept at bedside here 
So regiment friends would know more readily  
Their campmate "swaddled like a darned baby," 
I place upon two hands I hold and cross: 
Perfect, white, elegant as a lady's; 
Hands that kept his captain's charger glossy. 

I fold his last letter home, told through gauze, 
Read back aloud to get the humor right, 
Imaging his mother's laugh, his father's brays. 

Outside has come another city night, 
City lights granting summer air a haze--
Not these tears, I swear, though I bite my lip. 

The Plank Bridge; or,
Major Pelham’s Overnight Bridge

We used to dance a great deal too. You didn’t get an idea of how strong he was until you danced with him–that was grand…. There wasn’t a single line of hardness in his face. It was all tenderness, as fresh and delicate as a boy’s….
~~Bessie Shackleford

His face is a splendid boy's alight on his bay, 
Youthful and edgeless, sun of a million rays. 
Between our grey houses meander grey floods 
That disfigure her shoes with grey Georgia mud. 
Summer days are running, and I run all the more 
To trouble the mud that lays wet at his door. 
"Come dance in the parlor, come sing one more song."  
"Night rain is coming, and I soon must be gone."  
So I built a plank bridge, an oak rainbow of wood, 
That her feet may stand spotless as Noah's doves stood. 
At dawn came a bugle, and grand cannon in town; 
I heard his bay racing as I reached for my gown--
To war, my horse, to war, now clamor the planks 
To save all our dear ones, for whom we give thanks. 
I saw him once more as he crossed his plank bridge:
Through his face in the coffin--a bullet's red ridge. 

Master of the Monitor

All my underclothes were perfectly black. I had been up so long, and under such a state of excitement…my nerves and muscles twitched as though electric shocks were continually passing through them. I laid down and tried to sleep–I might as well have tried to fly.
~~Dana Greene, executive officer

The ovoid deck is tidy, trim and flat, 
A shard of soul steamrolled for war 
And riveted to a central spar--
The turret's a kind of revolving hat. 

I am bound by iron as she is bound, 
Having sworn lucre and limb and deed  
Obey what martial duty decrees 
And not the useless bright cry of the hounds. 

With bit and whip and serrated spur
I chased bloodhounds through columned trees
Chased patter of possum and fox and me
In the flying hours before the war.

At sea I'm less than a socketed eye, 
A man of gears and grinding oars  
Who sees the world through slits, nor soars 
When he hears the useless hounds' bright cry. 

A Balloon on the Loose

an episode of the civil war

It was a weird spectacle–that frail, fading oval gliding against the sky, floating in the serene azure, the little vessel swinging silently beneath, and a hundred thousand martial men watching… powerless to relieve or recover. We saw [Gen’l Fitz-John Porter, without a pilot]… no bigger than a child’s toy, clambering up the netting and reaching for the cord.
~~George Alfred Townsend, Campaigns of a Non-Combatant

A balloon suddenly relieved of its gas will always form a half sphere, provided it has a sufficient distance to fall in, to condense a column of air under it. A thousand feet, I presume, would be sufficient.
~~Thaddeus Lowe, Chief Aeronaut, Union Army Balloon Corps

In July when spiders fly swinging in their sacks, 
I go ballooning above the Rappahannock. 

I unsnare sandbag ballast and snag a cable. 
I swing beneath a ball, half-silver, dawdling. 

At the mistaken snap of a rope, I go soaring. 
Soldiers look up to see myself unmooring

Into snaffling clouds, webbed and horrible. 
Ten thousand gasp like safety valves in mourning. 

I drift witnessed.  I cross opposing lines. 
Rebel rifles pop and flower and flak the sky. 

But I am a cloud, a cork, and unbridled I climb. 
Eight-eyed and alone, I write and I spy. 

Richmond hills and Richmond men wave vividly   
Beneath my rapping knuckles, mapped and tiny. 

The town lays squared and gridded, a waffle. 
Front lines are scars in the grasses' ruffles. 

Confederates swarm like dots in a great restless etching 
Of a final edition still being written. 

War draws two sides together in a pucker, 
The last inch all shyness, each waiting for the other. 

Ascent throws the ball into opposite winds, 
The silken sack turns sulkily north now; now flattens. 

Ten thousand gesture and lightly cry "the valve!" 
I spider the netting.  I trigger the latch. 

A white hissing goes up in hues of ovation. 
I land harsh, my chute torn open in nettles and thatch. 

One Unday in Shiloh

Lord, when thou wentest out of Seir, when thou marchedst out of the field of Edom, the earth trembled, and the heavens dropped, the clouds also dropped water.
~~Song of Deborah, Judges 5:4

(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
~~Herman Melville, Shiloh: A Requiem

We saw Shiloh church and marched to the bells. 
Nothing was littler than that spire toward God. 
The guns were thunder, and their fire was Hell. 

Was Sherman still sleeping when we came to call? 
Pews were still warm in the April dawn's cold. 
We saw Shiloh church and marched to the bells.

Through pasture and wood, that Sabbath appalled. 
We whipped 'em in pieces to Hornet's Nest road. 
Our guns were thunder, and their fire was Hell. 

We fought with their rifles, slept under their steeple, 
Shadows ourselves after such loss of blood. 
We saw Shiloh church and shots rang the bells. 

"We'll lick 'em tomorrow," rose Grant's voice from a well, 
His cigar pointing back where old Shiloh church stood. 
The clouds were thunder, and their rain was Hell. 

They came on at daybreak, backlit and fell. 
They pressed their advantage, and we cursed our God.    
We ran from the churchyard whipped by the bells. 
Their guns were thunder, and the fire was Hell. 

Bread and Tears

Union troops on the road to Gettysburg

The land rolled rich in Maryland 
Golden miles of unmolested grain 
A yeoman God had tilled and laid 
In endless rows on endless plains. 
A farmer came with bales of bread:
Undivided loaves, yeast-burst 
Risen crusts like handfuls of sun. 
     "Walk up, boys, and get your rations! 
     Bread and tears, tears and bread." 

The land seemed hurtless, hale and fed,
Combers rolling gold and green
To feed them all in amassing peace 
Till time and tide and all were one.
Farmer and wife stood upreared as trees
Over the loaves' uneven crests,
Soft bricks pugged and fired and fresh. 
     "Walk up, boys, and get your rations! 
     Bread and tears, tears and bread." 

The farmer's wife was an apple of sun,
Had kneaded and kept the fire just so 
Before the hours of night were done.
"Oh, boys, ye don't know what's before you!
I fear there's many will be mangled soon-- 
Lee's whole army is dead ahead 
And there'll be terrible fighting then." 
     "Walk up, boys, and get your rations! 
     Bread and tears, tears and bread."  

Sharpshooter in Repose

They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.
~~Union General John Sedgwick just before being shot
by a sniper at Spotsylvania

Cornered in a coign of vantage, my eye is well 
Hidden, dark as a crack in cold boulder rock--
Along my rolled rifle's endless track 
A lead ball bead sweats unshelled, 

An angry star decanted into atmosphere 
And thrown into blood as into an ocean; 
It stops the salt sump of a heart at once 
Against the edgeless engine of its sphere.  

I'd played high among these old orange hills 
Endless days;  looked lazily out to dream, 
Or sip a cracked clay pipe of cornsilk crimson 
In the shelter of summer hours spilled. 

Those boys I now knock down with thunder 
Climbed alien trees and sang in another school 
That marched them down my hollow valley, all 
Unready to touch the lightning in my finger 

Pinched in a small, steel trigger. 

Unfolding Harper’s Weekly

The Constitution of the Southern Confederacy has been published. It is a copy of the original Constitution of the United States, with some variations.
~~Harper’s Weekly, The Two Constitutions

No fool but thinks this fool war's a foil 
For his private thought, grievance and toil 
Of thousands a canvas for his picaresque.
Only his tongue's motion gives his mind its rest. 

Longfellow in His Study

Longfellow in his study, reading the "terrible news"
Penned no epic about the mess, whose terror 
And error
He so intimately knew.

The Rebel Yell

Others live on in a careless and lukewarm state–not appearing to fill Longfellow’s measure: ‘Into each life, some rain must fall.’
~~Mary Todd Lincoln

My Lank Abe stands commanding where coalblack shadows spar;
Heavy Chaos covers us over, a blanket without stars--
War is folding over my heart, and over all my days;
War is wearing our beautiful country away.
Men in thousands are marching, grey and shadowy,
Their roiling horses thundering, thundering from afar.

At silky midnight the medium returns, with crystal ball
And long tin trumpet floating ghostly in the gaslit pall;
And Willie's lisping voice buzzing there--to the life!
Each dim word returns to my breast like a knife,
Each dim dawn returns to the sound of the marchers' marshal fifes.
The coffin that carried my heart away was waxed and small.

Battleside at noon in our folding chairs, we watch the long lines 
Approach and cross, blue and grey, threads on a loom divine;
Threads red and mud soon enough, soon enough.
Always now my wronged, longing heart is crying out: enough!
Always it is Willie I see atop the high chargers, out riding in the rough;
Always I hear his hollow voice arising--in every Rebel yell.

Cherry Ripe

I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

At the head of the snake, song broke out:
"Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe I cry"
And various haloos resounded, wry
Laughs as fellas skedaddled about
Over fieldstone walls, sniping cherries, pop
Pop pop back at men still marching,
Whipping to hand sharp camp hatchets:
"Cherry chop, cherry chop;  chop, chop, chop." 

Loaded down limbs swung red minie-balls
Like Christmas come to Dunsinane,
And cherries flying and mouths open
And a hail of wet spit pits over all!
Cherries for the officers riding without stop,
Cherries for the soldiers marching,
Singing handy with their hatchets:
"Cherry chop, cherry chop;  chop, chop, chop."

Antlered now, and merry, we descended
Between declivities of hills, ripe ripe
Ripe as the master sergeant's stripes,
Toward a valley town defended--
Tired ourselves of singing as we looped
The final little hill we rounded
And their distant cannon sounded:
"Cherry chop, cherry chop;  chop, chop, chop." 

Night Ride
(Toward Gettysburg)

Whole regiments slept in the saddle, their faithful animals keeping the road unguided.
~~J.E.B. Stuart

At first the harness' small jangle-and-dangle and ease 
Played smooth music through the moody close wood; 
But after the harsh rasp of moonless miles these 
Musics offended, an unrelenting irk-itch of sound. 

I pulled down my slouch cap, pulled up my coat collar, 
Crossed reins over pommel, lost worry to darkness, 
And let my horse follow what horse he would follow 
Until turns turned again to blue moonlight through leaves. 

I dreamed when I dreamed of the slap-dash of the sea, 
Restless crests of the waves, the deepness of being. 
Dolphin and merman, finned and webbed, we rode the sea's 
Symphony: not flying, not falling, just floating....

A whinny of raindrops woke us much later, shook horse 
And rider out of their doze, mists raising fine steam 
From hillside's frail dawn, the clopped trail drawn loose--
First from the forest, and last, mile by mile, from my dreams. 

The Midnight Ride of Abraham Lincoln; or,
The Tale of the Two Old Abes

A nearly verbatim transcript made by his friend Ward Hill Lamon. The Oval Office, midnight

I have something to tell you, Ward! Lock the door.
You know I always thought you an idiot 
Fit for a strait jacket for your apprehensions  
Of my personal danger from assassination.  
You also know the way we skulked into this city
In the first place, has been a source of shame 
And regret to me, for it did look so cowardly!
Now, I don't propose to make you my father-confessor 
Or acknowledge a change of heart, yet I am free  
To admit that just now I don't know what to think.... 
Tonight, about 11 o'clock, I went out riding 
Old Abe, as you call him, to the Soldiers' Home  
Alone, and when I returned to the foot of the hill  
Leading back, I was just jogging along  
At a slow gait, immersed in deep thought,  
Contemplating what was next to happen  
In the unsettled state of current affairs,  
When suddenly I was aroused--lifted, I may say  
Out of my saddle as well as out of my wits--  
By the report of a rifle, and the gunner  
Not fifty yards from where my contemplations  
Ended, and my accelerated transit began.  
My erratic namesake, with little warning,  
Gave proof of decided dissatisfaction 
At the racket, and with one reckless bound he
Unceremoniously separated me from my eight-dollar plug-hat,  
Without any assent, expressed or implied,  
On my part.  At break-neck speed we soon  
Arrived in a haven of safety.  Meanwhile I was left  
In doubt as to whether death was more desirable  
From being thrown from a runaway federal horse,  
Or as the tragic result of a rifle-ball fired  
By a disloyal bushwhacker in the middle of the night.
I tell you there's no time on record to equal that  
Made by the two Old Abes on that occasion.  
The historic ride of John Gilpin, and Henry Wilson's  
Memorable display of bareback equestrianship  
On a stray army mule from the scene of battle  
At Bull Run, a year ago, are nothing in comparison,  
Either in point of time made or in ludicrous pageantry.  
My only advantage over these worthies was
In my having no observers.  I can truthfully say  
That one of the Abes was frightened on this occasion,  
But modesty forbids my mentioning which of us  
Is entitled to that honor. This whole thing seems farcical.
Yet, here's the hat, and that's the hole!  No good  
Can result at this time from giving it publicity. 

Out on a Scout

Let’s slip out on a scout; I’ll ride your horse, and you can ride mine.
~~J.E.B. Stuart to his clerk, Eggleston

He was enamored of my horse 
And we rode, I supposed then, 
For the pleasure of riding our course 
On an animal which pleased him. 

As stars were beginning to fade 
We leaned in and had a race; 
The war before us no more than a road, 
Danger a wind in our face. 

Our paces blurred pines as we passed 
Beyond the pickets' caution; 
We rode into dawn at the last 
Like mist over the mountain. 

The general gazed only forward, 
His form like a balancing cat's; 
He spoke to me as we sortied, 
His unearthly voice detached: 

"What are scouts who peer and run 
But sparks thrown off a match? 
And battle lines little more than one 
Spark that happens to catch?"

Little Round Top

I have never returned to Emmitsburg, but it would astonish me very little to hear that the two armies had gone to Gettysburg to fight on account of the miracle performed by St. Joseph, intervening in favor of these pious damsels.
~~ Colonel Philippe Regis de Trobriand, remembering the
nuns of St. Joseph’s Convent of Emmitsburg, a few
miles away from Gettysburg

Ten thousand angels upon a pin 
Whirlwinded little "Round Top" whistling 
Death by the minute fifteen decades ago
Where our placid picnic spreads its afternoon 
Visiting green Gettysburg again-- 
Pickett's charge drawn inevitably up 
As an anchor from the sleeping sea.... 
Ten thousand angels in infernal clouds 
Flashed bayonets like wingtips in the smoke 
Where I rummage for a final cigarette 
To put our wine and sausages to bed, 
History re-folded neat as napkins in our basket.
We shotgun stale heels of bread-ends downhill
To the instant screech of skirling birds.
The knuckled minie ball you roll perhaps 
Had pinned some farm-boy soldier through the hand 
Or aced a captain's eye from its socket.... 
But the lounging lemon clouds surrounding us
Show nothing of the web in which we're stitched 
In the skinned wind of the world.   

Lee’s Retreat

Seventeen miles the badgered men 
Bent greyly southward, beaten back-- 
Ambulance and stretcher burdened full 
Past Lee, who stood upon the track 
Murmuring those words like water: 
      "You fought nobly, none better; 
       I'm sorry; the fault is mine for all."  

Gettysburg grew small, turned blue 
Behind them, cannonade and crack 
Of rifles silent as the hills; 
Letters home filled with the endless wreck  
Of lives interred by slaughter: 
      "You fought nobly, none better; 
       I'm sorry; the fault is mine for all."  

Lincoln's words had not yet arisen 
To redeem the crisis, ruin and rack, 
To give to men drowned red, who fell, 
Some rippled pulse of meaning back-- 
Only those words that fell like water: 
      "You fought nobly, none better; 
       I'm sorry; the fault is mine for all."  


What’s dying but a second wind?
~~Yeats, Tom O’Roughley


In Medias Res

A runner arrives at Lee’s side after the failure of Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg, July 3, 1863

My heart is pinched, my eyes are dead 
With great sweat as the battlefield shrinks 
Littler than this folding tabletop of maps. 
The high ground's denied us, cemetery 
Ridge and seminary ridge and the twin 
Roundtops bristling blue above our grey 
Fog of men twisting listless in the valleys. 
Long the thought and long the march 
That brought us raiding north through cherry 
Lanes, and wheatfields rife with grain. 
Tomorrow revolves the calendar round 
To Independence Day, and we may yet 
Set new fireworks in American skies! 
The lines of battle are a hash of graphs, 
All our rebel arrows bending back 
Like fountain spouts to their hidden source. 
Defeat is a beginning too!  The hazard 
Cast and failed returns the dice to hand.... 
Choking smokes boil gold with sunset, 
God's driving rays divided and feebled 
As troops of angels fall uncaught to Hell. 
Whip the stolen swine toward Richmond! 
Vast patchworks of cattle low homeward, 
And endless bins of raided goods are gone 
Down south to clothe our bare necessity. 
What we've garnered here will keep us 
In peaches through the wailing winter, 
And blot war office ledgers black.  Even 
Jeff Davis' rail-thin visage will fatten 
By the thickness of a smile when these 
Long columns are totaled and summed. 
Pickett!  I see the charge I ordered, 
Noble and doomed, following your sword 
No more than a glint above the tarry tide 
Of blood and men, and death and men. 
I thought surely--


A long frock coat, a stovepipe hat
Straight as a core of coal,
A long black ribbon at the top,
The ax-drawn face hanging there
As if Old Testament prophets
Had burned to a single stare.

	Ghost to ghost, those shoving men
	Push heaven to the ground.

Gettysburg incurred a debt
Blood's spontaneous blot put out;
That no wrong word, no marring phrase
Or disjointed look would come
He held a vigil of long silence--
All the simpleness of a sum.

	Ghost to ghost, those shoving men
	Push heaven to the ground.

Because the Union had grown sick,
That fine, long hand atrophied
That had put the British from the field
And shovelled back the Styx,
A single, revolutionary mind
Clacked truth from the burial bricks.

	Ghost to ghost, those shoving men
	Push heaven to the ground.

"All men are created equal,"
A troubled voice had said it;
Calm lightnings play the mortal storm
Where dead limbs had bled it.
Flies flit and alight among the faces
Torn by universal wishes.

	Ghost to ghost, those shoving men
	Push heaven to the ground.  


We’ll teach them dancing fine and neat
With cannon, sword, and bayonet.
~~Dixie All Right

And the Master Runned Away

The scritch-scritch of the chickens 
Is just the same 
As the scritch of chickens 

"Them Union tramps is tampin'  
Down on Vi'kberg this very night,"  
Ol' Master said, and sure enough 
De thunder was a fright! 

His fine buff travelin' hat 
Settin' on its peg 
Was gone when the moanin' come--  
Guess ol' Master used his legs! 

Smoke and mist on the river 
Blow this way n' that; 
But I never seen my master run 
Till his peg lost its hat. 

The scritch-scritch of the chickens 
Ain't the same 
As the scritch of chickens 

“I Am a Verb”

The fact is I think I am a verb instead of a personal pronoun. A verb is anything that signifies to be; to do; or to suffer.
I signify all three.
~~U.S. Grant

I am a verb. Wait, waiting, to wait. 
Vicksburg terrifies me to my fingertips,  
A sawmill blade set spinning to split  
Me intemperately in two, if I 
Cannot mollify this gnat impatience,  
Invisible and ever-present against my skin. 
Impatience!  I hear the word only as a mad  
Imprecation against my rolling going on. 
Was McClellan's awful caution a virtue then?
God Himself could not command that man 
Out of his dithering, hither-and-thithering 
Of flying supplies, and men cemented 
To their posts, shining boots to a pupil-sheen. 
All the logic of supply is "scarcity."  
Pile high the warehouse against the day 
Bitter shots ring among the shoe-stuffed shelves-- 
Let epaulettes lie in golden ranks unearned; 
Tons of bullets packed like peas for porridge; 
Headless hats that wait in safety for the rain.... 
Not I, not I.  To live cossetted in a scabbard 
When war's molten lava is at the gate-- 
Boots!  The way this cold and slowing river  
Meets us, mud and current to the knees, 
Claims our long boots with a loving suck 
As my forward scrim of men attempt 
A snoring corner of Vicksburg's embankment. 
Look at the scene night and river give me: 
Sixty-thousand Confederates stoppered-up 
In walls as great as Troy's, cannons a lance 
Of steel to keep me back.  To wait, to watch, 
While each least imp of breeze implores the bell, 
Ring!  Ring says the hammer to the anvil-- 
I the hammer, Vicksburg the only anvil. 
I am the fire, Vicksburg the limitless tinder! 
I the guillotine, Vicksburg the hapless head. 
I am a verb--
They also serve who can't stand to wait. 

Cannon Are Ringing Out;
or, Melt the Bells

Melt the bells, melt the bells,
… transmute the evening chimes
Into war’s resounding rhymes
~~F.Y. Rockett, written when Gen’l Beauregard appealed
to Kentuckians to contribute bells to melt into cannon

Bells, not bullets made of dullard stuff, 
But bright metal hammered alive enough 
To leave red forges quick with sound 
When lifted far enough from ground, 
When into belfries above choirs lifted. 

To the cause, the cause, they fall conscripted, 
Torn from skies their songs had christened 
By hands no longer paired in prayer 
To deform their voices' joyful playing, 
To bring their singing beings to the fire. 

Broken bells beaten new defend the town, 
Iron echoes of their sounding rounds 
Ringing fire to the bloody ground, 
Keeping every enemy at bay but time.
Time remembers the silver lilt of chimes. 

Morgan’s Great Raid

Those who swam with horses, unwilling to be laggard, not halting to dress, seized their cartridge boxes and guns and dashed upon the enemy. The strange sight of naked men engaging in combat amazed the enemy.
~~Bennett Young


Hoist Morgan on your shoulders, boys, 
And round the campfire drag him-- 
Bragg orders us to stay, 
And today we disobey him. 
Drink to John Morgan and to Duke, 
Drink champagne from your boot! 

Rain delayed us, picking daisies; 
Tom Quick broke his right rein arm, 
Such omens won't detain us. 
Morgan's raiders, swarm! 
Drink to John and drink to Duke, 
Drink champagne from your boot! 

