upon us all

now
i look across this life
under the glowing memory
of days gone by

hanging like a setting horizon upon
an endless turning sea,
austere aquamarines

hanging
like
a kite string
	  slightly slipping ajar
                 from  fingers
                            uncurled

gone in the wind unto
an endless burning sky,
orange-crimson nylon dye

hanging


like smoke rings
always carried
in the breeze,
hanging like sacred smudge

auspicious tiny swirls
hang on the frayed ends of my clothes, little hooks

hanging
like

pictures of a special uncle

hanging
like

soft white coals of
incense
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here’s to opening and upward by ee cummings

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

Mr. & Mrs. James*

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the
landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home
again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting- over and over
announcing your place
in the family of things.

life’s too short (but it’s enough)

life's too short
but it's fulfilling enough
like getting lost in your mind
while your feet sit buried in the sandbox
in the backyard,
the thought of flying away on a turtle
because you learned turtles hatch from eggs
in the sand was somehow magical
so you wonder why
the sandbox now has beetles and holes and millipedes...

life's too short
but it's meaningful enough
to know that you can suffer the saddest sad
a blue-soaked towel sagging under heavy eyes
stealing heat from your armpits and ribs
that you can turn around, fill with sand
and shape into
statues and castles and bridges away from here,
collapsing as you step off,
feet on new land

life's too short
because snowflakes, dance recitals, and moons
don't last nearly long enough,
and christmas only happens once a year,
but even as the snail leaves its shell
after it is gone,
you can still hold the ocean to your ear.

moon in the mirror

i believe in the quiet revolution
the hum of the garden at tea time,
the dance of rain on the rim of a pond,
the fingers that pluck to the beat of the heart,
the soul that bathes in the glow of a flicker of flame,
the pen dipped in hot stroking ink bleeding trails on the page
(two leaves of a book that forget their separation),
pastel haystacks coloured fuzzy outside the lines,
bristled lips on bristled lips after a tour at sea,
salty-sweet flakes of the forbidden fruit
a smudge on the cheek of Mona Lisa,
the man in the moon in the mirror.

young once

At night this world is so dark and confusing that I can almost feel the globe tremble as it spins. Stars barely peek through a sky filled with illumination – artificial light is beautiful but it is not aurora borealis. People are contradictions, and sometimes the obscure distance is too much. I’m overcome by the hypocrisy. No, I do not claim that I can do better – but I live it in my bones as a fiery passion. And so much I’m caught up in now – a moment that will never be lived again with the same consequences or metamorphosed line of time…

then i am touched by relief, a calm spirited wind that descends upon our shoulders like winter’s blanket and she says: ‘there will be a day when you were young once.’

Excerpted from diary