We break for Brandenburg 
To ferry the swift Ohio river; 
Such wild crossing's easy, urged 
By Kentucky's blue defenders.  
Drink to John and drink to Duke, 
Drink champagne from your boot! 


We moved rapidly through six or seven towns without resistance, and tonight lie down for a little while with our bridles in our hands.
~~Bennett Young


Ellsworth, knot the telegraph lines 
With false report and false surmise-- 
To sit such fine horses is to ride 
Streaming dawn astride an arrow!
Burn the bridges and pester flocks 
Where hens pile eggs and barns are stocked;
Trace Kentucky's hump through Ohio's wilds, 
And leave the rich fields fallow. 

Guard Indianapolis and Columbus, 
Like statues stand at empty doors. 
We'll raid defenseless shores 
Subterfuge and guileless ruse 
Have left, like magic casements, open. 
Our fingers grow rings, and our saddles 
Go belled;  ham hangs from our bridles, 
Who on no kindnesses depend. 

Down Jackson streets in ladies veils 
(To defeat July and make it mild), 
With cobalt bolts of stolen cloth 
And goods of equal lustre sail 
The lightning regiments of death. 
With railyards wrecked behind, and more 
Devastation on call before, 
They strike with steel and stealth. 


As the red flames created by the great burning timbers rose skyward, they illumined the entire valley, and in the flickering shadows which they cast for several miles around… huge, weird forms….
~~Bennett Young

Bridges burned before us, and bridges burned behind. 
Men asleep on horses, and the horses falling down. 
Rivers, rivers, rivers, and the Ohio running high. 

The chase is on in earnest that'd been but seek-and-hide. 
No time to cook the stolen meat, or brush proud horses down. 
Bridges burned before us, and bridges burned behind. 

"Axes to the fore," the cry goes wide and high-- 
Another narrow roadway, and every tree chopped down. 
Rivers, rivers, rivers, and the Ohio running high. 

Pot-shots from the farmers, their wives leave poisoned pies. 
Man and horse move hollow-eyed, and night and day are one. 
Bridges burned before us, and bridges burned behind. 

The brazen bugle's revellie blows ugly and unkind. 
"Our last day in Ohio, men, in Virginny's our next town."  
Rivers, rivers, rivers, and the Ohio running high. 

At last we're at the river;  all is black and we are blind. 
Are Union gunboats churning round Buffington Island now? 
Bridges burned before us, and our bridges burned behind. 
Rivers, rivers, rivers, and the Ohio running high. 

Snowball Salute

Snow came with Christmas, filling the camp with quiet. 
Sharpshooters trespassing skillful through the woods 
Licked snowflakes from their frozen sights and were silent. 
Morning began with coffee in the tin, and was good. 

Hardtack, foraged fowl and a garnish of shucked peas 
Done with before our prayers were said, or thought of-- 
A dishrag of brownbread shining the plate with ease 
As Major Anderson began to stir: "Look smart, boys, look smart." 

He marched us dizzy double-time, and we had a hunch: 
Here strutted a martinet in a polished boot, 
A ten-cent picture soldier not worth a punch-- 
Till Old Billy hatched a plan to ferret out the truth. 

Major Anderson tiptoed tautly along the drawn line, 
His beardless cheek shaved close as a new spring apple, 
His black Maine hat as he passed, a target "as fine 
As it was tall," hissed Billy as he bent grinning to scrape 

A quick snowball from the scarves the night had left-- 
Not too powdery--and flicked it, and it burst and popped 
Off the major's hat with a hop, which his gloved hands caught 
Beneath a reddened face pursed and contemplative and soft. 

Then a staticy laugh cracked at the back of the group        
And ran like lightning through a frozen pond, smiles 
Unzipping everywhere, laughter's thunder following up 
Until even the major was laughing after a while. 

His eyes glittered down the elated line: "Atten-hut!"  
And all laughter clamped shut like a splint. "Tell you men what-- 
I think you snow-ballers need a wee bit more target 
Practice. Y'un's nearly missed me! Bill, why'n't you paste your hat 

On that fence post yonder."  Billy did the whipped-pup walk 
And carefully placed his brand new two-dollar Hardee hat 
As we shouldered arms, watching him brush the black nap 
Goodbye. "I suggest you men aim at the bugle crest." 

And we did as Major Anderson suggested, the whole troop. 
In a minute, wasn't much post, let alone hat, left but scraps. 
Myself, I guess I clipped the bugle's loop.  As for the truth? 
Well, let's just say, after that day, Old Billy always "looked sharp" 

And snapped the first salute. 

Jefferson Davis on His Sick Bed

Your letter found me in the depth of gloom… disasters have shrouded our cause.
~~Jefferson Davis, New Year’s Day 1862

It is the old story of the sick lion who even the jackal can kick without fear.
~~A Davis supporter

Varina, here, hand the hissing stack of papers hither. 
I've more correspondence going out by pony to Bragg 
Mired in Murfreesboro, his ranks fanged with vipers. 

The Union's first retreat has mired and snagged, 
Casting black iron from the heights across Stones River 
To spike and sink all hopes of once-boastful Bragg. 

Whatever else gets that gimlet man so hated, 
Where he puts his screws they anchor and bite, 
Keeping thin timber to timber sturdily mated. 

Take this poltice of words for Polk, too.  May the sight 
Of it renew the sweetness of a friendship abated by
Distance, and help him take Bragg's burrs more lightly. 

How go the Cumberland roses we planted last spring? 
I have not been up once this week of days, helping 
Deepen earth, or prune to health the tender things. 

If only Bragg's first telegram hadn't heralded victory! 
How much more bitter the dregs, more dark the clouds 
Hang on us now--those once blinding skies an effrontery 

To this minute's remembrance of them!  Cry aloud, 
Dear Varina, as I must make these inks crawl and cry, 
Each cold word drawn out to web the page in blood. 

Harriet Tubman in Ecstasy

Tubman underwent brain surgery in Boston’s Mass. Gen’l in 1898 to alleviate sleeplessness, pains and ‘buzzing’

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
~~Emily Dickinson

I'll bite my bullet, doc, if you but bite your tongue! 
I've seen a man in tearless pain grimace lead 
Nearly in two while the surgeon took his leg. 
What served for his anesthesia will serve for me. 
My brain cannot sleep, and all I've seen disables 
My eyes from closing--visions and varieties 
Of reality beyond a mortal's power to name. 
I'll point and be silent before the throne of God. 
Take your knife and knowledge and carve 
A little darkness in my skull where sleep may dwell, 
And I curl there like a possum, too, at noon. 
All my life I've had the sleeping fits, sleep 
Slipping under my eyelids day or night; 
At least, since that overseer knocked a knot 
Of iron against my head when I wouldn't nab 
Augustus as he took to his heels in flight. 
"Catch your own fish," I told him plain, and he 
Answered plainly, too.  It wasn't too long after that 
That visions came unbidden, green-edged 
And lively as a willow in a windstorm, 
A million ribbons breathing, beating, 
And on each a hidden meaning writ revealed. 
Some things are more than the thing they seem,
Said one.  A man's tongue will look more purple 
When he lies, inscribed upon another ribbon. 
Oh!  I feel you now, the clapping clack of bone 
Where the top of my head is coming off! 
Old brains, greet the very air! Pray you find 
Your cupful of oblivion again when sealed back in. 
Sweet the cerebrations of ignorant sleep. 
The surgeon touches a node of me, and I 
Smell candles.  I see the faces of my brothers 
As I try and talk them North.  Follow me, 
Ben and Harry, follow the North Star.  No matter 
The miles, we'll find the rainbow's end, I've seen it. 
And now I see them turning back defeated, 
And feel myself turtle on, small and hard 
As this sour bullet between my teeth. 
Again and again the lighting divides my mind. 
Each strike emancipates a moonlit escapade. 
Varied and vivid the hands I held, traipsing 
The underground railroad house to house 
To Canada after the 1850 compromise that kept 
Blood off the streets a while, and my people 
Staked and abandoned in a Southern sun 
A decade past their liberation date!  Follow me, 
To the green land above Mason-Dixon's line, sky 
A color unrecorded in the dreams of the unfree. 
Again the finding knife intrudes, and another 
Memory rears searing--down the Combahee 
River we are raiding, those tall good soldiers, 
Faces dark like mine, solemn over Union blue, 
And I commanding, salvaging slaves by the boatload, 
Unrivaled behind-the-lines spies every one. 
"Part the waters, Moses!" I heard the babies cry. 
Women running with a child at hip and little ones 
Worn round their necks like grain sacks. 
I still laugh to see that woman who slung a pig 
In a bag, and led a second on a leash, black 
And white Beauregard and Jeff Davis as we 
Named 'em on the creaky crowded steamer. 
How those pigs did wrestle and cavort! 
Over 700 Gen'l Rufus counted. Over 700 saved 
And brought by creek and stream to Freedomland. 
A wind is running through me, surgeon, and 
A scalpel of wit unrolls the final writ of ribbon: 
Women's suffrage, a voice and a vote. 
That, I'll lend my life to, too, and gladly  
Emancipate sister after sister to vote  
The Republican ticket, straight.  "Listen folks,"  
I'd say, "I freed thousands of slaves in my day,  
And could have freed thousands more, to boot, 
If only those poor souls had known that they  
Were slaves."  Me and Susan B. can see all people 
Share essentialities from fingertips to spine. 
I'm sure you understand, my friend, who's held 
A battering human heart in the bareness 
Of your human hand. 

Stars Above Tennessee; or,
The Ragged Stars

I see the stars at bloody war
~~ Mad Tom’s Song

Terror and courage and the rest 
Arrive and don't tell why; 
Ten thousand good men lost 
In one toss of arms. 
Terrible the day today, and 
Graveyard night the same. 

In the lee of a watery ditch 
Beset by sweat and worse, 
The cavalryman unhorsed 
Drinks from the moon hitched 
At his waist and sighs: 
May tomorrow never come.

May night unroll forever
Its ragged battle-flag;
May day and its great heat
Never crease horizon's rim.
Roll me up in your rag of stars,
O night, cool and everlasting!

Landing in the Crater

The rich grain was standing high in the surrounding fields. The harvest was almost ripe, but the harvesters had fled.
~~Horace Porter, Grant’s aide during Petersburg siege

It was the saddest affair I have witnessed in the war.
~~Ulysses S. Grant

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
~~ Henry V

"Go on in and see what the matter is."  
So the miner went, hunched, with a candle in his hat 
Tracing the exhausted ash of a fuse, 
Facing extermination if a spark 
Should show ahead in the low-beamed tunnel. 
Could the fuse prepared have sputtered out? 
The coughing candle showed a zone of hole, 
Soughing almost soundless in interred dark. 
At last the tail of fuse, inertly unlit 
That had paused the thousands set to attack 
Twisted back and forth in the miner's fingers 
Insisting a new length of fuse into place 
And rolling back two hundred feet to find 
Colonel Pleasants rapping a pack of matchsticks 
Against his fidgeting thigh. "Have at it, sir."  
Thist! went the matchstick and hist! went the fuse 
Sparkling uneasily into the interior gloom. 

Hark! An expectant stillness enfilades the field, 
A hush as was before the world was made, 
And us no more than cosmic dust, a breath 
Unbreathed, a nothingness from nothingness 
Bequeathed.  So stood all on tiptoe in predawn 
Dark, dawn herself but a secondhand's sweep away. 
Sharp the intake of breath, a boiling pan, 
When every Union eye perceived the blast 
--Clean as a cutout from the now dawning sky-- 
A volcano of ruin moving like a freight train 
Voluminously upward, and lightnings 
Veined eyeball-like within it, roving painterly 
Spikes of angry orange throughout the mass 
Great as a cathedral of spewed earth, 
Great as an Iceland geyser filled with arms and legs 
And cannon bright as gilded toothpicks, 
Spinning compass needles gone to Hell. 

"Forward!" cried the sergeant, and the captain. 
"Forward!" cried the colonel, and the general too. 
And forward went the men into a crater 
Frowsey grey with endless dusts, till they 
Were grey themselves and looked half burnt-up, 
Unsure with every step they were not ghosts 
Hovering above a pock-marked moonscape; 
Aberrations of a living grave dug by fire,
Poor soldiers caught in a whirlpool of flame
Or Inferno's undertow;  walking dust
In a waste landscape of the unlabeled dead, 
One face the same as the next in the end. 
The crater unmanned the redan and left 
A scar, raw and bleak, between bewildered 
Confederates gawping gape-mouthed at dawn,
Unsinging grey kingbirds as they clung
To the fractured walls they held, grey wings
Toward a screeching sky, flightless, lit up 
Themselves by sunrise, and sighted by 
The busy shells of Union men bristling blue 
Along their enemy redoubt, a hundred guns 
Strong, and just one hundred yards away. 

"Thirty feet deep if an inch, I'd say. Thirty feet 
Of dirt and death, an open grave if we 
Don't mush on and take the little hill, that green 
Mount behind the lines of all their battleworks
History hasn't quite spiked full of tombstones
And victory or defeat will paint white as bones--
Blanford cemetery, an oasis in the air, 
Plain, with an easy excess of unturned grass,  
Still filigreed with leafing trees, and a view 
Full-on of downtown Petersburg, street by 
Street as if snapping a map.  And there we'll 
Point directions out with artillery and bayonet 
Eviscerating resistance from our crowned 
Crowsnest, our precipice of destruction." 
So high officers prophesied and prayed, 
So stood looking at the Crater's smoking gash 
Full of hope and silence-- 

                             But in the pit 
Fools were standing, gulled and moored, not led, 
Not guided and inspired;  acres of riflemen 
Wild to attack, but hamstrung on the leash 
Incompetence had necked them with, as if 
An ominous noose had been laid out by fate. 
The Crater was too deep to leap once entered. 
Later, many men were unburied here, chained 
And damned, if black, or doomed to Andersonville 
And blamed for war's forlorn continuance. 
But here and now, all's a roar: confusion! 
Shut from that happy pasture behind the lines, 
Thousands churned in the gulping hole, cliffs 
Of sand surrounding them, drowning them-- 
Tumult of guns, horrible faces half buried 
Throughout muddy waves of earthen wreckage. 
People, even here, in this hole, found heroes 
Equal to the horror, the hallelujah  
Of brave souls rearing to their uppermost, 
Doves outspread against the shotgun's buckshot. 

Traverses, hidden trenches, a ruin of wood 
Spavined the Crater and men madly crept 
Sheer walls to bear their muskets against 
Fear-stuck foes in grey who, slow, reconvened  
At the precipitous lip, as at a pool  
That invited diving in, brimmed with blue. 
Shot, and rocks, and mortar soon poured down, 
Hot terror deboning the bluecoats' cool. 
Officers shouted themselves hoarse, swinging swords, 
Offering themselves to the fire to upend 
The soupbowl of soldiers and take the hill 
"Up there!" a quarter-mile, or less, green 
And trim, a haven like unto heaven then.
When the colored troops marched the rim's flanks 
(At last released to fight who had trained first),
Fast and keeping good order in the maelstrom
They mustered at the Crater's far end 
And most of those below began to follow them 
Halfway to the graveyard, through sniper fire 
Laughing at their lateness to the task. 
Their battering forward soon boomeranged--
Bare-knuckled though they fought, they failed.
Back the black men tumbled to the cauldron, 
Attacked by an encircling scythe of grey
That stabbed them surrendering, or shivved 
Like crabs those who showed black backs to them.
Black regiments at their crest were halted;
Back they were turned, one upon the other,
Unsaved by fate, by luck;  returned they were,
The brave few following, all were returned--
Pushed, rushed into the pit, into the pit
Crushed as waves by waves are crushed till only
Seas are seen, are heard, one great clap of
Chaos, one being, one terrible discord. 

Carnage incontestable was occurring 
Cartridge after cartridge in the Crater, 
Yet not far off stood Colonel Pleasants, 
Hip against the battery's small wall 
Worrying his watch fob in distracted thought 
Sorry perhaps for having started it all
Listening to a fellow miner from Schuylkill 
Listing how he'd "Blow the damned fort up quick" 
With sufficient shaft and charge to do it. 
With that, Colonel Pleasants surveyed the scene: 
Battlements like interlocking teeth faced  
Battlements--a trench war grim and endless  
Chewing men and munitions to a cud, 
Swallowing all.  Was there a place these two 
Ferocities touched, an incisor that he 
Fearlessly could tug?  The engineer walked 
Zigzags day and night with his theodolite  
Digging practice shafts with bayonets, camp picks 
Hammered to a miner's measure for deep 
Untrammeled work--it could be done, by God! 
Here as near as kissing came the eager walls, 
Here the slope would drain, the high ground be obtained 
If but the enemy's pale fang was pulled, 
If abatis and barbican were culled. 
Why not begin in earnest, get the brass behind it?  
The way was plain as day, and today the day. 
Swiftly flew the work, there yawned the gap. 
Without meaning to, the colonel's feet 
Danced a tango step, and the loop returned 
Dancer and dance to face unpleasantness: 
The boys were overwhelmed by bruising blows; 
The soil was eating up the fellows now, 
Consuming what the firefight refused; 
One son made a motion of obeisance 
And pulled a dead man from the mire, laid 
Hand over hand in a crossed last rest. 
Damn all the generals who let them 
Slam forward only to teeter into the pit: 
Damn Ledlie, damn Burnside, damn Ferrero!
Damn them, damn them, damn them, damn them! 
Damn all generals who conspire to kill 
All men on every side for all of time: 
Jolly devils who only long for death, 
Death before them and death behind.      

Death was on the minds of men the night before, 
Stitching names and regiments into their coats, 
Such as who could.  The black troopers singing 
Songs belonging only to themselves, fires' 
Long shadows and tall light casting over all 
A beautiful and solemn mahogany, 
The soulful sounds drawing awkward men 
To quiet attentiveness to hear how goes 
The spirit of men meant for the first push, 
Meant to lift up arms against oppressors 
Wanton in their crimes.  How then sang these men? 
Their voices lifted up as one vast organ 
Choice and melodious praising creation-- 
Bitterness had no purchase in their souls, 
Little cared how plantation days wore away 
Simple dignity with outrageous assault. 
Civilly they faced their final day, and sang: 

I know moonrise,
I know star-rise--
    Lay dis body down.

I walk in de moonlight,
I walk in de starlight--
    Lay dis body down.

My soul and your soul
Will meet again one day--
    When I lay dis body down.

The Peacemakers

Over the rebel parapet near the old mine crater came a white flag, with a bugler to blow a parley…. By the mysterious army grapevine, word went up and down the rival lines: the Confederacy was sending a peace commission to meet Lincoln….
~~ Bruce Carton, A Stillness at Appomattox

We desire peace at any sacrifice save that of honour and independence.
~~Jefferson Davis

Let us discuss securing peace to the people of one common country.
~~Abraham Lincoln

Late came the day,
                    and the sulky cattle lowing. 
Late the table laid,
                    and late the peace-seeds sowing. 

Three men step across
                   Southern battlements;
Three men arrive,
                   and Union lines must part.

Three cheers arise,
                   arise in ragged grey;
And three hoarse cheers more
                   in soiled blue reply.

Down Hampton Roads
                   a riverboat rolls waiting--
Lincoln's long shadow there
                   in the picture window sitting.

And last there came
                   dovewhite ladies in a row.
Late, late in the day,
                   and the sulky cattle lowing.

Three men gone away,
                   and weeping ladies waving.
Late, late in the day
                   the peace-seeds sowing.

Mrs. Bickerdyke’s Battle;
or, Milk and Eggs

When one surgeon dared to ask where she received permission to do what she was doing, Bickerdyke retorted she was given orders by ‘the Lord God Almighty. Have you anything that ranks higher than that?’

Hospital days and hard tack, 
Chalk milk and sour eggs 
Were the bane of Mrs. Bickerdyke 
Mopping brows and counting legs. 

In the Union's Memphis hospital 
Each sheet was straight and whole; 
Quick-attended let each man and boy 
Until he died or rose. 

"Milk and eggs, milk and eggs!" 
Cried every feeble mouth; 
But milk and eggs could not be had 
In the war-torn, war-poor South. 

Mrs. Bickerdyke was small, was fierce, 
And had a soul of ‘sterner stuff;'  
With iron spine, eyes clear of tears: 
"We'll soon have enough." 

The epauletted surgeons scoffed,
"Those enemy lines are garrote wire 
Pulled tight at supply line necks." 
But those who coughed knew well the while 

Who would fill their cups and plates: 
"The milk will be as a river, 
The eggs a flotilla upon it-- 
Mrs. Bickerdyke will deliver!" 

Through the rifles of Johnny Reb 
Her tracks ran frail as lace; 
At the slaughterhouse of Chicago 
Mrs. Bickerdyke unveiled her case: 

"Our blue men lay wounded, wanting 
No more than milk and eggs; 
Throw wide your pantry doors, Chicago 
And give me what I beg!" 

Thirty days she was gone away 
To siphon milk and gather eggs; 
On the thirty-first her train arrived 
Lowing, topped by cackling crates. 

Mrs. Bickerdyke beamed, wreathed 
In haloes of hissing steam: 
"These are Union cows, boys, 
And loyal, abolitionist hens!"

Quiet at Camp

Without music there would be no army.
~~Genl. Robt. E. Lee

The campfire throws faces, form after form: 
Faces adept at battle, or unready for the first charge 
Rise and recede in the unsteady flame. 

No time for thought when the lieutenant calls, 
When the barrage hails fate into your lap. 
All's disarray;  endless disturbance of a waterfall. 

But now the tents are pitched, the camp at peace; 
Exhausted soldiers lie fallen in a snow of sleep, 
A calm rustled darkness of leaf on leaf. 

Indelible things have fallen to every boy and man: 
Sins of ages a few torn years must mend--  
Shoulder-to-shoulder the blue, unready regiments stand. 

But now no fife of patriots taunts the heart, 
And all the soft fire's lofty murmur is gathering in 
Face after face: angry, ecstatic, mute. 

A Nest of Copperheads; or,
or, Capt. Hines Takes a Holiday

Chicago graveyard. Democrat convention, 1864

Millions for defense; not a dollar or a man for aggressive and offensive civil war.
~~Clement Vallandigham, founder of the Copperheads

[My escape with Morgan] owes something to the fact that I had just completed the reading of Victor Hugo’s “Les Misérables,” containing such vivid delineations of the wonderful escapes of Jean Valjean….
~~Capt. Thomas Hines, Confederate raider

Close your eyes and swear the oath, Vallandigham, 
The Peace-Knights of the Golden Circle need you. 
Hand me that tracing paper, Beall, we've got 
Another Democrat voter mouldering in his grave here, 
Shrapnelled to smithereens at Antietam, looks like. 
Repeat after me, Clement, "I hereby swear: surrender 
Before war. Peace above prosperity, and the defeat 
Of Abraham Africanus above all!"  Well done, now 
Take off that blindfold, here's charcoal and paper. 
I'll unfold a plot complete, my sixty stout 
Confederate conferees and me tidily devised 
Last month in Toronto.  We've arsenal enough 
For Rock Island penitentiary and the six thousand 
Good men in grey snaffled harmless there. Six thousand! 
You know I snaked John Morgan out of the Ohio Pen, 
Well, I'll charm this passel of greybacks free as well. 
Just keep listening and collect those votes for peace.
Cold feet, Clem?  Think what mighty shoes we'll fill
After such long years of wearying, rearing war!
Copperheads, don't those liberty pennies on your lapels 
Mean anything in this degraded age?  I'll need 
Five hundred minuteman Chicagoans, any who 
Avoided Yankee service on principle will do. With them, 
Moonlight and luck, we'll have six thousand merry 
Raiders ripping up track and blowing up armories 
From Lake Michigan to the Mississippi in no time. 
Howdy-do, the Union will sure sue for peace then, 
McClellan run into Washington on the peace plank 
Vallandigham has penned with widows' tears, 
A bald eagle feather for a quill--all his hiss 
Of rights everlasting, rights to secede and breathe free. 
Gather me those papers, Buell.  Here, hand over. 
Look at these new votes we've stacked nigh high 
As a Gutenberg bible to swear a president in upon. 

Sherman’s March to the Sea

See here, [Gen’l] Cox, burn a few barns occasionally, as you go along. I can’t understand those signal flags, but I know what smoke means.
~~Wm. Tecumseh Sherman

Sherman stalked the dining room,
Lush upon a high Atlanta hill; 
The wallpaper, ornate and still, 
Writhed fire in the reflected gloom. 
Bayonetted cotton floods the street 
With pale, incandescent heat. 

Shouted voices spread the news 
But could not outrun the light 
Flicker-cast toward Georgia night 
Of his march's burning fuse. 
What shone revealed, what dread, what grace, 
In each illuminated face? 

Sherman strode the cold seashore 
All night beneath starfire--
His hooded eyes a mystery 
Homeless, aimless, and alone. 
He paused where firepale waters rushed, 
Heard his prayer, hissed, and did not rest. 

Backward Flag

…a sudden figure, a man, raises himself…stands a moment on the railing, leaps below to the stage…catching his boot-heel in the copious drapery (the American flag), falls on one knee, recovers…
~~Whitman’s report of Lincoln’s assassination

How I have loved the old flag, can never now be known.
~~John Wilkes Booth

The flag curls over like a wave of the surf, 
Over its lines a cold fold of stars, enough 
To show what sky can be when night is come: 
Red alive as rockets in the fabrics dim, 
White stripes welcome as oceans breaking home. 

Catch me by the heels who can, or catch me not at all. 

How split, how hate-estranged we've grown, old flag, 
Stripped of half your stars, your red stripes but rags 
To bandage bloodied men or bury them--
Fife, drum, and solemn bell are all your music now. 
Flown, blown apart, we two, who once together flew. 

Catch me by the heels who can, or catch me not at all. 

I'll stitch myself into the national scene, 
Rehearse my lines and look the part--I preen 
To patch divided stripes and each stray star return. 
Nothing but love, love alone bade me do this: 
Fire, jump, and shout ‘Sic semper tyrranis!' 

Catch me by the heels who can, or catch me not at all. 

Mary Chesnut’s Diary

I do not write often now–not for want of something to say, but from a loathing of all I see and hear. Why dwell upon it?
~~ Mary Boykin Chesnut

Darkest of all Decembers ever has my life known, 
Sitting here by the embers, stunned, helpless, alone.
Lay aside, faithful pen, and write no more; 
Richmond is bleak as a cauldron of burnt teeth. 
I'll close my eyes awhile, and lie prone 
Until some sweeter thought arises. I remember... 
The canopied bridge to Mulberry, tree  
After tree alive with yellow jessamine  
And with cherokee rose writhing wild  
On post and pillar, as we rode to James'  
Father's placid estate, Colonel Chesnut 
Erect and spectacleless at eighty,  
A fine speech on his lips about his visit  
Preaching generosity and Jesus  
Down at the Wateree Negro Mission. 
"I preach to them as to my own, young James, 
Our prayers made knee by knee to God above."  
When long life at last sent him onward, 
The plantation rained with tears, and all 
Was lamentation and appreciation 
For one who'd filled his cup of life with grace. 
Old Scipio was first among the pallbearers 
Who'd "dressed him in life, and dressed him dead." 
And night came, and a soothing singing came  
Up to the manse from the little slave cabins. 

Pieces of the Old Battle Flag; or,
Hoe-cake and Hominy on the Way Home

My sisters that night made me underclothes from their skirts.
~~John T. Wickersham, in his homecoming narrative

A bugle broke night's silence as the colonel arrived,
Drunk we thought, tilting on his stick-thin brindled mare;
"The war's done, boys. Head on home."  And in a few strides

He was gone himself.  Kelly had his knife, and then and there
Began to parcel out the battle flag which had never veered
To ground, although three good colorguards weren't spared.

Some men wiped tears, some crept quiet from camp, hunched
As if unspined, but no one raised their voice to sing our anthem
A final time, nor have I heard it since, that song which once

Marched us from Missouri's shores to the vale of dread Antietam.
We soon enough were counted, and paroled to wander hence 
Barefoot to Memphis, or ride the Delta Darling steamboat down 

From the point of its departure. I rode until they threw me off, 
Unconscious on the docks of I knew not where, but not home. 
Alone and light-headed, I heard a colored woman close enough to scoff:

 "Po' devil, and Sunday comin' too," who led me like a lamb 
And fed me hominy and cornbread--of her poor portion half 
Until three weeks of days nursed me back to what I am: 

A sinner on the roadway with a hoe-cake in his hand. 
"Honey, don't you go it, you'll for sure die if you do."  
"Ninety miles to the Missouri line, I must try it if I can." 

Not a barn was left standing, not a town unburned, no, 
Not a cow in any pasture, nor a white man in the land. 
Not a black man played the stranger, but gave me kindness, too; 

Rough food to keep from fainting, sweet hands to bind my feet. 
Some went to hunt their masters, some heading for the North, 
Every one of them my better, to my shame and my regret. 

One night, near expiring, under the rainfall's gentle wrath 
I saw a lamp that beckoned me, deep in wood and sleet; 
On hands and knees I made it, too weak to try the latch; 

Within I heard them praying, a muffled forlorn grace, 
And put my ear the nearer who had not given thanks; 
Words, it seemed, imploring, to see their loved one's face 

Lost to war's disorders when taken from their ranks.
With their prayer ended, I knocked and entered, felt the fireplace
Warm me like a brandy that relieves the fever's shakes.

"Bacon and rye coffee," I heard.  "This man is almost dead!"
The voice was my own mother's, and my sisters circled near;
Father, serving coffee, cried: "Why, it's our own dear Ned!"

They embraced me all in all their arms, shed relief-fed tears.
They bathed me in hot water, and closed up every wound.
To God I give my every thanks, who took away my fears.


In freedom's cause their voices raise, 
And burst the bonds of every slave; 
Till, north and south, and east and west, 
The wounds we bear shall be redressed. 
     ~~ James M. Whitfield

Let us cross over the river, and rest 
under the shade of the trees.
    ~~Stonewall Jackson

Christmas Eve in Whitneyville

An invention can be so valuable as to be worthless to the inventor.
~~Eli Whitney

Easily a thousand times I'd touched a cuff, 
Flexed the luxury of a high thread count 
And dropped, as though left drowning in the surf, 
An empty sleeve without a second thought. 

Only now, in Whitneyville on a visit, 
Piling my cart with bales of breathable shirts, 
I think about the town's history, how it's stitched
Day to day in time's continental drift. 

How, quick as a cat, Eli's nimble gin 
Clawed free a thread, crystalline from end to end, 
And that thread reached out across lost time 
To wind me in these sheets for bed....  

Did Eli know his cotton gin would bring 
Us here together among the shining aisles-- 
He and I, and Southern slavers in a ring? 
And, by their rings, black slaves in lowly file? 

I dream of fields of cotton, brown and white, 
And dusky figures bending in a singing row, 
And colored sunset moving on toward night 
Where only sleeping darkness is allowed. 

I lie alone among the cotton clouds, 
Drifting in the droning surf of central air, 
My sleeves lifeless as my premie shroud. 
I hear my heavy breathing claw the air. 

Reviving the Wreck; or,
The Raising of the Monitor

It was like finding a palace, with all its conveniences, under the sea.
~~Nathaniel Hawthorne

The sea is full of sobbing 
Yet into the sea we go, 
To find that historical darling 
A tin ship from long ago. 

We fight (as they fought, perhaps, 
Who unlimbered cannon and tracked 
The foe) who (amid salvage and scrap) 
Wrestle seaweed and wrecks. 

With mask and fin descending, 
We delve disguised to the depths
To uncharm the storm's spellbinding 
Upending you to death. 

Here's the Monitor that made such noise  
Harassing Merrimac on the James;
It lists in a funk of silt and weeds, 
Rusted, contrite, and tame. 

History's filigree of detail, 
Its palimpsest of scribbled layers,
Shows stripes of filtered light mottling
A hulk abandoned by prayer. 

The darkness of Hatteras' stream
We pierce without wit or pity, 
And the glance of our trifling beams 
Reveals a sunken city. 

Here glimmers a little Manhattan,
The keel quaint 6th Avenue
With Wahoo and Bluefin pedestrians,
The whole glozed over in roux. 

All war and the waging of it 
Must come to this they say--
Two skeletons in an inverted turret 
Where minnows are wont to play. 

For weeks we belt and balloon and inflate 
To heave the iron whale by inches 
From the heaviness of its fate; 
Yet in my chest, a rebellious fish 

Quivers with questions and guesses: 
To itch at the layers of mystery, 
To reveal in detail what had been messy, 
May change what was of history.

To scrape through the dark unknown 
With an arrow of light forlorn,
With new instruments of our own.... 
Would we survive such inspection? 

Let Davy Jones entertain his guests,
Let leviathan still swallow Jonah,
Let Eve's innocence stay lost,
And disturb not Shakespeare's bones.

In the Field of Lost Shoes

They faltered not, but kept the line.
~~About the adolescent VMI cadets who marched through heavy mud, losing their shoes as they advanced on the enemy at New Market

We planted palm-sized flags in uncounted rows 
As wind taunted them taut-- 
The colors almost gone to watercolor now 
Winter's passed and spring pants. 

The field still marshals blue and grey, although 
The skirmish lines are lost....  
Where wildflower and meadowgrass grow long 
Memory simplifies to mist. 

Confederate Statues

Draw the sword and throw away the scabbard!
~~Stonewall Jackson

To stand and stand and stand 
When every knee would fawn; 
To be a statue, resolute, 
That greets the pinkening dawn. 

No more can one man master 
Than his own traitorous feet; 
No more's expected, wanted, 
Than refusal to retreat. 

So Stonewall stood, and stands 
Granite and complete; 
Each fieldstone laid by careful hand: 
Duty, honor, brave intent. 

Lee’s Return

When sullied world is gone, or rent
Hidden meanings like hidden ghosts arise.
That Lee might live the thought fidelity,
To defeat or victory indifferent,
A world's measure of gain and loss
Lies in his sword's ceremonial cross.

	O nothing but a passion burns
	Mourned countries to their soot.

Spotless Appomattox first and last,
Lee's ruinous duty, and after
Kent's canon that shook the stocks,
Who served a sane, distracted Lear
Because he knew a royal soul was one 
Human before humanity had come.

	Long, long lay the shadows on the grass;
	Uniformed men flit and pass.

How many of the undiscerning multitude
When Lee passed there had thought
His great grey face all gravity,
Stone blossom of a moral root.
What first might drive a man
To live an abstract thought?

	 O nothing but a passion burns
	 Mourned countries to their soot.

Courthouse shadows judge the field
Where Lee both tried and failed;
A lonely, exalted thought that still
Drives restless as a nail.
O How had Athens come and gone
Without one such man?

	 Long, long lay the shadows on the grass;
	 Uniformed men flit and pass.


Some books I read while writing

There’s a million books out there about the American Civil War. This is one of the facts that daunts, rather than tempts, the fidelity-minded contemporary writer. Some of the books I treasured, and mauled, the most during my journey through these sparse traces of poems are listed below. Of special note, to me, were the compendiums of contemporary accounts, tales and folklore (B. A. Botkin), or books that threaded a narrative together mainly through excerpts from eyewitness accounts, contemporaneous newspaper accounts, and official battle reports (Eisendchiml and Newman, Commager). I also enjoyed the robust and well-known popular history narratives of the war that use such accounts to bring their retellings to life (Catton, Foote, McPherson, Brown). You won’t regret picking up any of the titles below in addition to (or instead of) the little poetry book in your hands.

Civil War Treasury, B. A. Botkin 
Civil War, San American Iliad, Eisendchiml and Newman 
The Blue and the Grey, Henry Steele Commager 
Bruce Catton's Civil War 
Shelby Foote Civil War Trilogy 
Patriotic Gore, Edmund Wilson 
Vicksburg 1863, Winston Groom 
Battle Cry of Freedom, James Mcpherson 
Gettysburg, Noah Trudeau 
Life of Johnny Reb and Life of Billy Yank, Wiley 
War Stories, Ambrose Bierce 
Words For the Hour, poetry, Barret and Miller 
Poets of the Civil War, J. D. Mcclatchy 
Embattled Rebel and Tried by War, James Mcpherson 
Embattled Courage, Gerald Linderman 
Ironclad, Paul Clancy 
The Battle of the Crater, Charles River Editions 
Sherman's March, Burke Davis 
Dee Brown's Three Main Civil War Books 
Landscape Turned Red, Stephen Sears 
Don't Know Much About the Civil War, Kenneth Davis 

Any book by Douglas Southall Freeman 

Helps to keep a good battle atlas at your elbow, rather than internet maps.

One-Legged Poetry by Jacko Monahan

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Jun 042018

One-Legged Poetry

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One-Legged Poetry


Authored by
Jacko Monahan

To experience Jacko Monahan reading his poetry live, which he did every month for more than twenty years at the Brighton Bar in Long Branch, N.J., was to experience what a number of auditors have called his “word-uzi.” In One-Legged Poetry: Tragedy, Politics & a Sea Monster, Monahan has published his first full collection of poems, so that readers can experience his highly readable work in print virtually for the first time. Jacko once said, “Life is pain, and you have to learn how to survive it.” The poems in One-Legged Poetry are, more than any others he has written, about working through pain—the pain of losing his sight, the opening of old tar burns on his legs, and the loss of his leg to flesh-eating bacteria, all the while remaining intensely alive, human, and creative. Monahan’s voice is unique and powerful and these poems break new ground.

About the author:
Jacko Monahan was born in Passaic, N.J., and grew up on the streets of Palisades Park. During the 1980s, he was the front man and lyricist for the punk rock/hard core bands Fatal Rage and Dirge. Fatal Rage put out a single eponymous LP in 1983, but the latter band released numerous recordings, including two LPs—Flesh Crawler and Soul Storm. Having begun his musical career as a teenager in Palisades Park, Monahan has worked in some forty different bands in a variety of genres, writing original lyrics for them all, and has appeared on at least thirteen recordings. He also served for twenty-three years as the booking agent at the Brighton Bar, an original music venue in Long Branch, N.J. He estimates that he put on 10,000 shows at the Brighton and other venues, such as The Saint and The Stone Pony in Asbury Park and The Court Tavern in New Brunswick. Among these shows were the monthly poetry readings at the Brighton Bar. Monahan started writing poetry when he was fifteen and has continued to produce poems at a prodigious rate ever since. “I had a fascination with words from an early age,” he says. His work has appeared in Wanderlust, This Broken Shore, and The Idiom. A number of his poems appeared recently in Palisades, Parkways & Pinelands: An Anthology of Contemporary Poets (Blast Press, 2015).

Publication Date:
May 04 2017
0998482919 / 978-0998482910/dd>

Page Count:
Binding Type:
US Trade Paper
Trim Size:
5.5" x 8.5"
Black and White
Related Categories:
Poetry / American / General



Thistle Wins by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]

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Apr 272018

Thistle Wins

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Thistle Wins


Authored by
Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]


Once all wilderness was innocence. Later, all wilderness was sin. What does it say about wilderness, that it could be both sin and innocence—a space of condemnation and reprieve—at once? What does it say about us, limber interpreters of vastness? Every day someone takes a snapshot of themselves with the Statue of Liberty on his shoulder, or the moon upheld in her palm, the violent grandeur of the universe turned by metaphor and pixel-flash into a beachball.

Now we find our wildness in suburban glimpses: long weekends away to a campsite, the unwonted sting of a bee. Yet we were made by wildness; we were wolves before we mellowed to dogs.

FROM Dimwelter

In the dimwelter of evening we met for a swim.
The gawp of the lake aping the moon’s smooth light
Took our floating bodies with a silver swallow
As we swept our smiles filling with pushed water
Into easy depths

About the author:
Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown] has devoted his life to poetry since happening across a haiku by Moritake, to wit:
Leaves / float back up to the branch— / Ah! butterflies.
He runs the micro-publishing house BLAST PRESS, which has published over two dozen authors in the past 25 years. Named in honor of the wild Vorticist venture by Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis, BLAST PRESS is forward-looking and very opinionated. He still composes poems on his departed father’s clipboard, which he’s had since High School. Author of approximately 50 books and chapbooks, including poetry, novels, criticism, YA literature, and children’s illustrated books. Published in, among other places: BlueLINE, Exquisite Corpse, Blunderbuss, Monmouth Review, Middlesex: A Literary Journal, Asbury Park Press (60K circulation). Co-Host of the long-running River Read reading series in Red Bank, which features NJ and national poets. Associate Editor of the literary magazine This Broken Shore. Founder and CEO of BLAST PRESS, a literary mirco-publisher that has published over a hundred poetry and literary titles over the last quarter century. Two-time Asbury Park Poet Laureate award winner.

Publication Date:
Apr 01 2018
1986811271 / 978-1986811279
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Call It Sleep by H. A. Maxson

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Sep 182017

Call It Sleep

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Call It Sleep


Authored by
H A Maxson

Call It Sleep contains a final section of poems about a son’s experience of a father’s illness and death. It give us a snapshot these events in a series of moments, from the onset of the illness to the final moment of death. The book is full of small and large acts of understanding, resonance and respect for one who has gone before. The book touches areas of feeling and experience that confront universal passages of living in a way only very fine poetry can do.

The controlled language, the integrated images, the sense of connectedness with life are undeniable. H. A. Maxson transforms harsh reality into indelible art with truthfulness and beauty-and an edge of, if not bitterness, perhaps a tragic clarity.

There are also poems that continue to express Maxson’s hallmark interest in the natural world. Swans, ducks, goldfinches and gannets all get their own poems. The processes of nature are examined with astute feeling in poems like "A Braille of Ice" and "The Snake." A passionate conversion with the natural world is what this book delivers: deftly observed, and always aware of of nature’s human resonance.

About the author:
H. A. Maxson is the author of 17 books-5 collections of poetry (Turning the Wood, Walker in the Storm, The Curley Poems, Hook and Lemon Light); a book-length poem (The Walking Tour: Alexander Wilson in America) and a novel in free verse (Brother Wolf); two novels (The Younger and Comfort-co-authored with Claudia H. Young); a study of Robert Frost’s sonnets (On the Sonnets of Robert Frost), and seven works of historical fiction for young readers, co-authored with Claudia H. Young. Over 1000 poems, stories, reviews, essays and articles have appeared in periodicals, journals and anthologies. He has been nominated several times for Pushcart Prizes. He holds a Ph.D. from the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi and has taught literature and creative writing for over four decades at the college level. Married to Maureen Maxson, a nurse and photographer, they are organic gardeners in Milford, DE.

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Aug 01 2017
0998482927 / 9780998482927
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Night, Night by Gregg Glory

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Sep 182017

Night, Night

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Our legs look broken when light bends them in the swimming pool. Once our heads are under, immersed in the experience of wetness, the illusion disappears. Our legs are restored to us in their wholeness, where they can be repurposed as impromptu fins to propel us elsewhere. Which of these sets of legs are our “real” legs? The broken set, the restored set, or the Aquaman set?

Entering a poem is like entering that other, underwater world. We are restored to a wholeness the pain of life and its deceptions has convinced us is missing. But, we can only hold our breaths so long before our imaginations burst! And still we go down like clockwork into the dark otherwhere of metaphor, easing past the shallow end of simile, our imaginations and lungs aching. However dangerous the journey, we will not be denied our diving, our entry into depths.

The act of writing is a way for poets to break the surface tension, to transform and explore with all of their sets of legs at the same time—water-skimmer and octopus at once. The act of, not just imagining, but creating the distortion of a written record, a pool for others to enter, is part of the mystery. This writing things down, however, is not what may be called a clarification; that’s a mistake many neopyhte divers make, arriving back at the deck of their exploration vessel with the bends.

FROM "Among the Whales"

Down came the feathered
Waters, the bowing plumes
Of drum majors among us
Dancing a disparate rhythm
On the slick deck.

And it was hot, hot as a kiss,
Hot as blood the spume spray
Splatting about us in blots
Viscid as afterbirth,
And we grinned like kids
Shamelessly running, running
Through tumescent sprinklers-
No awe, no shame at all in all that
Fantastic whiteness blown
Hissing around us. *

Publication Date:
Jul 04 2017
1548801348 / 9781548801342
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Disappearing Acts by Gregg Glory

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Sep 182017

Disappearing Acts

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Day After Tomorrow
The police artist is drawing my face
In charcoal, line by line, in grim brimstone
For a stranger, one who attended the ill-
Attended impromptu poetry reading
Under a chilly streetlight flickering
Where we used the forbidden words
With facile ease as in the old days:
She is as in a field a silken tent.
Genders, pronouns, she, he and all that.
The stranger hadn’t seen much, though,
Just a zee zaying zomething, a blur
Like a face wearing a beard or sprouting one,
Two feet, or maybe one was fake, the stranger
Hesitated to say: other-abled, some color
Or other. Yes, yes, I think zee was a shade.


Dark Poet, your pen scratches at the heart of life.
~~Antonin Artaud

Nonsense is often the most sensible kind of sense. […]
Nonsense reveals all of us—our self, our situation—in a single pop of recognition as we are trampolined from our usual assurances and then forced to regain our footing, to regain our meaning, on the fly. Like an old-fashioned photographer’s flash powder, we are exposed to an extreme of light, with no visible space left for secrets or lies. This is part of the odd exhilaration of nonsense. And, don’t get me wrong, nonsense isn’t some sly encyclopedia where all hidden truths are stored and we must simply discover the index—oh, no. Rather, the puzzles that nonsense reveal are genuinely unsolvable. Gregor Samsa will never come back from being a cockroach; his transformation in the story “Metamorphosis” has simply revealed the pickle he was already in, but didn’t know that he was in.

What nonsense reveals, at its best, are genuine mysteries.

Publication Date:
Aug 29 2017
1975749685 / 9781975749682
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A Deepening Sea

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Mar 172017


Seas and seasons on the edge of wetness

"Either you decide to stay in the shallow end 
... or you go out in the ocean."
--Christopher Reeve

                     .. all that we are
destined to know, that the water is cold
and deep, and the sun penetrates only so far.
~~Jim Harrison


Look into the tidal pool that stands so small,
Licked into existence by its ocean mother; 
Look how sea and sky can stand together 
In the salt circumference of its circle. 

When at its edge and peering in, the dark 
Feels absolute.  But, with a little waiting there, 
What was all sky or night begins to clear.
--Look, a starfish, beating like a heart! 

I Am an Anemone

A belated report from a seer of being

Living with the sea and surf is every New Jerseyan’s native inheritance. There’s a scrim of winning, of life triumphant, that inheres to such wild and wetted borderlands between the ocean and the dunes that no temporary imposition of boardwalk, beach badge, or scootered police force can ever fully erase. Last year one of the big movies was The Martian, based on a sappy book and executed with boku budget and zero imagination. Their Martian was a man stranded on the red planet, its only inhabitant. Do you want to visit aliens? See a consciousness estranged from our fingers and lungs? Look no farther than under salt water. Here are animals and plants endowed with an elemental difference from our landbound neighbors.

And there, of course, under the sea, we began our evolution to becoming the landlords of dry earth–prince of predators and queens of the eating regime of life. At least, of life on land. Is there another us still swallowed by the sea, still wrapped in a tube of fishy muscle and zooming through the blue? Some watery mirrory reflection of the zest to know all and to impose ourselves on all that we humans have?

When I watch a fish twitch at the end of my hook, its face all made at angles to reduce drag and be an engine in service of its Shopenhaur-like will-to-live, I see my own eye going from glassy to arid as it expends its final minutes on the grass. We are efficient in our environment, and strangers elsewhere. When we succeed in life or business beyond the home, after the lame dorm, strong in our suits and boardrooms, or ably outfitted with a plumber’s wrench and toolkit, it is the old world of going home for the holidays where we feel the most estranged from our daily selves. It is there, among the cranberry sauces and filleted turkeys, that we gasp after the mastery the aquarium of work and our married lives provide.

But still we go home. Still we outfit ourselves with our juvenile social graces, or a newfound awkward silence that puts parsecs between us and our siblings at the dinner table–the green skirts of the christmas tree feeling as alien now as once they were the epitome of comfort and safety.

And so, as a species, we are divers and explorers of our personal pasts, of our nations and tribes, of our civilizations, and even of our previous incarnations as beings zinging along under the sea. It is to that cold water we return equipped with diving gear and lights brighter than sunshine, recording new home movies of the old kelp patch, weighted at the belt to keep us on our visit, the old family, finned and eely, nearly unrecognizable.

I am an anemone–as good an underwater emblem for a writer as anything–a colorful eater of facts and dreams, a living sitter waving prayerful tentacles before this mixed magnificence given again and again until, finally, we start learning to see.

And to see, of course, we must first outfit our minds and hearts with open curiosity. Not to know the answer that will be divulged. Life is no simpering SAT test, but a real engagement with what is. And whatever is, is us.

For this voyage, let us be in love with fins and sinuous things; with the starkly sharp urchins, the deep sulfur inhabitants of poisoned vents, the wild things that neither roar nor fly. Let us be baptized in salt water, and raise our heads again from that furious, wet source of being that first broke us out of dim nothingness into suffering and ecstasy.

Gregg Glory
Feburary 14th, 2016


*** The Tide is Wide ***

Voyage off beneath the trees 
O'er the field's enchanted seas 
Where the lilies are our sails 
And our sea-gulls, nightingales. 
~~James Whitcomb Riley 

Into Morning’s Quiet Overcast I Looked

Into morning's quiet overcast I looked:
I saw a great grey bleak of sea-borne seeming, 
A pewter-cold and winter-empty snowlight that shook 
Into a wide wayside ditch, that was left sullying  
Until the sun the somber doleful ocean overtook--
Breaking light like a run of fishes surfacing. 
Then, every curve of every wave looked up, 
Brightness burned in every tilted cup, 
Brightness lifting where endless dim had been: 
Brightness, brightness in everything. 

The September Bee

All along the machine-sweeper's leveled beach 
As along a lolling dog's long tongue of sand, 
Or mile-long emory board of luminous grit, 
I scuffed barefooted, belated, half 
Working on a late September tan. 

A bayberry bud, which night had shut, 
Held tight to something undisclosed, 
Something daylight's tapping hadn't resurrected, 
That moved untouched in little starts and fits; 
I heard a dull interrogatory buzz 
And stepped a step closer through the furze. 

Something of summer left unremembered  
Stirred inside the clenched flower-ball; 
Something smaller than a bloom gone rigid. 
When I shook that something--into my palm 
A something almost dead, almost golden rolled. 

Out in a Rowboat

Out in a rowboat above fluorescent bones of coral 
I saw a sunken world waver as I passed; 
Rainbow fish and glimmering squid shone floral 
As the beat of my oars broke the water's glass. 

I was the furthest thing imaginable to them: 
An angel in the taunting surf with repeating wings--
As though I'd fallen bone-dry from desert heaven 
To be a backlit stranger above their swimming. 

What they were to me, I hesitate to say. 
The water that kept them, kept them estranged. 
What enters us truly comes from such a long way, 
What they were was what I could not name: 

Dense urchins rolling dark along the sandy floor, 
Alive with needles as a knitting circle; 
Sea-lilies waving at a beckoning shore; 
My own long shadow waving as it wrinkles....

Painting Seascapes

There are images and images in the shifting witness
Of the sea, in all that wetness yet unanticipated-- 
Shape on shape in pilings-on of whiteness 
That heap rocks blank until no color taints. 

The artist's canvas there is pure as grass 
That grew in Eden before Eve had fainted-- 
Save when Noah set forth in dockless darkness 
And God's skies a single swipe of blackness painted.  

Pugilist at Sea

Up over the side came arms of salt water to deride
The insolence of setting forth in so low a thing 
Where green angry seas swell over-high,
Ready to swat what sculling flies try landing. 

And still the sailor tossed and tried, and still 
Found hard laughter in sails rabid winds unfurled-- 
Hands at hips, his face swept wet against 
The massed contempt of all that brawling swirl. 

Then night came round, and calm came round, 
And all the water round laid down a mirror  
Pearled only by his little boat, and the only sound 
Was himself cursing at the shrouds, as at prayer. 

The Wounded Boat

Coming in blind by feel and raw belief 
Through a coral-crowded sound alone, 
Silence is no part of her who lays beneath
The grieving whitecaps of this skiff. 
She is as a child's lone slapping moan, 
More real for being an unseen reef 
Panicked hands must guess at through the foam 
Of moonless midnight--the only shore a brief 
Invisible applause of leaves that signals home. 

The Happiness Mast

The yawing mast above us is 
What happiness is within us. 
See it leaning like a needle does 
To touch the water as it sprays! 

See it stiffen toward the skies 
As if to find among those clouds 
Godhood's enigmatic prize. 
Of its own seeking it is proud! 

Climb some midnight with limber daring 
Into the crowsnest at the top. 
And there--for a moment's scaring-- 
Feel your breathing stop. 

Brevity Blesses

Brevity blesses 
By the littleness of its 
Hash of guesses. 

A door ajar is more, in its intention, 
Than a thousand precepts' edification. 

A limegreen wash of dawn, 
Daylight's eternal line of red 
Bisecting sky and sea, 
And day and night--and me. 

All the limits of the lake's wide circle 
Sink superseded by the circle of the sea. 
A headlight's preening lamp is little-- 
Is least--when turned to face immensity. 

Joggers stamp past on the sandy path; 
Yellow dogs follow them, oblivious; 
A startled bird;  a shaken branch and bush; 
--And then the windless returning hush. 


What was it that accidentally I'd thought? 
What, if anything, accidentally caught? 
Whatever came, whatsoever caught, 
I found I had to carry in mind alone. 
I had no other pocket it could call home. 

Ideas are a nothing that we always need. 
For all earth's endowment of dirt, they are seeds 
Light as kelp-spore, a minute's freight that breeds 
All we are into all of light we see, 
Breeding upward reach from dark inward need.

The Turnstile’s Lament

The weak ‘sweep, sweep' of marram grass 
Is enough to make me think of all who pass
(Waltzing barefoot as they collect their badges) 
Out to the sighing surf, out to where they wade
Half-mermaid atop green waves for saddle,
And all the sea a sweep of pasturage.

I myself, a sweeper of the edgeless stage, 
Turn in the wind, and am turned again, 
My own weak 'weep mocking as I turn in pain 
To the beaten sound of wet sandgrains  
Where enfeebled night kneels and cloaks the day.
And all must leave, but the grass and I must stay. 

*** ‘Come In, Come In’ ***

If we were the sea, we'd always be dancing... 
Rhythm from beneath and a breath from above, 
Foam of all those stories rolling inside us at once.   

Family Album

They were familiar things in familiar places, 
Photos and postcards and long Xmas letters. 
Names known down the bones, houses called home, 
Dogs who, when called, always came running. 
Old fishing spots that stayed shaded at noon, 
That always walked catfish to the dinner table. 
Newspapers snapped back in Dad's wide lap, 
A porch hammock swung in summer-long napping. 
Skinned knees, a broken tooth, and brotherly love 
Tied tight to small fists as red boxing gloves.... 
Or dawdling at funerals while Mother was crying 
And Dad and Uncle Jim both restlessly pacing, 
Tying black ties that didn't really need tying. 
They were familiar things in familiar places, 
Familiar as pain in family faces.  

‘Come In, Come In’

The coming storm  
Works its shoreward will until we hear 
Bands of tangled lightning sear 
And hurry near. 
Afternoon rain pats my doubled-over shoulder, warm, 
And lightly touches hands below rolled sleeves  
As if to say ‘Come in, come in, 
Before the final night arrives,  
Before the last light dies.' 
I leave trowel and pitchfork where they stick, 
Our acre subsumed in quick eclipse. 

Soon rain roars cold against an upturned cart-- 
Hammerheaded darts 
Thrown too hard to dodge or miss. 
All that light allowed to be
Kept at bay is bearing down,
That kept at sea the sea
That's come knocking now.
Soon lot, house, and all seem lost at sea, 
An empty pilothouse surmounting a silver surge, 
Battered branch and clothesline whistling dirge 
For all of me. 

Moonless windows moan and strain 
To be let in, let in, 
To not be witness to how outer storm and outer night 
Bend low to blow out every light. 
Crouched in our basement hiding place, 
Thrown shadows fasten cloaks around our heads 
Crowding eyes toward eyes. ‘When all is done and said, 
This is home, our home' we would doubtless insist 
If pressed for definition of our case. 
Cradled candles elongate cheek, chin and face 
Flickering underlit 
Like lightning in an uncertain fist. 

The Driftwood Collector

All along the wind-honed blade of bay 
A nor'easter from upstate's conveying treasure 
Where sand was warm enough to roll in yesterday 
And water peaceable, and sleep a pleasure. 

Driftwood's floating in from a near hurricane; 
Osiris limbs that have drifted for years 
Hurry now to reassemble upon the plain: 
One foot stomping, one arm swimming clear 

Of all the crosswash late-season storms impose 
To lie in oafish somnolence on a beach, 
Turning up worn beards and weather-beaten noses 
Like trophies, themselves the prize they never poached. 

Before I retired, there was a log all knew 
Had been doing a dead-man's float a hundred years 
Past the point--and if no wiser, no worse anyhow, 
And bears him up no less then his first year 

When death pushed him rootless water-ward 
And time drained his strength like an hourglass 
And left him grey, and more useless than a board, 
Hissing where he is when the wind stiffens-- 

Should he ever drift to beach to my collector's luck, 
I'll lever him off, and paddle out upon his back. 

The Surfers

When I walk early, for hours and hours 
      Upon the beach alone, 
I watch my shadow shorten through the morn; 
      I throw a stone; 
I watch it skip at first, then sink and sink. 

Sometimes a surfer, wet-suited in the dawn 
      And on his own, 
Sits high upon a single wave unevenly alive 
      As if half-enthroned, 
The sea all-colors under him, a swell of gasoline. 

The breaker he rides in will be immense, a wall 
      As wide as eyes can go. 
Is it loneliness that has him paddle out 
      As far as he does? 
Alone myself, I ride my dryer hill.

      I always wave hello. 

A Wordless Conch

A wordless conch held at my ear 
Was a sea-snail's hollow caul; 
It endlessly sighs of landless wastes, 
Pulling air into its bowl. 

Smaller shells in double handfuls 
Come up in triumphant palms, 
A ladle dipped at elbows 
Dripping from nature's cauldron.... 

How many inching lives in shells 
Have footed home to death 
To give our morning walk this beach-- 
As grand a road as Rome's? 

Emptied of their residents 
The little mausoleums arch, 
Scalloped worn catacombs--
Fleshless in the flashing wash. 


I'd thought to put my acre of ocean true, 
To right-angle the waves with a path for shoes, 
A promenade for boatmen to steady ashore, 
To find their way dry again, if lost before. 

The pilings we pitted deep into grey sand 
And (aware of parables from the holy land) 
We stayed that sand with marine cement. 
(Our pilings would not be wrenched from it.) 

Four-by-fours and long two-by-sixes next 
Were spun betwixt pilings to cast a rigid net 
To keep the sway-boned sea from dancing past 
When hurricane or waterspout would come at last. 

I stood back from the work and declared it fit; 
Looped my floating hopes fast with rope to it; 
Cracked my back and thought of no more than bed. 
There I dreamed the years of use that lay ahead.... 

Came the storm, and stood the pitted pilings fast; 
The boat by its noose was saved, swamped but clasped. 
The beach itself was wooed away and hammered back-- 
All I'd thought sure and trued was flat collapsed,

No more than piled sand and rope gone slack. 

Wintering by the Atlantic

A midnight ocean and a stippled snow
Greyly perceived from a rail I know
Shared the grainy dark of here and nearer.
What water was above me seemed uncertainer.
What rolled in mist below rolled solider.

As snow and snow will in snowing meet,
What slid down danced into a wild sleet
And randomly clung, each to each, 
Resisting ocean's disassembling touch           
That undoes the individual who falls
And in that fall returns to ocean's all.
I could not tell just what my seeing meant
Nor how long soundless darkness had been lent;
There was nothing there in what was of sky,
No help of light to help say why,
Only usurpation's snow-deadened hiss
That ended each self-formed singleness
Distilled from upper vagueness and the cold.

They did not fall because they had been told.
They fell because there was nothing else to do
But fall, and this the ocean knew.


I hold myself treading mid-ocean mid-June, 
Almost lost among soft flashes of lashless eyes,
Loose ribbons of wrinkling waves that rise
And through oscillation bend and bend
Again, ending even with where they began,
Myself a pendulum to their motion
Of living hill and sunset ocean--
A golden head lolling in golden swells
That lap the iron tilt of buoy-bells
Swinging ringing their unattended knells.
But who am I, in green abeyance held,
Absent village clock and cocooning field?

Flotsam in the great swallower, I,
A mote of bladdered seaweed beneath the sky
Flow myself outflung over rippled sands,
Themselves unrolling in a treeless land
Where nothing is and no thing walks 
But scuttles on points and pincers in the dark;
Here my bouyed bones must sink, and sink to stay,
White as the flippant foam confused in play.
Like a criss-cross flag I'm blown about--
Shoreward winds first draw me in, then point me out, 
Uncertain to which country I am flown devout:
One horizon mesmerizes which creeps toward sea,
The opposite arc of cliff calls equally,
Myself the pupil spot in horizon's round,
A fleck of naught between deeps and ground.
Not lost, unfound in all that swells surrounding.

I float alone on the ocean's groaning--
From fathoms down lifts a gaping sounding,
As if a whale's lung, mid-rib, were sawn
Into a mouthless mouth too widely open,
Blowing hair into eyes with rough inhuman shush.
Lipless lips purse: sighing prayer, giving curse.
I know not which I'd rather hear in the hush
As wave berates wave in the subsuming wash....
If I address what holds me weightless,
With head and heart so nearly stateless,
I can't be sworn for either evil or good
As original author of my flotsam-mood:

"O Swallower, belched blanched from what
Depth beneath your cold swash and cut
Do I rise, a bubble in blown glass cupped?
What answer will you make, but swallow all
To that treeless dark where answers fall?
Your great green page folds and unfolds on every side;
On every side you pulse; I am kissed, pressed--
A shifty bookmark anchored in your aching wide:
Marking what, beside what poignant passage placed?
'Mid ocean's tassels tossed crest to crest
By your wrestler's wet, intensive tenderness,
I stretch spreadeagled as blank bells confess-- 
Unsure of outcome but with a strength to bless."

Reading Lines in the Sea Foam

The continuous white line of the surf 
Overwrites what was written there first  
With more of the same.  More of the same 
Mid-sentence message: sans beginning, sans 
End, an incessant erasure of sea and sand, 
A crescive hissing as if, as if playing a game. 

So I walked, myself a man in the middle, 
As irresolute as unfinished, lulled 
By the sound, calmed by seeing my footsteps 
Misspelled as I passed, or stood looking on, 
Leaving nothing behind to trouble one 
Who followed tidelines, reading where I have read. 

If confusion arose which line was preferred  
The sea never, never slowed for loss of words, 
As unhesitant in writing as erasure. 
Indeed the beating thing seemed to be to be, 
To keep even the pace of newness with waste-- 
Profligate perhaps, but oh so assured.

*** And Savior Came There None ***

The toil of all that be 
Helps not the primal fault; 
It rains into the sea, 
And still the sea is salt. 
~~A E Housman 

My Dream of Reefs

More mossy than the stillest wooded pond, 
More grotto than all those Roman fountains, 
Quiet as a night without any end-- 
My dream of reefs, the sandy waters under them. 

Roll On, Combers

Roll your rifle-barrels to the beach, 
Roll with steely reaching. 
Roll on, combers. 

Jericho of unfinished walls 
Roll on, I praise thy roar and fall. 
Roll on, combers. 

Crash dice against the jetties, 
Roll bones against our bleakness. 
Roll on, combers. 

Come thunder, come coil of storm, 
Roll on, voice of throats unborn! 
Roll on, combers. 

While time billows and music floods 
Roll on, repeat the resounding chord. 
Roll on, combers. 

Roll as you have always rolled. 
Roll on, toil, moil of echoes. 
Roll on, combers, roll on. 

A Sailor’s Prayer

Let all not be but rock and fate, 
A necklace of broken backs 
Hung round the nearest outcrop. 
Let mercy guide me and my mates, 
Let ease enter with every tack 
Against stripping wind's constant strop. 

I guess all prayer's beseeching, 
A word into the wind, a keen 
Fear for what may come unasked. 
Hands in prayer clapped are reaching 
From wave's trough into the unseen, 
Two oars with lonely rowing tasked. 

I give thanks when the water's calm, 
The moon like a pearl upon it 
And all the slap of waves soft applause. 
Thanks I give to the Helmsman 
From Honolulu to Narragansett, 
Thanks for each wild swell and pause. 

Fisherman’s Complaint

"Spray's no place to keep home in, 
Not for us, who, true, came from wet-- 
But must live dry with fingered fins."
"And ears dry that'd rather hear music."  

"I'll sing all day, if you'll pull the net!"  
"Grab your side and heave, and we'll 
Sing together and call that music."  
"Oh, heave-ho, the day-o--Aw, hell 

I've no song for the work today. 
Janice hates the smell of fish 
When home I tromp.  And that's the way 
I'm getting to get, too... fish." 

And so they trawled the silence in 
Until the sinking sun's oil slick 
Was well past its orange and golden 
Wallowing--the bay black, a drained sink. 

And Savior Came There None

I bared my chest and brought 
Myself to the bitter brink; 
I stepped into two rubber fins, 
Strapped on a silver mask. 

Through a tube so narrow,
My breath both came and went; 
A sound like someone drowning 
To my two ears was sent. 

Beneath a watery curve of sky 
I began to dive and glide; 
Sudden worlds of sunken wonder 
Appeared bursting at my side. 

Sandscapes of stranded castles,
All colors and every size; 
Swift fins of fabled angels 
Rushed silent before my eyes....

What was home now I was here 
A weightless angel like the rest? 
Oh, that my restless breath would cease 
And I be more than guest! 

Down and In

I fell into a deepening sea 
As a star falls out of the night; 
I fell to unskinnable knees 
From a too-urgent height. 

The cold that I encountered 
Flowed around me--within 
My star's carbon burning embered,
All shining at an end. 

The seaward insistence of rivers 
Became ocean's dread suck inside. 
I rolled among those silvers;
I sank into those tides. 

Now down, and in, and dark, 
I hang like a lantern suspended.
Deprived of wire and spark, 
The sea inevitably enters. 

*** Diving for Pearls ***


Alone 'mongst Indians in Canoes, 
Sometime o're-turn'd, I have been 
Half an inch from death, in Ocean deepe, 
Gods wonders I have seene. 
~~Roger Williams, founder of 
    Rhode Island colony  

Into the Deep Blue Sea

The handshake of an electric eel 
Could make a postcard politician feel; 
The Sun Fish, that seems but half a fish, 
Makes bullet-passage with its half-swish; 
Jellies that congregate maintain at noon 
A delicate transparency of moons; 
Sharks that mark the green sea-swath 
Inspire fear with props of fin and froth; 
The melodramatic dark of the Manta Ray 
Swings more cape than cutlass in the bay; 
The nippy urchin rolled on his hairy spines 
Won't be soon confused for a ball of twine; 
Flying Fish that scissor off Catalina 
Out-leap the terrible teeth of barracuda. 
For every ocean-going predator there is another 
Who knows an older (and bigger) brother. 
In this marine realm of fight and fight 
The old sun's sword cuts but filtered light-- 
Our salt-stung eyesight goes only so far below 
The sine of wave and gemmy billow.

Although the wide ocean's vast is vast, 
Our ignorance sailed it centuries past 
--Our ignorance vaster than oceans! 
And still for our ignorance we have questions: 
Not how wide our unknowing spreads, 
But how deep it still can poke its head. 
To trawl and sound and step the depth of seas, 
First we name our ignorance ‘mystery.' 

The Tourist

The sea before he entered it was swift, 
A rift of bright like an abalone shell. 
Down in, its dance and glimmer grew more dense, 
Grew nigh invisible, a fist enclos- 
Ing like glue, a push of rippled weight 
Buckling his legs behind, or else a silent pull... 
Waters willing him wade in deeper yet. 
Crenellations of the waiting reef were 
Circle on circle of green shingles piled, 
A pagoda for fishes' flittering sleeves, 
Keen to keep their wisdom and their world their own. 
Still he stooped to investigate what gaps 
Gave access, what recesses might show as  
Open when poked, kneeling almost where 
The darkness gathered him forward hunched, 
Wreathed with fronds or waving fans of coral, 
Spying spectacularly with his camera and flash 
--A startlement of light that washed all back 
As when cosmos first from nothingness was hurled.  

First Dive

Now down, I took my breathing easy, as I was taught. 
Still, I flinched at fins swiving past my arms, 
Watched dumb as trailing bubbles belled through wet light 
Where wide tides walked. 

Ocean's wounded sound was silence.  That enveloped all. 
That tempered each crested crash of surface waters. 
That tucked me under--dull quiet--into an unrung bell 
Of amniotic salts. 

Slowly, what had galled, gelled into new norms.... 
Lassoes of shadow cinched, then pooled, without menace. 
New, hushed harmonies sang out when schooling swarms 
Divided round the fault 

I interposed by standing there, a weighted fence. 
Immersed in those bold blues the ocean knew, 
I felt at once insignificant and immense: 
A full and empty vault. 

Beneath Actinic Light

Down into a darker level of the sea 
I sank with oxygen and spotlight; 
Lead-weights buckled like a studded belt 
To keep pants up, kept me sinking free. 

I passed a coral outcrop, color-flooded, 
And watched the atmosphere give up its glow-- 
A darkness swelling fresh from deep below 
Until the most innocent rock looked hooded. 

For sound I had a squeal of captive air, 
A tick-tick of equipment like a ladder round 
Clumsily fumbled going drunken down, 
With no soft rest of grass waiting there. 

Before a cave-hole I hung with bright device, 
The only apparition bearing any light 
So low below, to that deep under-height. 
I shined what sun I brought into the crevice: 

And there I saw a swirl or flash or spot 
Of more colors than my rainbow count  
Of red, orange, green, blue, indigo, violet-- 
A living ribbon of... I knew not.... 

I tried as many angles as I could access 
To see what went slippery behind dead coral, 
But left blind as I had been--without a moral-- 
Having shoved hand, eye, light into a recess. 

No Upper Summer

Deep beneath all that light could bring of news,
Beneath empty sky, and beneath the heavy 
Wet of the Atlantic shelf's continental pew 
(Where light is crushed into a black mascara jelly 

And what is seen is felt by eyeless thew), 
Small volcano smokestacks erupt from rock 
And pour their sulfur poisons, hid from view-- 
Hid from everything one would be led to think.... 

Yet gathered round each bare and broken vent, 
Arrayed as bloom-petals around a central stem, 
Plume and worm and life are duly bent, 
Studying the steady heat as old men 

Study the hearth-fire in their winter dens. 
Life hangs, even here, as a clef upon its stave, 
Singing silent psalms to purgatory summer when 
No upper summer gives what buried earth burns and gives. 

Diving for Pearls

The gold fan-coral waved soft as Gretel's locks 
And waved me onward, way by way, 
To pearl-oyster nooks in the pocketwatch bay;
Hidden places where none would look. 

Awash with calm beneath the sunny calm of day, 
With warmth that kept all doubt suspended,
My querulous flippers flapped me upended; 
Kept nose grounded and sandy-cloudy. 

An oyster bed I'd found there for just myself,
Oysters piled in unsliding mounds. 
I reached into the pearlescent hill's half-round 
For what I myself could grasp of wealth.

With sack slumped full and hard lungs demanding, 
I came up fast to the raft for air. 
I took my short knife and jimmied rims right there, 
Cracked pulled oysters with rough handling. 

I poked discarded purple guts for pearls,
Held soft sunlight cupped in shells--
Peeled mask and peered to see myself as well. 
What I saw reflected I would not tell. 

Suspension, or The Diver

        for Yvonne Montanino

A liquid weightless zero pull arrives as
She dismounts the boat into the moulting waves; 
Although she sinks herself as in a grave, 
Air would be with air and stay alive. 

All the push of nature pops her like a cork; 
To keep her curious nose nose-down is work. 
To reach toward treasure in the yeasty dark 
She rows against her buoyant heft, an anti-lark.

Dimmer blurs emerge as old light lets go 
And water-deepness keeps her dull below. 
Then, a burst of breath for pearly curtain, 
Turns orientation less than certain. 

No longer can she feel a down in bones, 
The globe surrounding an emergent zone 
Of everywhichway arrows, striped and finned. 
All's confusion, hazard, a map unpinned. 

There is nor up nor down, but all is round--
And she the center of the spun ball, no less. 
And then begins a small bubble in the brain: 
I confess, I must dive into this weightlessness


Swimming Around a Volcano

As if in search of revelation I
Descended, dived
Between dead cracks of an old volcano
Island abandoned
By all but reefs. The plunge undid me--
The world I entered 
Reeled unreal, slopes of black glass and ash:
Pleated cliffs 
That slid at every angle like fallen wings. 

And the sea was grass,

As in a psalm of inattentive shepherds lost
In strange valleys
Floods had closed.  Glad rayed fans of coral
Reached like wreckage--
Unpruned since the solitary cone had cooled
(Oh, an age ago
As far as new life proliferating might reckon),
Lifting their neon palms   
To desert heaven.  And, above heaven, silent,

God, absent and calm. 

*** Finding Lionfish Everywhere ***

Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep
My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe
O'er living myriads in their sleep.
~~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Transparent Heart

Unclouded I sit at my tideline task. 
Hipless jellyfish pulse, intricately limbed 
Between my knees, beneath my diver's mask, 
Bell-bodies beating slow as living chimes. 

Their white summer dresses but lightly veil 
A teasing rictus of richer innards: 
A plume of brain like a peacock's tail, 
A transparent heart that shows the sand. 

Here's one who feels a nothing in my hand, 
Whose string limbs curl their inching purple 
Around a curved inviting fingerend 
As if a morning reminder tied--and lapsed. 

All I had forgotten floods to mind suddenly; 
Expelled thoughts that had been supple 
Cloud my mask with breathing ill-at-ease, 
Complexing a day that had been simple. 

No longer can I play easy as they seem, 
Letting tufts of plankton, water, light, and all 
Pass through me as through an open transom-- 
My heart beating transparent, clear and small. 

The Hermit Crab

When he lets his inner curl of anchor go 
Like a weightlifter giving all that gravity back 
And leaves his comma tracks incised in dough 
Pointing like a murderer to his abandoned shack, 
He drags all of himself there really ever was  
Across the sea floor's unforgiving foreign sands 
Into some striped or spotted larger emptiness, 
And there drops anchor, there makes his stand.


Damselfish are farmers: kill coral bald, 
Then plow an algae patch on the barren spot. 
They'll bite an intrusive diver waving by, 
Tap angry at mask and gear until they weary--
So keenly they tend what they raise on rock. 
Toward every threat they flit: diminutive, bold. 

Their bluff of territory they domesticate,
Chew wrong weeds away, howsoever small, 
And comb with care each ragged straggler spume. 
They fence close their field with a farmer's gait,
Name the milk cow, chime the children home.
They flit and flit unfailing, hovering over all.

The Clownfish and the Anemone

A clownfish, my dear, whose name is mirth, 
Lives laughing within neon harms of his host; 
Fans out orange scare-fins at butterflyfish; 
Grins his teeth and retreats--in home tentacles lost. 

The anemone herself, a squatting chalice, 
Throws her fist of poisoned arrow-arms to sting; 
And then into her central hive of malice 
Recalls sparred darts, her living victim entangling. 

Together they live, you see, together thrive-- 
The clownfish aerating and defending, 
The anemone parrying and providing-- 
A dance of two as intimate as anything alive. 

A dance as endless as a willful marriage; 
A dance, my dear, I daren't disparage. 

Whales Falling like Leaves

An indigo shadow falls along the ocean floor  
That in shallows would be a beginning reef 
And start a coral flourish from a spoor 
And bring, in time, some tidy ship to grief. 

But here in deeps the ship of skeleton is cast, 
Lowering to be feed, and not to be fed, 
A blue whale corpse settling in at last-- 
A sleeping giant on a giant bed. 

And here for years will come the uncomely work 
Of claw and tentacle, enzyme and tooth; 
No bones left for an archeologist's pick, 
Who could admire such appetite for truth. 

Wanting God in the Seaweed

Just beyond what grasp would give to want, 
Just where my shrunken horizon's foreshortened 
By kelp and eelgrass and water-logged sand, 
Till all I see's a greeny mix-and-mist 

Into which I adamantly wish to stretch and reach, 
And find beyond my finely granulated sight 
Something to hold to through the shade of night, 
Something to give assurance, however slight, 

However less a something than a pebble caught 
And kept in reminiscence in a handy pocket 
And petted for luck, or looked at like a locket, 
Something to calm the terror, as a beach 

By the ocean's attentive petting palm is laved, 
That keeps its variable fringe of whiteness crisp  
With the back and forth of wrist and whisk 
Of that invisible hand who never waved to me.

The Octopus’ Ghost

An octopus I had not known was there  
Jetted off--and left aloft his ink ghost 
Dancing eight tentacles in water-air 
Off a shoulder of coral, a foot at most 
In front of where I hovered unaware. 

It had, in ink, the shape of sagging brain-sac; 
It had the sly suavity of tentacles 
As well, believably beating in its track. 
Itself had long gone behind pinnacles 
Of dawning coral, and would not come back.  

With my own waiting sack weightless in hand,
I prodded a likely cranny or two, 
Hoping to cull home what now coiled hidden 
In rock and nook.  I poked, too, through what debris 
The octopus had left for hint about his den. 

What feasts from his dinner-plate were scraped! 
Crabs galore, as well as fans of scallop shells 
Like leaves blown in the wake of striding capes; 
An empty turtle rocking like a bell; 
Fish skeletons delicately draped. 

I wavered amazed, inked in my own surprise. 
What had I thought would happen here below? 
All morning I'd chased the octopus for prize, 
All morning observed camouflage and flow 
Of the watchful octopus, his goatlike eyes. 

Finding Lionfish Everywhere

Watch the waving lionfish in deeply dappled light: 
His slender fins are batons conducting camouflage, 
Tricks of if adept at blinds as the coming on of night: 
Dimwit eyes see zip in passage of his wild extravagance. 

So he weaves, decieves, and is, with many gaudy brocades 
As a zebra's made to blend and be, a wave of the savanna; 
As aged great apes with false politesse share rare bananas--
Retitred prizefighters holding hands, retreating to shared shade. 

The Goliath Grouper

What thoughts are gathered in a grouper's eye, 
Who watches quiet-gilled reef-life go by? 
Unstartled as a weedy rock, he juts 
A low slow-opening brown jaw that waits 
Until some swimming bits of mere scenery 
Focus into French Grunts, get bit as bait. 

What the grouper thinks, with his down-turned pout 
Jabbering wide between coral's teal rebuttal points, 
Is what's caught by him is caught for good, 
Beyond debate good Socrates understood. 
--His principle dissolves all beyond retort. 
Whatever he thinks, he lives by this inner acid. 

Reaching After Stingrays

Stung by something about the whiptail ray 
(That mere leaning past my gunwale couldn't relieve),
Had me slither under water a little way 
To unsettle sand, and give the sleeping ray a shove;   
And note which way, if any, it might move. 

As sand spread flat on sand it was well-disguised; 
An anxious angler had naught to notice 
Who noticed not its eyebrow-pleated eye--
No more than a black marble made of ice. 
I laid a bare finger down to stroke its spine. 

My eyes went shut, as when prayer comes, 
Or trigger-pull releases a clapping shot. 
The last I saw was a shiver of skirts;  gone,   
The sudden nothing of a disturbéd spot 
Where sand had lain allayed--an untied knot. 

Its muslin, I'll tell you what, was mostly spurs, 
The petting of a sandpaper cantaloupe; 
Like hanging on bare-handed to a spar 
Too long, while your sailboat works a slope;
Compelled to keep on hanging on to hope 

Without the relief of a defining splinter 
To remind sore palms what has been survived.
For all my alien contact, I lacked a scar.
I forgot to watch it fly to new disguise--
The ray's rough touch so froze me mesmerized. 


We watched a barracuda through a drive of tuna 
Cull the moving grove like a narrow gardener 
Buzzing dewy hedgerows bloody with each pass. 
Like a needle neatly teethed it turned and passed, 
Its narrow head thrust neat as any tempered sword 
Into the passing banks of backs, the flanks of passing tuna. 

With more than death's blade it laid the silver sward-- 
With a tailor's attentive vim it slimmed the herd
And let the hardy swim on hardly swerved. 
You'd've thought it would've had to look more hard, 
Swimming thick through such puffed clouds of blood.... 
We let hard breaths escape we hadn't known we held. 

A Symphony of Limpets

I touch cratered spots of dead-ember rock 
Where limpets live and carve their days in quiet; 
They've left round fingerpads for flutes, mocking 
The silent sea with music quite as mute-- 

And I imagine them going so, notes without sound, 
A moot music that moves me as I ponder it, 
A gnarl of icy current coming down 
Stiff against my neck, a thrill like Mozart. 

The limpets pulled themselves away to graze 
Dispersed among wet wonderments of rock.
Nightfall finds them home in full assemblage, 
Stone-gowned choristers in stone pews, their stops 

Shut up from the melodic play of day; 
Hunger's harried morning at rest in surfeit. 
Suckered to the deep rock's dimpled grey, 
They seem no more than a cluster of camp tents

Returned to fireless quiet and nightlong wait. 
Nothing's happened here, I know, and yet.... 

Spanish Dancer

            a nudibranch ballet

An interstellar cloud as red 
As a flamenco dress' drape 
Whirled alive from heel to head 
While I gaped. 

Every pulse of its skirt 
To love was spur; 
A rouge that had the look 
Of blood in water. 

Staring at my Spanish dancer  
I balanced less on tarnished earth 
(Such constellations are so rare) 
Than heaven's turf. 

Vouchsafed a glimpse 
(Temporary, reddish, blurred) 
Of all that love could wish: 
Ecstasy's the only word. 

I longed to throw away 
Myself with such abandon.... 
Instead distilled I stay, 
To life condemned--

An underwater witness 
To all her flare and flash, 
Hung embalmed in wetness 
As if in ashes. 

Pins and Needles

A rubber fin disturbed an urchin
With its wind, set it rolling on its pins
Until, irked itself, it came to a tottered 
Stop, its rayed array of clockhands locked--
As when a seamstress pins her pattern 
Until her stitching ticks tight each seam
And she shakes her gown in sunlight, and it gleams.
So all that lives seeks an equilibrium;
Like the talker who hammers hard his theme,
Only to stutter it home to a glottal rest.  
Thus the urchin squats, itself its own wild nest. 

When We Were Lungfish

The sea is our cold underworld for sure, 
Stranded from us by interposing glass--
A transparency through which we once had passed, 
And once only, tenderfooting to the lure 

Of being safely beached out of water's danger,
Of being able to safely lay our eggs, and lie 
A moment unmolested before we died.
We were lungfish lunging lustily from water, 

Away from the sea's dire dread and hunger 
Which sizzled at our backs as we basked, 
Reminder of the fire with which all life is tasked
And to which, lungs burning, we went back under. 

Sea Turtles in Moonlight

When our moon at perigee comes bobbing low,
And dots of turtle hatchlings get tottering
Toward eating surfs the moon's low blues arouse,
We wake to watch such evening things carouse.
We imagine magic moondust falling,
Silvering starting life with its enhancing glow....

But such light we love is made of nothing.
Such a moon--big, rare--is neither here nor there.

Life does what life must, despite moon's baleful dare.
Ridley sea turtles crawl flaring seaward,
Killer whales calve when aches come nearer,
No matter how far the moon is raised or lowered.
So, too, we swim into the dousing fate we share:
Forward, forward, however awkward toward.

Fiddler Crabs Walking Backwards at Sunset

A crab scrabbles in the sidelight like a hand 
Following the brown back-and-forth of tidal froth, 
Leaving crabbed cuneiform music in the sand. 

Broad-backed, elaborate in their armored masque 
They seem to play impervious to sympathy 
--Some Schoenberg concerto more like math 

Than music, tracing melodies beside the tuning sea 
That anchors their staticky abstractions 
With a patient mother's patient shush and sigh, 

A mother's low oboe-toned repetitions 
Calming crablike child-hands pulling at her hem-- 
A consonance like strummed guitar-strings coming then. 

Treading Water in Mosquito Bay

     the bioluminescent bay in Vieques, Puerto Rico

At midnight, the bay's a blue florescent iris. 
By day, nothing strobes the water but its sheen, 
Polished green like one large tropical leaf-- 
A royal palm, perhaps, or some other green. 

Later, sunset tips its bucket of jelly yellows, 
Drips its fist of melted crayons to belilac 
The unwary eye, as day goes wet away into the west 
And slews of broken inks bleed out veins of night. 

It takes a long while to notice, as one stands looking, 
The faint, hairy, spectral, disturbed bulb-glow begin: 
How slow to show that blue, like a deflated moon 
In the bay, or calm dead face tilted at the chin. 

Soon swift wakes of kayaks come with tails of white, 
And naked swimmers dim the eye, ephemeral  
Water-skimmers stirring a placid plate of lake--
Around their beating limbs, a phosphorescence: frail 

Wings and feathers.  

*** Crying Ahoy! ***

When you and I and sunset go
Away and come back
Always there's the quick feeling "oh!
Never again just that."

Making the Breakers

I swam until my breath was near unreeled, 
My tired feet beginning to blue with cold, 
My wet face raw, freshly peeled. 

I was almost back to where breakers crashed,
In from the solipsistic serenity 
Of a farther sea's swollen wash.

I made the float's spare deck, and flung upon it, 
Scrabbled uneven in the sudden rocking, then
Felt hard waves hit as first I sat. 

All the horizon-line--where eyes would hold, could 
Hold in all the wave of world surrounding--
Was sea reeling, and so cold.  

Impromptu Squall

The weathercock is the wisest man.
                 ~~Emerson, Journals

The ocean flat as a ballroom
Lied an idle unswaying blue, 
Unmoving as a quadrille
Uncommenced, concealing still 
What turbulence might come. 
The storm's fox-trotting rim
Encroached smoky and smeared, 
A hem of darkness lapping near.

Despite our not wanting it
Bad weather came--it came anyway, 
Its thunders en pointe in a troupe. 
The little craft's tango yaw 
And debilitating rapid pitch 
Dipped us jaundiced to our gills;
Back-leading the lifted rail, 
We felt green horizons shift. 

Rod and line, set nodding, pressed
Step-by-step into clipped chassé; 
Still stronger weathers threatened near.
The captain tapped his radar clear--
Sweep and countersweep cried out 
Allemande left with a caller's shout:
Cloudbanks do-si-doing there, our
Dark partners bowing, fear to fear. 

Versions in Runny Moonlight

The moon like a run of soldering on calm water, 
A silver seam between two broken shelving shards, 
A liquid line that welds the world together; 
What had been separate has come to oneness, hard. 

Laying like a discarded satin tie, the moon upon the waters; 
All those bronze sheets of day torn off without a trace, 
Just this one loose dock-rope thrown from the departing boat-- 
A line of luminous paint on a dark and changing face. 

I I I 
A sparkling line of gunpowder leads to the furious moon, 
A barrel of spoons tipped into the slow smash of waters 
Beating on seas' wide knees a raggedy country tune.  Whatever 
Song has brought me here, I say: let this one bring me farther. 

Joyriding the Night Sea

In the pulpit of a powerboat,
I pitched and passed the last black buoy.
I was flying at hazard past bay and float
Far into the dark, far past scraps of day.

The trussed hull slapped and rattled like a bow
Once the arrow's loosed, once the sprung string untwists 
Back into the normal tension life allows-- 
My thrashed spine raw as an archer's wrist.

Spray that left the bowsprit in a whip
Flash-froze my face to its forward task;
Whatever thoughts might keep an inward grip 
Left no outward trace as they passed.

Darkness was all, and darkness all I was.
Above, no puncture appeared for stars to shine.
Beneath, a deafening raging motor buzzed
Driving the fiberglass arrowhead

Blind into anything alive. 

Meeting at Sea

How the running wave assaults the pebbles 
With polyuphloisbios on its breath, 
Sliding up in such hurried fluffed excitement 
You'd think the sea came reporting troubles. 
Yet the sea has no more to tell us two of death 
Than its usual haul of impermanence. 

No more floods from its mouthful bubbles 
Than yesterday's foam had told in brief, 
Or, indeed, what the day before that had meant. 
What I keep an ear for when we watch the wash 
Briskly sweeping the edge, is not belief, 
But to hear known news in doublement. 

The one cold comfort that comes with age 
Is how old saws still cut true with grief, 
How sighs race sands to bewilderment 
And go on sighing their wavery treble, 
Tide in and out sighing without cease 
In the same wet bliss as when first we met. 

First Push, Then Pull

Sand flows slower through hands underwater,
Meets more resistance, as a child her dad's cheek 
Kisses more carefully unshaven. 

Time itself seems less pressed to palter 
When flowed along through a tide's enlarging lens, 
The hourglass turned and turned again. 

Here a stasis friction where edges met  
Seemed to rule us all that long first afternoon, 
Keeping us standing like fountain shadows. 

We were just ourselves it seemed, and yet 
Slower, like sand in tidal pools at noon, 
Warmer where the sun flows oblique below. 

In our tidal stillness we standing stood, 
The sea as salt within us as it was without, 
All push and pull at pause.  And that was good.  

Together the Moving Waves

Together, quiet, we moved in the wake of waves,
Together found the rhythm of how we were made 
To be together, and be together saved. 

All afternoon we lived in all the play of shade 
And play of wet and light as rayed sunset 
Summoned us to dinner beyond the cove's glade. 

Together before pineapple and pork we sat, 
Two dim humans alight with love of all  
The love we had, and in that light we ate. 

We sat until the stars themselves began to fall 
Singly into the shingle of the sea 
And so made place for still new stars to fall. 

It was as if we sat at creation's knee, 
Two serious children thrown into the all 
And settled on the ocean's verge to be.

Chihuly’s Illuminated Spears

Chihuly's illuminated spears line the gravel walk, 
Tossed from a florescent urchin's stegosauric back. 

The Seattle night is wet and fresh, a champagne wash 
Frivolous and spastic as the sea's moulting crash. 

Inside the glass house, a signature warp of light 
Douses the house's sides like a blue-whale's flukes caught 

Turning screwise in twilight off some far Pacific isle. 
We dare a side-room.  Above, oddities bobble, quilled 

Radiant by strobes, directed lances of dapple-light-- 
As if we lived enreefed beneath such laser shapes of sight: 

Orange palm-fronds frozen lustrous in mid-unfurling, 
Razor aloe-limbs pronged and leaning gleaming 

Like licked licorice-sticks.  Nearby, purple fluted gourds  
Gangle at all angles: ripe, overripe, engorged-- 

Trumpets, too, of red sponges, while canopies of eyes 
Pop surprised from indigo skeins of rind--corkscrew rays 

Of yellow intensity, the abrupt structures of cell 
Automata, endless whims of fin and tooth, flares of hell 

A drowning man, a man sans land, knows all too well. 


The Quiet Tide

In the lonely presence of the quiet tide 
There's a wisdom the cawing gull derides. 
Look about you: in life, in death on every side. 
There is wisdom in subside, subside, subside.  

*** Essay ***

Eye of the Devilfish

Finding large nature looking back. Grand Cayman, circa 1974

It was our first winter in paradise, as the flair-panted travel agent had named it. Perhaps, if our cranky memories could be searched, or sifted, we might be able to rehearse other names, other colors. It was a strange island spot, a stone in the ocean; a black volcanic liberated of its native Caliban until my dad winged in. Or maybe, dwelling in the distracted haze of the past, it is actually some type or taste of an involuted, infolded space, like a physicist’s undone laundry, and not the island haven the glossy brochure proclaimed at all, with no long stretches of unblemished sand tastefully spiced by ripe brown native boys singing hymnals after dark.

Whatever it was, our squeaking wheels touched it and our silver wings groaned when released by its buoyant being of their humid load of air. The airstrip’s attendant, whose dark trousers were enlivened by nimble piping, and who had rolled the streamlined stairway to our squat airplane’s door, lifted his blue policeman’s hat in greeting before hunching off with all of our crammed winter bags under his thin arms. He trundled them to the custom-officer’s desk in a cavernous aqua-blue room, disturbing the game of Caribbean solitaire in which he had been immersed (in that quaint island version, voodooic queen outranked staunch aces). A frowning queen of hearts pinned my still snow-booted toe as he gave our bursting bags the standard shuffle and no lurid contraband emerged.

The five of us had trouble getting all the cases through the far door that dawned on palms which our porter-cum-custom’s-officer-cum-police-chieftain had managed to wrangle to his dinged desk with a gibbon’s ease, and had to wave goodbye with only four stiffly wiggling fingers, all of our thumbs still stuck through slipping handles.

Once at the huts, adorably florescent and fashioned of an enduring type of concrete, we let our northern layers of zippered skin slither from us in a sweating frenzy that eventually pooled at our feet in a species of languid gratitude. Old skins and old whims (as represented by the fragrantly sticky multi-hued stain of a forgotten popsicle picked up at the Newark terminal and allowed to bloom thus darkly on my dark December coat) were left in a soggy stack by the front egress, not to be re-touched or re-donned until the last, lingering tick of the vacation had passed and we were ready to reassume the cold masks and colder duties of our remote, home, higher hemisphere.

My brothers and I, all boys, spent a few gummed moments twisting out of our snowpants and screwing back into our handy mom’s proffered shorts before racing out the pliant backdoor towards the hunkered gem of the ocean. Looking back down the cross-hairs of time’s telescope, I spotted the droning outline of my dad (already on the phone conducting his sinister business) and the docile, backlit slide of my mom, methodically filling the empty drawers with our horded summerwear, and efficiently slipping lifeless thing onto thin hangers. From the dark, angular closet, a ghost-white shirt shook its sleeves in parting as we scampered headlong down the sweetly simpering beach.

We were met at the drooling lip (or perhaps it was knee-deep on the lascivious tongue) of the peacock-blue sea by the two underaged representatives of a blonde quartet that composed the entire tidy family of one of my dad’s harem of business associates. The dissolving names of the two before us, standing in the photo, as it were, long and tan with white shorts, come galloping up from memory’s transmogrified mess, in one of its babble of reassigned languages–which correlates strangely (do not ask me how) with its hazy tendency to switch beloved heads and plop them on the glimpsed frames of IDless bodies, giving some blonde and tanned cousin a pale and darkly furred torso, or worse, wrenching some ebon-haired past-love with a classic nose and twinkling eyes onto the still grinding pelvis and shoulders of a cheap pick-up (one of those fated matings tinged with incestuousness) whose active legs were patched together by a starkly orange pubis–come galloping, as I say, these names, to the tip of my still remembering, still trembling tongue to tumble out in plain prose, this far from the original inspiration of the actual beach, as King and Courteous. Well, it is obvious that I have misplaced somebody’s bags and tags, but it is as close as I can get, squinting into memory’s dim box. As the men of the Fire League say, or chant at their bachelor barbecues, A hose is a hose is a hose.

It was not very long before the older of the pair, courteous King, not royally lonesome Courteous, got the idea of hopping into his bleached dad’s Boston whaler, the Sun Temple, and hailed the rest of us, still swirled in sand, to abandon our half-melted castles and sagging minarets and join him where the tingling, tangled water thumped his prow. We jumped from our tepid tidepools, abandoning our squids, and leaving cruelly declawed crabs in our wake, and slogged against the rising tide to reach the uneven gunwale out of breath.

As we whisked along the island’s edge, Courteous kept us entertained with stories of the family doberman pincher, often caught thrusting its whittled head into the neighbor’s mailbox to retrieve shampoo samples, or of Courteous’ own innumerable rescues from neighborhood hoods at the trained teeth of the dog, which died unattended at the end of its chain, barking at a lark. Soon we were looking into lunar reefs, navigating purple hazards, tooting creatureless shells that stank of brine, yodeling and crooning at top speed over the liquid undulance from which we had spilled out of bed as hubris-stuffed dollops of kaleidoscopic slime.

After an afternoon freshened by our escapades, we had wound up in a luminous little cove where the deep bottom sand pulsed blue in time to the lulling swells; monstrous turtles frolicked and played at semaphores with their four fleshly underwater wings. Our original excitement had quieted to occasional oohs by this time, and we were content to drift between measureless sea and measureless sky, or in and out of a fluttering sleep, trailing lazy limbs in warm sodawater.

There are rare moments, fugitive instants, that glitter with a recollected condensation when our span is wished up upon us again in sullen reverie, and time collapses like a circus tent down an unshakable centerpole, the radiant nodule of a nodding minute or sparked millisecond, reducing rounded shadows of events to mere flats, bringing us flush with the twilit distant past, erasing accreted differences between our current selves (a treacherous fiction) and the doomed, slavish selves that we were, which, although they seemed complete at the time, intense, capable, undecided, they must now repeat our ruinous film upon command, decisionless ghosts dissolving halfway up the same stairs forever, kicking out the stilts that keep our feet dry and separate us from the marmoreal, miasmic, mammalian mire of memory, reducing a vibrant now to a sanded then, collapsing space. Or, actually, I suppose, such magnetic moments enlarge us from our vague potentials and unrealized wholes into exact fractions, infinite in their compactness as failed stars–as opposed to the puny view which history with its crooked stack of flashcards affords. Well, however it is, one such zinging instant was about to descend upon me then, nine years old and in a boat, watching clods deform and defoam above me, my tingling hand grounded in live currents.

But what if this sacred event were merely baptized in tired bathwater and Mr. Bubble? So what! In my mind the constellation of differing blues takes on the fixed geometry of a premonition, a blue five of hearts licked to fate’s crinkled forehead, pale sky, robust blue trunks warmly pasted against me, neutral blue bench plank before me, hopeless blue cloud-shadow diffusing and re-fusing all around my lightly flecked, heavily targeted, heavenly blur-blue eye. I can see now that I was ready then for the unknown next. There was a faint wrinkle-wrinkle sound in the water. Coeur-hearted Courteous, I think, snorted, while stately King squinted with sleek regality at the horizon from his pose on the prow. I still had my bright eye on the everlasting. And then, out of nowhere, out of an illusionist’s hidden hat, out of the invisible ocean, it came.

Having no taste, or, at most, a fading aftertaste, or burp’s hint, for the bilious and overblown, I suppose that I should simply present my phenomenon, have done with it, and click to the next slide. Very well. enough ghoulish suspense. Dimensions: twenty-four feet if an inch from blunt front to whiplike stern, side to side another shadowy twenty perhaps. General shape: flapping diamond. Skin: slick, oiled oil in shaded, rough under magnification. Mouth: a surreptitious incision invisible when not gaping wide enough to swallow in one convulsive gulp a pumpkin the size of a human head. Gills (for it was, indeed, a creature of the sea I met): a terraced series of similar incisions, following the graceful flow of line of the calculate-in-the-direction-of-infinity sign in calculus (a lower-case italicized f minus its horizontal stripe). Have you got these disparate parts firmly in hand, or in mind, rather? Very well. Toss them and think gestalt, gestalt. Has the monster materialized from your foam, or is the puzzle still jumbled? Oh, all right, all right, quit tugging my sleeve, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you.

Like Botticelli’s Aphrodite, flying from the hysterical slalom of the sleeping sea-soma, this awful shadow emerged, breaking the cursive crest of its sheltering wave, and sledded, an awesome twenty-four-by twenty of sea-beast, no more than four feet over our rickety deck. I recognized it instantly as the sweaty, living version of several smaller miniatures (all fearsomely detailed) I had seen printed dinkily in my well-thumbed Field Guide to Sea Lore. There it was called, in the all-caps title to its own article, THE MANTA-RAY OR DEVILFISH, by Wally Stevedore. The poor, lost fellow, out of his supportive element, seemed to sag and waggle a bit at his skinny tips as he loomed for that brief, hovering moment above the boat. Was there terror and fire? White cowardice in our young hearts and rubbery limbs? There was shade and sky, a shuttle of bright and dark that I now replay, a dripping instrument of the miraculous followed, in its pop-up appearance, by clinging tendrils of stage-smoke.

And then, poof! it was gone. The apparition dissolved that, probably, the tuna sandwich on Courteous’ breath (combined with our raw boy-smells) had called at a stroke from the zeus-azure depths. The placated boat, still sluggishly full of gas, wobbled like a robin’s egg cradled in the inquisitive palm of a girl with glasses; this palm was attached, I am, sure, to my ghost half-sister who never quite managed to get born, but who I have always had, in my head, the most stubbornly glowing image of (nimbused or coronaed by a lucky sunset touching her hair with its radiant bubble). My heart, wrecked and wronged by nine years of wear and tear and care, seemed, for the moment, drained and spacious, a tapped swamp relieved of its dreams. One could still see the awkward shapes of clouds going divinely by.

Here the hesitant gesture offered by the dissipating trunk of a swollen elephant-cloud uncurling towards a shy mouse- or grouse-cloud retreating into a misty skidmark. There, the missed clasps and forgotten hugs of busy vapors, demonstrating as in a classroom nature’s purposeless stridency and demand for estrangement. But closer to me than even those immaculate splotches, closer, and nearer and dearer, was the monstrous darkness that had hovered for its soaked moment over my soul, sea-musty and heavenly, silent and wet. And there it still hovered over my sunken kid’s chest, skin intact, unlike the one I had gaped at later, less willingly spreadeagled, and which I had taken an older, grotesque interest in, as if peering at myself in a queer mirror, dead an vivisected on a dock in Miami. Huddled together as we were under that cauled shadow, my monster and me, I myself having been almost bundled off into sleep by the sea’s queasiness, I felt, or think that I remember having felt, some gelatinous tentacle of the thing’s being reach down towards me out of that black diamond, and something slippery in me leap up.

Also, and this I have concealed until the penultimate minute, I had spotted, in that torpid solstice, folded in our communal awning of shadow, up in the instantaneous blackness that had come whispering out of the sea to bury us (or save us, as I once overheard in some terrorist ceremony at a Satanic Church revivalist meeting held, covertly, in my own basement–without my consent or foreknowledge–from my pinched position behind the umber altar where I had been laying ant traps, and stuck under an inverted cross where the carved blood flooded up), and in the backward abyss of memory still spot, the slow, maddened revolution of the great creature’s moist sustaining eye.


A Raven’s Weight

 [Poetry], A Raven's Weight  Comments Off on A Raven’s Weight
Mar 162017


It is salutary to deal with the surface of things.  What are these 
rivers and hills, these hieroglyphics which my eyes behold? 
~~Thoreau, Journal 

Men think they are better than grass.
~~W. S. Merwin, The River of Bees 

How can I be close to you if I'm not sad?
~~Robert Bly 



Emotional suffering gives us access to the real world in a way that ideas, and even love, cannot attain

We turn death and generation into a fable of sacrifice. Plants are buried, and are honored in their going; the Crop King is executed, and from his everlastingly renewed body the spring stalks arise to be culled again. His death is willingly embraced by him, or by his stand-in chosen from among the farmers–and this freely chosen death is overcome, in the Christian story, by God’s intervention. Or the sacrifice is invested with meaning by the very act of undertaking the self-imposed burden of sacrifice. Perhaps the deadness of the death is overcome via the more pagan vehicle of the anti-wish-fulfillment of tragedy–their heroes marching off-stage with a chin-lifted “tragic gaiety.”

At a minim, in these stories of death, the dead have some future existence, some ongoing effect on the living who survive the sacrifice. They are ghosts, legacies, shapers of their children’s childhoods (and thus their later lives), fathers of countries, innovators and stage-managers of the theater of ideas in which our own living decisions seem to occur.

There is, however, a more reductive way of viewing these mechanics of life and death. A way in which immaterial ideas remain immaterial to the whole process of death and generation. In this view, death and life are entirely out of our hands, and are not even subject to some overweening concept, such as Fate. Death and generation are entirely out of our conscious control, contribution, or even comprehension. The grave is a wormy meat-locker, the womb a humid conveyer-belt on auto-pilot, churning and regurgitating material for the low grave’s open door. All the rest, all our imposition of pattern, our self-selecting and seeking of meaning, our elaborate institutions of culture, our games of play and mating, are no more than an con game that we play against ourselves–an inherently deceitful waste of time and effort.

No wonder no one has the time to read poetry books! Thin as they are, they make better coasters than guideposts; they are lies only, not metaphoric (or metamorphic) mile-markers limping off into the mists toward immanence….

There is one thing, however, that binds us to the earth in both of these scenarios. If we are meaning-making creatures who have impact and effect in our deliberate embracing of death, our use of tools, and our active management of history–or if we are simply whittled-down pegs, wooden-headed and wooden-footed as we hop the circuit and then hop off some cosmic cribbage board. And that one thing is sorrow. Grief over what is lost, or for that which is too soon to be gone, made irrecoverable by time and nature. In both cases, what is, is. And there is also that which will not always be as it is–or even always continue to be at all. The result of this fact is the unending sorrow that life presents to us. Tragedy or comedy, we cry at either when the curtain lowers, as the coffin to its silky mud, and the players disperse like invisible ink, all play-acting at an end.

Sorrow grounds us, keeps our beings seated on the earth. And it is through this special kind of on-going grief that we enter into our true understanding of life, and of the life of death. Sleep is our small daily adjustment toward incorporating unconscious revelations. When we are awake, it is sorrow that can let us break through the gates that hold the mind’s wild darkness away from day-lit acknowledgement–the gates that consciousness holds shut with our meaning-making, endless cognitions and wishes. Mary Oliver says, in her poem ‘Don’t Hesitate,’ that “Joy is not made to be a crumb.” So, too, with sorrow. We are not meant to sip the deluge. Sorrow, if it comes at all, arrives with tidal force–and the wideness of its bleak realization keeps our feet steady, blows the egomaniac mind down the staircase, and holds our elbows hard so that we must face each other in dire humility.

Poems grown from sorrow can perhaps gives us the momentary clarity to drop our pretense of control, the modern imperative that commands that we impose a single, often literal, meaning. Poems grown from sorrow let us sit abandoned among the dead leaves of grief. Poems can let us see the feather fallen from the raven’s wing, and can let us enter into the long dark tubes of mourning that flow so keenly along the detached shaft–the backbone of a feather that had once been capable of the terrors of flight.

Gregg Glory
December 25, 2015



Today is barely here, it is so delicately 
Arriving over the long scimitar edge 
Of Earth, a single blade of light, 
Beginning greyness and unfocused grace
Out of coughing darkness where  
God said nothing to us in a dream 
He was so busy with His wide dark wall 
Of sky, hoisting each wild star up there 
Like a kid with his stickers, just right. 



The reed flute is empty.  Think of that! 
There's no music in that hollowness, those 
Snipped weeds dried and arranged and tied. 

Where is the music?  Ask instead, "who speaks  
When I am talking?"  I am not my memories,  
Nor yet am I the I who I will be tomorrow. 

The flute is light and ready in my hands. 
Celebrants have gathered, the tent pole is raised;
Wine is on the lips of the barefoot bride! 

Move the emptiness of your speaking through 
The red reed flute's empty tube, again and again. 
You'll hear the music soon enough, secret whistler. 


Stars vibrate wildly in a tin dish. 
I slide through the membrane of fire-- 
Wild ideas come at me, attracted by 
My burned clothes, the cinnamon smoke 
Of nearly dying again in my sleep last night. 

The icy awareness of 4AM empty streets 
Bathed in longing, their young lamps shining 
Tender as snail horns....  Who knew that stars 
Fell among us so easily?  A few old poets 
Stare about, aware as burrow owls. 


I kiss your ear with the tongue of my lips,
An oyster going home to his pearl. 


A non-white non-ethnic man crouched under the stairs 
Keeps mouthing indistinctly that I should stay asleep; 
His eyes are like those small puddles punched 
Among harvested corn-stubble fields in late autumn. 

Catbirds beyond the bedroom's freeze-sealed sashes 
Are singing in their sleep, under moving mounting shadowy clouds 
Calm as gathered cattle in their long night pens. 
I stand without waking and sing indistinctly, too. 


Look in a drop of water you will see your face there. 
The maple's snakes, its tendrils, its subdividing branches 
Become arms and hands and fingers when we do the looking. 

What's this hissing repetition that surrounds us like grass? 
This going on and on about the point, without being explicit? 
Is there no abstract, no definition, that we can look up? 

Stars, every night, fall into my upward eyes and live there. 
Every night, the coyote's lonely howl enters my doglike heart. 
Darkness imbues me until my skin is oil-black enameling. 

How many pieces of glass must we sift into the kaleidoscope? 
How many turns, how many patterns must we look at 
Before we see only ourselves there, displayed and dazzling? 

Thirst drives me every night to every well, an angry donkey. 
Stubborn, I nuzzle every gnawed-over weed again and again. 
I kiss a donkey's nose as it bends over the full trough 
      of water. 


What is it that you must do with your life? 
Isn't it enough to sit alert on the porch at sunset 
In a swayback chair, drifting through NJ as through 

A dirty river on your flat raft of fantastical thoughts? 
To listen to Brandenburg No. 3, and weep a little, 
And spill some Ali Baba tale to your Scheherazade? 

Must you cobble a fable for the ages from your homey hugs? 
Passion leads to catastrophe or triumph, true enough. 
But life lives graveward always, where no laurels grow. 

Aren't dreams and sleep enough, when cool night bends down 
And pours her stars in your ears? Do you need to drink down 
The daylight too, insatiably as lemonade in August? 

Must you tell a tale of breathless loving with every breath? 
Must you hold your little love to you so close she coos? 
Must sun overrun the sun's gunnels to praise her, pattering  

Pellucid down your chest, your T-shirt soaked through? 
Must loving leave your lips too sticky for anyone to kiss?  
Is this what you have done with your life? 


Always I raced outside to see sweet night come on, 
Long wheaten fences disappearing in a sweep of shadow 
Faster than a horse out-stretched in gallop. 

I used to need to know everything so badly, 
I never asked what came to fill me. 
I was an empty vase standing in the corner. 

Winds blew over my openness and gave my voice longing. 
Thirst pushed at the sides of my heavy vase, always 
Outward, growing just to hold more soaking hollowness. 

Stars were pouring in over the dim rim of clouds. 
My hands froze blue on the invisible porch rail waiting 
For the missing moon to veil my face with snow. 

What pours into emptiness so eagerly open? 
Has a spider, an evil, ever fallen in in some quiet hour? 
My vase has stood its corner now for many years, full. 

Lately, hoisting my vase up awkwardly on a balanced 
Elbow, I'm satisfied if my lips let pass no more 
Than the first touch of coolness on the tip of my tongue. 


Every night we fall back to the rolling womb, nesting 
In cozy ovals we fell out of long long ago, before 
We were fools enough to think we could hang on. 

You see how the birds are, always hustling for twigs. 
A new nest every year, every year a better circle of twigs! 
Or another fresher circle softening an old arbor 

In a favorite tree.  We fly, we fall.  And sleep catches us. 
We go under dark waves as under a worn blanket. 
These worn waves are the tents we emerged from as infants. 

Lying down, there's a comfortable smell of shorn feathers, 
A defeat that feels like removing our shoes, resting our feet,  
Letting the invisible heaven around us hold us close awhile. 

How good it is to go home to the womb after a day of work, 
Shedding wings from our heavy shoulders, entering the egg. 
Sealing our eyes shut, bones yellowing to yolk.... 


Sleep was telling me: run away! wake up! 
But night comes swallowing: my feet are water 
Swimming in a starlessness I didn't choose. 

I am Jonah, the dark everywhere like a mouth. 
For hours the whale's ambergris breath flows 
Over me and back, a field of wildflowers. 

A motion of my soul comes out of me at once, 
Dreams as elaborate as wet hairs on my body, 
My body braided with tattoos of dreams  

Stitching me, tick tick, into blood rosaries of stories, 
My own and eternal: story of the running son, 
The betraying brother;  stories of my colonies of cells.... 

I never escape the magnetic gullet of the night;
Never sail the whitecapped seas, loosely numinous-- 
No name, and my body riven by whale tracks.... 


The ruined house; the broken window; the tired wan moon  
Blowing through, dumping dust and ash everywhere.... 
Ruined objects call out to the ruin in ourselves. 

Passing a graveyard on RT 71 certain days, I'll pull over 
To test the springy green of eternal grass, sizing up 
Scrolled tombs, plaques screwed in earth that seem 
so small. 

Those witches in Macbeth weren't all bad were they? 
They held up the ichorous cave's proscenium well enough,
Dull Macbeth scurrying through like a startled spider!

My body is the ruined house I inhabit, failing daily. 
Pallid moths follow me, eating my elbows to patches.  
Every door clicks shut behind me like a coffin lid. 

If I'm sad today, why do anything about it? 
Sorrow arrives as vividly as love, leaves craters as great. 
Living is just what you do with life while you're alive. 

Let me sit in windy ruins sharing my black bread with Macbeth. 
When I'm done with it, done eating and grieving at last, 
Haul me out with the moon's ashes.  Dump me anywhere. 


Watching the hawk circle, I watch myself. 
I am circling with that dark circle in the bright sky. 
I am a dot in the immensity moving, moving. 

Some part of the human eye is always measuring. 
Somehow, myriad rice-grains get counted, the check gets cashed. 
Somehow we fit our whole lives into a single grain.... 

When I see the hooping porpoises play, far off, 
I swim beside them, my forehead smooth, my fins bright. 
I am a comma in the immense ocean, curving. 

Icarus grew tired counting feathers, tried flying 
That human way;  and Archimedes made some measured 
Pretense of tallying each waterdrop in ocean's tub. 

Rumi, seized by ancient ecstasy, threw his calipers away! 
Mallarme gently beat azure sleeves against the infinite.... 
Reading them, one knows where the sea meets the sky. 

Later, touching the fine side of a sleeping porpoise; 
Later, seeing up-close the hawk's neat armor flowing; 
I know I'm not ready to swim, not ready to fly.  


I think of you more often than you think-- 
Here in my ivory tower, quietly whittling away 
At my balsa whistles and baritone didgeridoos. 

My bellybutton slowly grows furred with loneliness. 
All my hair is unkempt as a goat's beard.  My tough 
Mustache tastes its last meal for three days! 

Whatever shivery mirrors there were that I lived with 
Stopped talking to me when I started listening to rain 
Falling, river water rolling, the sky dividing day and night. 

And you are here with me among my little whistles. 
The sky at sunrise shows your face, and the rain 
Falling remembers your name: lispingly, lovingly. 

Alone in my house, I walk out when I want to, 
Talk aloud to no one when I want, and dance alone too! 
I have been carving the one sad low note left within me. 

I have been trying to give my lonely chest a voice, 
A name besides a sigh....  Last night in darkening rain, 
I rolled over and over, saying aloud your name. 


The early sun's aroused, dousing the dusky torch 
Night carries alongside as the raven carries her wings,
Flapping black flames alongside her raven body. 

The tree in our yard, from all its dream possibilities--
Those small branchings tentative as a net of nerves--
Settles greenly into its familiar delta of Ys at dawn.

Dreaming, a raven's weight had settled on every bough.
Awake, slight shadows hung from leaves are all that's left  
Of the raven's restless wings; those wings are at rest. 

So you, who I dreamed of years before meeting, 
Arrive today as one woman on the bed in yellow light. 
And I love you as that one woman, that one choice. 

You hold yourself golden before me, pinning up 
The raven fabrics of your long night hair, choosing 
Your daylight faces like a favorite thought in the mirror. 

Love, I love to dream.  I love the raven night and all 
The cinquefoil-spotted mystery of high stars-- 
You know I do.  But I also love this day.  I love you. 


Take these paper planes, these throwaway things I've made, 
And throw them away!  Press your fingers to your eyes 
And see the lithesome dazzlings you are made of! 

Why try and catch gliding words and get a paper cut? 
Better to run through the window, smashing it-- 
Join real swallows scissoring and levering their wings. 

Hold your breath, and dive into the waterdrop of being. 
Sail away, up among the smallest misty pins of stars, 
Grow into a sun that shuns them from the skies.... 

Don't study how to fly around in ecstasy, just do it! 
Butterflies have no how-to books crowding their cocoons, 
The veery-bird is virtuoso from the egg. 

If you're still having trouble, just laugh at yourself.  
Until echoes are a canyon all around, laughter the river. 
Look: you are the gorgeous gorge you have fallen into! 


Prospect Mountain had been tall and strong all morning, 
A great stone tent with red and gold pom-poms stuck 
All over, the climbing light a waterfall everywhere. 

Soon enough, the mountain was a cocked hat shrinking 
In the rearview, the valley mist growing dark: 
From white, to dirty steel, to blue, to almost black. 

Tonight's road comes reeling right up to the car 
And creeps under the wheels like a shadow-- 
A doe in stabbing headlights, ducking under. 

Moving on is like that;  like this, I guess: rolling over 
Whatever is right there in front of you, even if 
It is afraid.  Even if you, too, are scared. 


Let me be as low as low water, I pray. 
Let me fall from myself like shattered glass ungathered. 
Let me be humiliated totally, right now, while I live. 

See those trapeze artists spinning flawlessly in air? 
See their powdered hands that never miss the bar? 
See them stick the landing, slender feet relentless 
      as pegs? 

They are passing like bleached sand through a narrow space 
And into the grave....  Whatever I am is not whatever 
I will become everlastingly in that last, lowly room. 

My feet are not slender, nor strong as tent pegs. 
My wrists cannot hold the bright bar I have caught. 
My days overwhelm me, and no dream consoles me. 

Let me be as low as low water, I pray. 
Let my ashes be mixed with sand and flung away. 
At least let non-existence not be a surprise! 


On my solo boat again at Gravesend,  without moon, 
Without moan.  No one to lullaby, no one to lie to me
--All cause and causes subtracted to none, abandoned. 

Sublimations and images fail me now, as heretofore have failed. 
I poke the slow black water with a stick, without a hat. 
I lie reflected no more in the tar below, the stars above. 

I am me without a me, here, in my weary, merry boat--
The fine night sky clearing, no sign of the crooked coast; 
Wetted darkness all about, and heart dark within. 

There's my demarcation, my border, my pulling line 
That orients me, prow and stern, even now, this night: 
Without and within are all my worlds at world's end. 

Shall I throw my bright bones about the indifferent stars, 
Or swallow yellow suns within, to thin this film of skin? 
To break without blood what's without and within? 

I pull in my little pole tonight and sit quietly athwart. 
I row not, and look not, and I refuse to sweat. 
What wind there is--is there?--will not wait. 


The sad day you were waiting for has finally arrived. 
Clouds gather like grey mice, and it is night 
Everywhere and always, and you are crying like a cloud. 

Late-autumn trees are mourning, too.  Their black sap 
      is mourning. 
The seas of the leaves have washed into dusky grass. 
They mourn with their whole hollow bodies blowing at night. 

And stars come twinkling with tears, mourning, too. 
It is good to sit on the ground and be a heavy stone. 
I mourn.  The whole world is sad, and death is coming. 

Coming with a small hole to put on your forehead 
And stop you.  Just an infinitesimal black dot....
Some people you loved and loved are already dead. 

They lie under the leaves in their long tunnels, 
Like the tunnels of a long curved wave breaking. 
The wave is made of tears, and a wind rushes through it. 


I am sick of time, and the rusted bell, and the still 
Cows welded to the still field like Hades' watchmen, 
And never getting to go down into the earth myself. 

If there is a meaning, a revelation, and not just this 
Interminable terminus--let me be at the lightning's point, the break 
Of the revealing wave where the whole ocean coheres. 

Windily I wind the clock stopped on the mantelpiece, 
Twisting time into hands and into the still bell. 
How long is't since the winter when storm undid us? 

The cows are in the sloping field, shadows so still 
On the rushing green stream, clouds on a kite string. 
I turn from the window to the mantelpiece again.

Again, I am standing in a room without revelation. 
The only lightning here bleeds from standard sockets, 
The only ocean is the salt blood flag waving in my veins. 

I am sick of time, and the rusted bell, and the still 
Gilded clock welded to the family mantelpiece,  
And never getting to go down into Hell myself. 


How happily the woodpecker walks up the rotted oak's bark, 
Striking dark star-holes with the needle of his hungry beak! 
It's the same hunger Galileo had looking at evening skies. 

When we follow the sewer's dark thread into dreams, 
Where we go doesn't matter, we always arrive at daybreak. 
What matters is that we feel the hard pull of the needle. 

When loneliness besets the hermit, replacing solitude, 
It's best to go square dancing down past the truckstop. 
Are you sad? Lift your boots!  If happy, stomp them down! 

Finding nothing, the woodpecker turns his head, flies off; 
There's more good rottenness deeper in the deep woods.... 
His wings flicker red-brown with whickering laughter. 

When your dream-thread doesn't emerge in daylight, 
Don't wake up!  Stamp your feet amid pushed-back chairs, 
Fly deeper into the strange stars of your sleeping.... 

Chase the hard needle, woodpecker, and it will feed you. 
Keep peeping, Galileo, new worlds are circling above you! 
Reader, keep flying into this poem as you fall asleep.


How hard it is to be influenced!  One was born alone, 
The body's arrow let go whining from mother's bowstring 
Long ago.  Already it is too late to move the target! 

One has blue eyes, or not.  A taste for salmon, perhaps,
A certain happiness in high-wire risks, a feel for pearls 
Or not.  Too late to unwant what one wants. 

A freshness visits the deep self, the turtle-self, 
      so rarely! 
When Bach's B-minor mass moves through us, culminating 
In a joy of ruinous tears, how the turtle-heart rejoices! 

Our fletching feathers are calmed by the master's thumb, 
Our shaft of arrow hand-held to the pointillist target. 
We are not flying free, not arrows even, just turtles-- 

Blue-eyed or not, salmon pâté on our napkins, pearls 
Pleasing or chafing, cultured or native, nacreous or not: 
Our center, the target, was spotted by Bach long ago. 

We are turtles, wingless and slow.  Our turtle-hearts 
Beat excitedly as music heats the cords of voice. 
We are beads on those strings, riding the wire to the end.


I follow the spiders, like Charlotte's children, 
      floating away  
On their parachutes.  How I long to be saved! 
Webs of work, and love, and work, pin back my wrists. 

There is new life in the seeds of a watermelon, but not 
For that watermelon.  That one goes to rot and rind-- 
And from his black belly, the laughing blooms and vines! 

I long to escape the heat of the soil, the toil of 
      the web. 
To find the moony children laughing for no reason 
In their sleep.  To laugh myself, and to retreat 

Contented to a corner.  But, how I long to be saved! 
To leap from the egg-sack high up in the corner. 
To float away like Charlotte's children, myself 
      a child. 

I hold my own belly like a watermelon and laugh. 
Who would I be beyond my webs of work and love? 
Sunset comes to corners first, small watermelon 

Seeds of darkness;  then sleep seeded by dreams. 
In my dreams I follow the spiders, am a child. 
I have eight eyes and eight legs, and am flying! 


When the rain comes to check on me, tapping 
Tip-tops of houses, reaching down to the green of trees, 
I hurry outside to let it have a good look.

The first drop feels like a pencil's tip 
Bipping the back of my neck, a schoolmate saying 
Pay attention, take a good look yourself. Look up!

Then the next drop, and the next, draw and re-draw 
My attention everywhere at once, and I 
Become so many mes I don't know where to look:

Maples whisking water-shimmer from bare prongs,
Weeds fantastical as Tiffany pins, the golden
Retriever looking up too, then right at me....

All the greater neighborhood... a drear, a blur.... 
I remember I was waiting for something, but what  
Was it?  And then I breathe in--and fresh!



Where the body leans, the mind is leaping. 
The diver prepares himself so beautifully 
      upon his plank. 
The albatross like a floating cross stands still 
      upon the cloud....
Two hands mildly dreaming below a glassine stream, 
Are they the water's thought or the water's body? 
Is that sunset shyly diving behind blotting pines 
A thought descending?  When I hear the waterfall, 
However far, however faint the chime, I, too, am falling.
Falling flotsam on falling clouds of the falling stream. 


We stand shoulder-to-shoulder admiring 
The wisp-white quick weak trunks of aspen trees, 
Listening to the simple wishes of passing winds. 
Beneath our feet, slow roots make a common net; 
We feel their long tendrils sigh a counter-song: 
Complex, contrapuntal, something dark of Bach's. 
But we don't need to sing the song, know the notes, 
Standing in the cool of the day admiring. 


Of all the maybe Dads I had imagined, 
This one stood elegant-legged as a stork  
And walked the cove's shallow rim with me, 
Water at his sandaled feet breaking brilliantly.... 
At the deepest cut, where a stream lost sand 
And water sounds thudded slow as blood, 
Hand over hand into the cove's curved mansion 
We swam, brushing the water's face to brilliance. 


Christmas is a pine tree that smells like aerosol. 
After school is out, after TV loses its snowlike luster, 
Dad carefully brings the old decorations down attic stairs 
Like Santa descending.  Mother coos and wipes a tear, 
Opening the box where the sweeping glass angel sleeps. 
Then photo decorations, macaroni ones, a few older 
Than the house.  Someone starts singing, an aunt 
Perhaps, Angels we have heard on high Sweetly singing 
O'er the plains.  Around the tree, Christmas is 
Our hands doing what the old hands have done. 


First, there's the mist insisting its moist say: 
Into my hair, my cold clothes, speaking so softly 
I'm whispering to myself by the end of the day. 
Second, all those sumptuous puddles suddenly 
Alive over muddy grass that were absent yesterday 
--How they want to know what's inside my shoe! 
Looking up, there's nothing but blue clouds 
And rumors of clouds, inviting me in. 


I give up listening to crickets, let 
Leigh Hunt and Keats have all that creaking! 
Instead, I listen to wind at the sash tatting, 
Or lean in a doorframe until the desire for conversation  
Passes;  I overhear scraps of rattling when the fireplace 
Grate sticks;  the faucet shushing until the glass 
Is full;  tears in the corners of my eyes as I drink; 
The sound of old slippers shuffling off to bed. 


It bites the palm. The dry wedge-spikes 
Bite, a ramming Greek trimaran. 
Look at the long open place for rowers 
Retreating back to the guiding stem.... 
No one is left to pull the shell forward, 
Gracefully darting through the Mediterranean-- 
Romans must have invited them away at spearpoint. 
Rows of unladen seats still dry, the ship tight 
But empty.  Everyone has gone on ahead. 


Word has gone out to the war mothers walking 
In the field, gathering the fine grains of death 
In their skirts, pulling on the soft cottony flames
Of their sons' pyres, one by one, and holding them 
Penitent in long skirts before their wombs. 
How have the golden autumn fields become so full 
Of grieving fire, of mothers walking on broken sod? 
Their sons' faces are drawn in flame--in every 
Burning grain they gather their sons are talking. 


There's a sadness in standing alone  
All day, and a sadness within that sadness. 
Solitude comes to the fisher when he accepts 
The place he's standing, himself in the place. 
The frisky catfish follows the low hook 
Not because he believes in heaven above....
The fisher, listening to the squeal of waders 
Lives inside mud silence, sometimes just enough. 


Are we honest enough for the love we're given? 
That writes hearts, hard, in the paper?  
      That spells our name? 
There is one who waits beside us at the DMV, 
One who takes the reins when we crumple exhausted, 
And never asks the why of our having driven the horses
Too far into blinding snows that fall all night.... 
Look beside you now, unfold your wallet and remember-- 
The one who loves you is the one who rides beside. 


The sea lion's rough voice promises that love 
Is dark;  that growls and low ripening squeals 
Will suffice all lovers on their sprawling rock--
No need for whispers when the sea takes you; 
You slide loud, all at once, into the spraying deeps! 
Champagne shoots the ocean liner from its launch! 
Moonlight discovers two among long night swells: 
Two sleek heads touching slightly, darkening. 


Tired of work, I walk the boardwalk slats. 
The sea is sunburst yellow all around. 
The sea creams luxuriantly against the jetty. 
Wildly unzippered sprays;  sea kelp pulped 
Green in wide tidal pools below bent rocks. 
I have grown old;  in work;  in love; 
A downward monklike sunflower unseeded. 
I tire of the boards, jump down to gleaming sands. 


The hills, and the hills beyond them: 
Full of little towns, cluttered with people 
Looking back over the even, velvety hills 
As though their shadow-side were far away 
As the moon--unknowable, dense with dust. 
But the hills pile up like waves, like waves 
Arriving, hill after hill, and you're the shore 
Constantly lapped upon and lapped up and washed 
Away by all those hills, the clutter of people. 


Standing at the slushy lake in a surprise thaw, 
The deep breast of the heavy water wants to rise.... 
Its dark edges are deeply luminous, murmuring 
As they clasp the raspy pebbles, push the small 
Whitish bodies with a darkness that breaks and scatters-- 
Just as that flock of pigeons on the dead hawthorn tree, 
With the sound of a thousand pages turning at once, 
Breaks and breaks and enters the evening sky. 


Thrumming the boardwalk with my black toe  
Like an old softshoe dancer rehearsing, I hear 
A drumming sound like rain, and remember 
The deep swept fresh of it, holding this rail 
While bone-white ball lightning rolled the ocean, 
My face toward the hurricane's great rage, 
And I as mild... washed clean of salt. 



When anger comes, its red tides rising and breaking,
Temperatures rise with them, all the thermometers pop!
My blood's in a rage, my face will never be cold again.
Idiocy lands like a fly on my nose;  fingers ache
To tear each miniscule grey limb apart and fling it!
My head is chock-full of thundering drums!
Teeth interrupt the thick tongue, grinding blind apocalypse.
Mad mad mad!  There will never be an end to anger.


How sad, when I sit down, to keep going down 
Into boundless sorrow, rabbit-screams down an elevator shaft....
Tears that take away the breath, and keep weeping; 
The widower on a train no one will sit near.
Brown shadows of rot streak the dilapidated barn; 
Old dead hay spits out, and a shabby badger moves in 
Under the cornerstone. How heavy my father's casket was! 
Wherever I'm driving, I feel his weight in my wrists. 


Sheer happiness keeps the hummingbird going back 
      and forth;
Babies slapping the bathwater;  millions of bubbles rising
So quickly in my diet coke, I can't keep from laughing!
Picking who goes first by trading hands on the bat;
Stealing second base while the pitcher fixes his cap....
On our second date, a sad movie, I kept smiling in the dark. 
When a dog finds his master again after many years
Of wandering, his heavy tail keeps on wagging!


When coyote's mouth is full of tailfeathers
Even the raven's eye shows its whites in fear.
The dead sound of the phone at 4AM, trauma calling;
Falling headfirst on a ball of needles, getting dumped.
The intimate terror when you've failed your children 
And they sail into life listing like a wounded boat....
The executioner will call your number one day
Too soon, a perfunctory voice from behind the counter. 


What bread do we eat?  What water do we drink?
When light rises with the moon or with the sun, 
It's the dark curve of the hill that rises to meet it. 
Some dark stays buried in the hill with Arthur. 
His friends are dressed in moon livery and loyalty, 
And when they emerge, they jangle fishy scales. 
Lights along the riverbank show us fishes dancing, 
But within them a darkness is swimming. 
The bee is a dot of busy shadow going 
From light to light in the flowery field. 
When we eat the wheaten loaf, what do we eat? 
A dark yeast is buried in the bread. 


Look into a puddle on a moonless night. 
No moony reflection;  no gleam;  no face. 
Here lies the true, dark puddle;  no illusions. 
Darkness pulls away from you like a thread,
Deep into the center of Earth--a pupil 
Boring into the source of all thought;
Plato's black rat-hole out of the day-world....
I look a whole minute into the puddle's little
Oblivion--then jump over it, and on to bed. 



Turning around and around, building a nest, foxes make a place for their lives with the small black daubs of their feet. Birds use their mouths to carry fallen twigs and stale straw into the heavens, and build their own clouds there, threading carefully. Crows steal what they need, recognize the faces of those who do them harm, and appreciate having glittering things in their straw castles. An Austrian invented the waltz after observing the nesting behaviors of several kinds of animals. Turning around and around, the pair must carefully step where their partner has gone, tamping down a safe place for the two of them to dance arm in arm, face to face, the world outside their circle whistling past.


It is morning. A green crevice gives him easy purchase to greet the wet day, his long uncoiled foot holding steady on a loose broccoli-like moss. When yesterday went to bed, and I came up these concrete steps in my daily tiredness, the snail was still at the bottom, swirling dangerously in the rain overflow, a pale comma in the weak stream of words the muddy drainage uttered. How simple for him to have drowned into silence! Instead, he is in possession of his green crevice, a Spanish conquistador in his snail helmet, holding the Mayan king hostage in his own temple for ransom. His horns go up gilded in morning light. Last night’s near drowning is utterly forgotten, the religion of fear and dread struck from the temple walls by dint of the sailors’ invading chisels. His tiny horns sound their brazen call at break of day….


Circles appear in the pond’s lap; centered in each, a dot of color. Past my knees, a new circle starts, its color dot enlivening to wings. A dragonfly hovers and drops to the pond-top, our ancient swimming-hole… there are dozens here in the heat of the day. Many colors moving in many circles. Is this a living vision of the afterlife, done up by Dante? Instead of his great yellow rose moving its wheels, bloom within bloom, my miniature angels have exoskeletons. Wings sheer and stiff pass over the humid brown water in low circles; alighting, making prismatic rings. So much light and shape in this forgotten recess of the wood! The little guardians watch me warily, warily dart from my fingertips. Each circle evokes light from a dark surface. Is there sunlight hidden beneath the pond? They never answer, but settle on the dark water lightly; they drink the silence, looking everywhere wide-eyed.


The owl’s flat face is so large–a heart divided–the two dark moon-eyes blinking in systole and diastole. If a floodlight were suddenly clicked awake, a fiery torch tossed onto the high throne of the antlerlike branches, we would see the whiteness of the snowy owl. White as lice! White as beetle larvae! If a strong light came on suddenly beside me, I wonder, what would be seen? Have I done right by those who love me today? The purity of the owl’s downy, droplet-shaped body sits inverted. The narrow end of the teardrop sprouts two wiry black perching feet wrapped like Halloween decorations around the stripped walnut branch…. When the owl comes down, much later, alone in the silent night that we have turned away from toward our beds, its wings engulf silence; it is an electric engine of hunger honed to machinelike perfection. Only the howl of the shrew, if there is one, will be heard.


The risen roots stand out like a black-and-white medical diagram of human sinuses. The fallen ash tree has been dismembered, the tall elegant body that embraced the sky chopped and removed, and only this sleeping grey elephant foot remains. The dirt below the roots is black, beaten up; like rough seas at midnight, no moon to show the way over endless waves. Down in the deepest part of the hollowed-out bowl, something indistinct is burrowing, moving the crumbs of earth aside like an invisible root, exploring the exposed softness the fallen tree has left beneath itself, and from which it once grew mighty and leafy. Burrowing… or is it swimming, throwing up a dark spray? The small dark opening the movement creates is calling to me insistently, like an itch in my right ear. In an instant, I am determined. Wherever this low route travels, I’ll go.


Looking across the Delaware Water Gap, I see the mountain twin that matches this one. It’s like the raincoat of an old man turning away, his feet in the misty stream, his grey head bare, tufted randomly with cloudy hairs. He’s in the other world, past the switchback salmon tail of the emptying river. The trees up here are nothing now, sylvan forks stacked in a display case for the next feast. I settle irritably with my drawing pad on a great sloping rock hard as an emptied brainpan. Having ascended with friends, I am alone; they hiked energetically away, going over to the other mountain, leaving me to my art. I sketch their faces with broken fingers of charcoal: oval and lively, putting in ruddy touches with my thumb. I tilt back and let my thoughts flow out to a few black carrion birds, silent as priests, circling high.


I put down my glasses, and the world goes blond–a sunspot floating on the long wooden worktable, mottled by lobs of paint. I am tired of scrawling my way forward like a worm rubbing a branch, line by line. I am seated, dazzled, before a pile of sewing needles burning in Monet’s Giverny light, their eye-slits smeared shut by hopeless myopia. My consciousness hovers, carried in a canvas sedan chair, held up by invisible bearers. I am a gold haystack of heat, a nightbird drowsing on noon straw–only vaguely sensing the details before me. Is it enough to live among such fuzzy guesses, to navigate by instinct and inertia? I rub the runnels alongside my exhausted beak. I hear my avian pinions stir against the canvas vaguely, a sound of camelhair bushes and gesso. Beyond the golden ball of sunspot on the table, a blue hue-blur of sky wavers vaguely, a square of second-story window. Or is it a painting left half-finished? I remember hearing a bird hit it, when morning popped the apartment building out of night’s comforting shadow and into abrupt day. Its small beauty hit the pane hard–confused by reflections, determined to fly.

*** from Chaos and Stars ***


It’s as if our house had shrunk around us in thickening drifts. Curious walls lean in like a solicitation, or, less importune today, a confidence no words betray. The place fills with things as with light, a thumb pushing the pale dough full.

Somehow, having this place so long among pines has become us. We’re the salvage that the house has gathered. At first, only for an accent beside the piled shelves, a flare of flowers, just there–and then more centrally, more needed–the only object that catches the light right.

Roots pulled from our knees, our heels, go down into these things. What surrounds us becomes us. Carefully the cat, a patchy calico, goes along the windowsill. Inside, but looking out.


A snapping turtle slow and fierce as a drugged bear, revolves her claws in a rusted oil drum. We caught her back from the garden one dawn, putting her eggs in with the carrot seeds. We followed the dragged steps to the high grass that waved around her alert as flag majors. She was slow out of water, molasses churning in her dark joints; her pace amiable as a memorized prayer.

But her head’s still fast, her beak as purposeful as a hook. Dogs whine at the edge of the oil drum, echoey cries when their heads go down and in to smell her. Somewhere a Middle Eastern man is held by soldiers grown in America, their bright and bushy tails wagging like guns. A cigarette goes down into the dry can with a thin papery trail of smoke. The questions the men ask are clear and loud, but what do they mean?

When the time came to release her back into the belly of her world, she left our pale bread and carrots julienne like an offering of inedible leaves strewn at the bottom of the barrel. I put on my sneakers and walked between the sole-slicing stumps up to my waist in the water and put her out beyond myself, heavy as a sewer lid, my back straining.


Sometimes the words come from deep in and are seeds. They catch and grow into things, into tall people. They become themselves. Sometimes what is said has this genesis. It exists both before and after it has been said, and it goes on growing lonely and lovely for a long time. What is said can be a teenaged daughter awkward in the presence of her own beauty. Mirrors, other flat, shiny words, increase her self-consciousness, yet leave herself untouched.

The tongue moves so assuredly in its cave-mouth, a snail completely at home in its white winding shell. The tongue slowly shapes its house the way a host makes things ready for strangers at Christmas. The carolers on the snowy porch hope for mugs of hot cider; the spice of the cinnamon surprises them. When they tell themselves the story of singing, later, their boots steaming and their dewy coats heavy on wooden pegs, using the words of the host inside themselves carefully enough, they go on being surprised.


Not understanding, and wanting to. The edge of an eye, the unseeing white, curves ambivalently around the pupil, its darkness, its direction. But helping anyway, rounding things out, making a backside to the flat stare, tying the brain, like a stone in its apse, to wild vision, to the everything-of-what’s-up-front, the insistence of things before us.

All day long I have moved words toward their funeral pyre, toward fire, illumination. I am helping to build something. I don’t know what it is. Like when my father put my hand under his hand to hold the wood while he nailed it in place, something large is helping me to help it. A tobaccoy, fiery breath is in my ear.

The place I am making behind my own pupil is full of beetles’ wings and angels.


Once we stole the stars from themselves and named them, mischievously, they became ours. Night after night, the house asleep and unwatchful, they try to escape back into the sky. Every day they return to our chests, our thin ribs, burning guiltily.

Something stolen is never forgotten. Those who lose it may forget it, let it go into the place they have prepared for lost things, old ownerships. But those who stole may never let go. The history of the thing comes with the thing, even if it is only the history of its theft.

The jaguar treads with his pelt of sunspots all night, mourning and remembering his meals. His eyes, dimly lidded, hold in the golden day. Each breath taken steals from the breaths around it. Exhaled back into the world, it is never the same. Water that passes through us, and becomes ours, becomes us. When we feel it again, it smells stolen, yellow with use, with history. When the thief forgets what he has stolen, he becomes sick. Society is sometimes like that, sick with millions of small thieves and thefts, forgetting what’s stuffed in their pockets. Then what’s stolen stays with us and inside us, but is neither ours nor themselves. These things rise up strangely, alien and without grief. Our breath denies us, denied by us; our lungs swag with wet cement. Zoos howl with animals caged but without their own minds, crazy and ungrieving. The dry straw is torn, the water in its steel bowl is overturned, the food, pawed and neglected, becomes poisoned.

The animals will lie down in the moon and rot. Their starved breaths will float into roses. We, who have stolen and lied to ourselves, will die.


Why are two men arguing at a fencepost? Perhaps it is three men. The two themselves, and the shadow third they are together, the argument. Let’s pretend it is evening. Three shadows then and a stubble of cornstalks. A grey stone the heft of a skull knocks the post as they talk. If they disagree, why do they need to be near each other? Why does a mountain start from a flat place?

I think most people mean what they are.

The feeling they seem to be talking about would be immanence, or impermanence. I guess they would call it expanded consciousness and permanence. A part of it here, a part elsewhere. But both really here, or really there, a metaphor. Tat tvam tasi. Thou art that. I like the stone being itself, unowned and unknowable. I like being myself, a little too personal, a little forgotten about, even by myself.

Somehow too, like they say, like they show, using my feelings in their argument, which makes the argument part me as well then–somehow, too, the stone is inside me, rattling my ribs, pushing my blood limbs, weighing on inner things. And I am curled inside the stone, a small man asleep in the granite like this feather, just here now, on top of it windily.

* * * * *


The kitty’s eyes are dead dot predator eyes as she swims through the turquoise tinsel on a tabletop Xmas tree. The pink hair-bow and pink jumper are the pink inside of a youngster’s lip, turned out to tease her brothers. The pink of sliced fish. Green and red box presents bulge seamlessly reeflike beside the oddly bulbed feet, her daubed gold nose dead center as a diver’s air-regulator. They shine squarely, full of the hope that keeps angelfish darting out from dark coral recesses–making hungry moues in sparse tropical waters. Under the blue intermittent light, Kitty’s ears slit alertly, sharp as a lieutenant’s salute, perfect white fins jutting from a saw-toothed barracuda’s long jagged back.


On the bright poinsettia leaf is a beetle with a dark back! It is the Christmas Spirit. It’s black, hard as a thumbnail, and, in oblique light, has a rainbow sheen. The beetle walks like a small tank over awkward rocks–tilting first this way, and then that. I bend closer to the red star of the poinsettia, a white spaceman dipping down to scoop up a ladleful of sun to bring back to Earth as a souvenir. The beetle’s compass-point feet touch the inferno’s surface lightly, dancing on a star. The point of the leaf shivers under the weight of its dancing, the hurry of its feet through the red desert. Two black feelers, agile, insistent, tick over the hot sands like a pair of blind friends out for a stroll. Everything is new to them! This is the star that calls them to Bethlehem, two of the Wise Men traveling far to witness something important.


Picking up a paper wasp nest outside my front door, it is weightless as a burnt-out lightbulb. I see an array of cells that had been birth chambers for warriors, a miniature air force of living fighter jets. The white hospital corridors had burst into a fury of activity, and then were abandoned–alien babies clinging briefly to round sills, taking off to hunt and kill. A few doors remain unopened, smoothly sealed as missile silos. The papery nest dithers in my palm, a lobe of cauliflower, or the blown-out brain of the caveman who first discovered how to make fire…. When these flying bullets were sleek embryos hunkered in their dry catacomb, did slim unopened wings resonate against the monkish walls? I see in the illuminated holes a paper lantern used by Japanese samurai for going far down into the earth, seeking the cold depths of their warrior selves, exploring deep crystalline caverns by aggressive stabs of lantern-light.

I lean in. I go down, far past the cave-mouth of my angry self. I hear squads of absent wasp wings humming….


Green as milkweed leaves curled into themselves, a half dozen chrysalis pods hang from a smooth grey poplar branch. The pods resemble chaise lounges for caterpillars swaddled against too much sun. The caterpillars have been rolled onto the narrow wooden deck of an immense passenger liner. They are on a long sea journey south, taken for their health, reading novels or dozing. The eye travels easily to the crown end of the chrysalis, closest to the branch, and a hand follows. A thumb runs gently along the light brown crown-bumps, waking happily napping passengers briefly. Cool fingers collect room signatures politely as mimes. The ship rolls on into a permanent fog bank besetting the Falklands….

When they arrive in Cape Verde a week later, it is revealed that they’re a class of traveling art students: they have been painting in their cabins at night, secretly, by painful candlelight. The students unroll their still-wet canvases, orange and black, on the docks of a new country. Everything will be different here! No more eating whatever teacher feeds them, acres of sour milkweed leaves. They flitter their translucent wares confidently in the shore air–as if they had already been discovered by a collector, as if they were already duly famous.


You look them over casually, then you’re straining, staring at twin presences behind the chain-link. Your looking moves through obstacles, and you are standing–no, lying–beside the big cats breathing evenly on worn earth. Near-sighted sensitive eyes follow their noses blindly, goldfish bowls dosed with bluish milk. Paws open like giant white rose petals, leaving spirograph clawmarks swirled in the packed dirt. There is nothing you could give them besides the flesh of your hand, the blood running in your limbs. You realize that you came here searching for something, but what is it? Their elegant bodies twine around each other with the huge laziness of power–fields of stripe and counter-stripe, white snakes folding into a Christmas bow; the ceremonial tree beside them stands stripped of bark, naked and exposed, a frozen barb of black lightning. Is it love? You feel your face blushing hard, a burning bush. Something surreal in your body blossoms outward, toward the furred beings before you, so comfortable, so at home in their natural world. Suddenly one mouth opens like a snapping turtle’s, red gobbets of tongue unfolding rawly in her heavy breath. She chews the hard bare dead tree root for practice, to clean her teeth. Blinded orbs sight you vaguely, uneasily; the nose lifts, a hungry image rising from within the mists of her crystal ball….

You remember the chains of the cage, link by link, and step back, safe.


My body feels weighted, sacks of wet salt-water cement formed into an identity: a cast-off David discarded in the garden. The face, all smooth possibility once, craters and snaps, a haze of fine lines, cascades of whited dryness. Magritte’s painting of a stone candle with a stone flame comes unbidden to mind. Deep inside my body, moist patches still struggle with an urge to change–to push out spikes and become a sea urchin, or go back to the cocoon of college for a decade and emerge an astrophysicist. Instead, I am learning the stillness of hard places from the skin in. Becoming one with the inertia of my trajectory from the cliff I flung myself off of years ago… arms outward like extended antennae, the steel ball of my being grudgingly confirming its decaying orbit. Red glares trail behind me, emanating from my hot skin for miles….



So many books--hardbacks, rugged and thumbable. 
How many times have I come here just to watch them 
Open and close, carefully as a field of butterflies. 
Or to fly away with them, riding their spines! 


A white feather, bedraggled, on the wet doorstep. 
A good rainy day--no need for poetry. 


People have so many stories to tell about themselves! 
Sometimes a sadness in their story sends them down 
Into an oak's root, and they live among weevilly things. 
Our stories about ourselves can warp us, the way 
A prevailing wind keeps the mountain's trees bent over. 
My uncle, listening hard, bent so close the radio 
Static made him jump!  

If we were the sea, we'd always be dancing... 
Rhythm from beneath and a breath from above, 
Foam of all those stories rolling inside us at once. 

But people are not the sea--or, somewhat, but slower. 
We need words as grape vines need a stake. 
Sometimes, with words in their ears, people think 
They can fly, and the red roofs abandon them. 
But sometimes, somebody has a story about themselves  
That sends them out to catch you when you're falling. 


An important, particular something I forgot-- 
Not a mortgage payment, or whether gas 
Left on was slowly turning our home into a bomb.... 
Important like smoky silhouettes of mountains 
You've been striving to climb your whole life, 
The missed step that sent you down in dust 
Covered in ignominy's dead clay for a moment. 
Remembering that you can't remember 
Your dead brother's face, your father's voice 
Loose with tobacco juice, or the name of the woman 
Who first showed you a woman's ways 
In that awful dorm of cinderblocks, the past. 


As boys we'd watch the flat-bottomed aluminum boat
Pendulum on its yellow nylon tether in the water, 
Ringing against ground at either farthest arc--
Our bare feet dug stones in mud, ears and 
Lips bobbing at the waterline as we laughed 
To lift such eely smoothness, heaving with our feet: 
Our greatest stone a toe-clutched double-fister 
Swung in dripping triumph up between bent knees.

.  .  .  .

Other times, alone, I'd breast-stroke far from shore,  
Holding the rough tether like a bell-pull swimming  
Till I tired, face upturned on lucid sunlit sheets, 
And float exhausted,  
The empty boat and I circling each other. 


Overhead branches shook in the wind, brushes 
For the sky's blue bottle--scrubbing restlessly until 
White clouds were nibbled away, and it was night. 

Our orchard moon was a white marble rolling  
Loose in the deepening sink of night--the wind 
Pealing alive with trumpets and speeches.... 

How we scrambled up those sweet scraggy trees 
All night, our hands reaching out like giants' hands, 
Touching worlds in every peach! 


The windy hill is waving, 
Waving me onward 
Toward whatever lies under 
Its green dome, 
Its loop of purple shadow.... 

Perhaps a hidden hill 
Inside my body 
Is waving back. 
I don't know. 
But, I feel the wind. 


I keep a box of snow beside me 
Made of winter days, of air 
Stamped cold like prismed tin, 
Of clouds as thin as hair. 

In the box lie frozen puddles 
We skated on in sneakers, 
Shoving off like seagulls 
From shiprails, taking a header 

Carefully into the wind. 
Our scarves as we wheeled 
Carved shapes of glass behind 
Us, invisible but real. 


Crossed hockey sticks kept clacking; 
Like an open page, the frozen pond was wavy; 
We boys went at the puck like bees 
Around the proverbial daisy. 

Winter battered our faces pink, 
Left ice-crust on eyelash and tongue; 
Angling elbows grew raw from falls 
Attacking the goalie before his fallen log. 

A hacking scramble, then shouting 
Left Dave like a beetle, flat on his back-- 
His mittens knocked unknitted to bushes 
That surrounded our quick play with dark. 

Above us glazed the intermittent 
Asphalt bridge of the county access road. 
A car rolled by, windows down. 
All our music rose to it, and echoed. 


They had discussed things a long time without going 
      to sleep. 
Curses had softened, somewhat unexpectedly, to 
      "So what?" 
Laughter got the better of them both around three 
      in the morning, 
And followed them right up to the rooster's rosy cackle. 
Dawn spread out, a white flag, on the old bone of 
They each grabbed an end, went to their corners, 
      and slept. 


Dressed for everlasting winter  
The men do it with methodical efficiency  
Walking calmly back and forth among the icefields  
Of dark large eyes, clubbing them so as 
Not to damage the beautiful
Spotted pelts. 


Initials carved by lovers in a birchtree's heart 
Sink in like sap, strain to wavy lines until the heart 
Breaks open--and the paired letters, once linked and 
Ampersanded, swim off into the tree's slow history, 
A ring marked dark by a year of terrible drought. 


Shadowy, shouldery parents are not talking still, 
Their backlit profiles separate and sober 
As important Egyptians laid in vinyl sarcophagi. 
Outside, miles of somber pines ashen into mountains 
And the sound of running water grows fainter than the wheels.... 
I nod off sitting under a dry beach blanket, 
Half-wrapped up like an old movie Indian 
And imagine them still talking--
Their unmoored voices rush through happy waters, 
High sprays of rapid laughter  
Whenever intervening rocks appear in the stream. 


The boy with tattoos down his arm like briars 
Climbing, briars creeping down, life-talons 
Creeping into pinched flesh, beaks eating....

The hard beak of Maker's Mark eats into me, 
Makes me see bleakly, intimately, the amber 
Illumination of day going damned into ashes. 


My coat is patched and touched with tears, 
My hands resemble the road of years. 
My head is light as a dandelion seed 
And drifts in dreams.... White memories 
Stick to the sap of the dark... seeds 
Grown into green crowns of trees 
From eely children, their games of chase 
And evade.  Some of those, though young, 
Have quit their drifting.  They wait for me 
Whitely in the lost mud of the road.  Almost, 
I'm ready to drift down and meet them.... 


                     for Jax
All light is emptiness  
Until it intersects even  
The tender translucence 
Of a baby's fingernails. 

How like white rosepetals  
The little fingertips there 
Growing to brush the mother's 
Face, grasp the father's nose. 

When the light finally 
Settles among the burls 
Of the baby's blanket, it 
Feels solid, creamy and heavenly. 


My father came to me in a dream 
Holding a silver tea tray. 
On it, three heads of cabbage. 

I unwrapped each cabbage and saw 
Three baby heads inside, 
My two brothers and me. 

The baby heads blinked at me, looking. 


Father is waking up in my dreams again 
Splendidly persistent after many years away 
His tobacco-breath sweet and tannic at once 
His small face gruff, gopher-furred, the eyes 
Black tacks pushed in by thumbs one tick 
Too far;  resiny, observant. 

All night I run through quicksand, 
My flipper-long feet lost under 
Granular surfaces curved as an orange 
Rind;  my voice pants hoarse in my ears: 
"Father, let me wake up this once alone. 
I promise to forget you forever."  


To say snowflakes melting on noses 
Are chilly angels returning home, 
Or to believe a sailor wearing 
An earring cannot drown.... 

To sit alone together and talk, 
To pass you patted mud and say: 
Pancakes!  And you take the mud stack 
From me politely and say: delicious! 

What we say together is real that way 
For all the days our childhood is. 
And then the snow falls, and we're alone-- 
Years in the whiteness, the only witness, 

And all those cold angels going home! 


My youngness thought forever was 
Days and days like that day. 
The even light in the grass, the youngness leaping 
Right to my fingertips! 

Riding my bike, I kept seeing white clouds  
Flying out behind.  And I was flying, too, 
Surrounded by gulls high in the air. 
It was as if I would never fall asleep again, 
As if I would never need to wake. 

Maple trees nodded alongside in rows 
With such green approval.  Even that red bird 
Singing on its dead-lightning branch 
The same phrase again and again. 


A birthday is something you're given
Without having to ask for it. 
Suddenly you're here, crying, red, 
And everyone else is smiling and cheering. 

Fifty years later, you're counting  
Down instead of adding up.  Cheers 
Diminish, but so do the tears;
Everyone around the bonfire cake  
Singing and inserting your name....

There isn't much movement 
At the fulcrum, the center--
You can see as far forward as 
You've lived backwards. 



Fox comes out of greyness, a bright shadow 
Pacing filtered pre-dawn mists--his feet 
Neat black and his teeth neat white. 

His eyes and ears are lively all the time 
His low body lies arranged under the brush,
A pattern matching patterns in the shadows. 

No matter how many times the careful eggs 
Are laid away in the farmer's straw, this will happen: 
The black snout thin as a pencil nib, snapping, 

The soft nose doused in silky yolk.