Revision

Nature image, mood, 
Seasonal references—
good haiku is hard.

Pieces In Keys

Pieces in keys have themes and motives,
    predictable transitions.
They modulate themselves toward conclusions
    that satisfy the questions raised.
Pieces in keys function within their ranges
    of forces, textures, movement,
    with vocabulary affixed to an alphabet.
They set up housekeeping, feed the pets,
    pay the bills, make friends with the neighbors.
Pieces in keys have anniversaries.

There are other musics
    not crafted or constructed or conceived;
That grow themselves,
    inventing not only glossary, but also glyph;
That catalyse visible elastic strands
    from fluid transparencies;
That flare spontaneously with a subtle popping sound,
    consuming their own heat and leaving a only residue
    of fine white ash;
That precipitate from vapors and fogs,
    accrete in fantastic impossibilities,
    evanesce into immateriality.

Other musics own nothing
    and sleep under bridges.
They serve no obvious purposes,
    meet their own needs.
Other musics grow quietly up through cracks in the sidewalk
    and spout dream-inspired sermons on street corners.
They keep time in overlapping layers of irregular increments.
Other musics never know what age to act.

How like these other musics is this, between us!—
    anxious of life, reckless of consequence, compelling in urgency,
    and drawing from pieces in keys a self-confuting question:
How does any music know what itself is?

Say, there's something new at the bottom of the posts: a reaction vote! So if you don't have time to leave a comment, or don't know exactly what you'd like to say, you can just click "cool" or "not cool." 

It helps me know what readers want to read when I can see your reaction—thanks!

plank

bound hand
cannot touch
bound foot
cannot step
bound eye
cannot see

away others
decide fate
bound heart
must wait

slender beam
may tilt
courage fail
hope wilt

promise made
faith-brave
gentle word
may yet save

unbind the hand
that cannot touch
unbind the eye
that cannot see
unbind the foot
that cannot step
unbind the heart
that waits on thee

I Promise

I don't know how you missed it. 
I know you remember seeing it,
but I suppose you became distracted
by the others around it.
I wish you would write your own—Ha!
Doubt that'll happen, but maybe...
Promise not to laugh
at my most inept way of writing
poetry.
Ever.

Samantha Gluck shared this Brian in the Comments on "Watch for Falling Girls." Thanks for letting me share it, @TexasCopyWriter!

the arithmetic of damnation (part one)

: a calculating man

Poor fellow creature!

attempting to add up

what was beyond calculation

(and trying to make the balance

sum up in his favor,)

figuring irrational numbers

to infinite digits

(a strange tesselation of loss…)

Mental math was never his forte.

It should have worked out—

but in this too-unbalanced equation

there were missing signs of negativity

and multiplications of error

in the millions column.

One.

It’s thanks to you I’ve played Sir William’s frets,

and gratitude the more I’ve my own tried;

For though my art does want, why so regret

that Art the more by Try’s not amplified?

Forgive then, distant friend, the handicaps

that pressed to dance with words have only limped

graceward with halting measure, and left scraps

of ideas trailing. With enjambments crimped

together, lines will multiply to hay-

stacks where well-ordered rows of shocks should be;

A clumsy first harvest, that chaffs away

the kernels of new-sought ability.

           

(The shoots that do sprout later sha’n’t be weeds:

Such wasted thoughts of new crop are the seeds.)

About Me

In my infancy, my auntie related,

she would wake early in the morning

to the sound of voices coming from my room.

Curious, she came closer,

and peering 'round the door

would see me standing in my crib,

singing and laughing at my fingers.

So I guess I’ve always been this way.

Some Advice

A lot
is nothing
like everything.
A lot
is much;
nothing
is more
like everything.

Like a lot.
Love everything.

Housewarming

The last box is in.
You, overworked for weeks now,

Can feel little beyond exhaustion and relief.

And then, wouldn't you know it?

Seems like a hundred call or stop by;

Many of them bring a friend,
And most only stay for a moment;
It's hard to keep track.

One group got together

And made a silly music video for you, just for fun,

So you have to order in hors d’œuvres and screen it;

They hoot and blast air horns when someone misbehaves.

Should anyone be surprised you’re not serving popcorn?

What a mess they'd make.

And there are gifts.

Here is something beautiful, small:

A jar of fig jam.

It is wrapped in green tissue

And the fingerprints of an artist’s devoted effort.

Not from the easiest person; it is a surprise.

And here: a big box

Full of laughter and encouragement wrapped in iridescent bubbles,

Delivered with a smile by the FedEx guy.

And here: a large envelope neatly stuffed with shared opinions;
Essays on patriotism, politics, and picture shows—

You could frame some of them, they’re that good.

And here, here, and here: Pineapples,
Symbols of welcome and hospitality.
Armagnac? That's a bit of good timing…

Despite the slight but constant and nagging sensation 

That this is not quite finished,

Finally, you set on Sinatra, put your feet up, and let out a deep breath…

Oh—this was on the floor of the entry.

Someone peered through the letter-slot briefly

(But never knocked)

Before poking a crumpled scrap through.

Written on the back of a cinema receipt

Smelling faintly of roses and sandalwood,

The letters, crooked and slightly smudged, say only:

“Bless this place.”

for T.

Take off your shoes

Come in, relax, take off your shoes!

Would you like something? A drink?

Sure, take a look around—don't mind the mess…

The driveway is shaped like a tape measure,

      and pulls you in as it rolls up to the front door.

The street is gone from this world.

By the time you’ve walked up the concrete steps to the veranda

      (we just call it "the front porch") 

      the house has welcomed you,

opening itself to you before you even step in the wide open front door

      with its huge glass, and glass all around the whole first floor.

If you're shy, you can walk around 'most the whole house

      on that veranda (to the "back terrace")

      where the rest of the view will welcome you, too,

as if you own all the land and houses

      down to the arroyo, north to Suicide Bridge

      and south to Camel's Hump.

What a great place you have, you’ll say.

Yes, we say (though we belong to it more than it to us)

The terrace doors will be open, too,

      and the ones from the music room,

      but you don't have to go inside yet

      if you don't want to—the drinks and the sunset

      are out here anyway.

Just take off your shoes and lean back.

Hoot for the owl and click your fingernails to confuse the bats;

      it's nice to watch them black against the dusk.

Gatherings of any size (even two or three) are rare here, but last long.

Whatever time it is now, it seems like it’s always that time.

A few minutes and days later we'll find you in the kitchen, debating,

      or picking a TV show in the living room

      or lost in the hallway that elbows twice on the way to the bathroom

      or plucking plums and apricots and avocados to keep them from the squirrels

      or down the hill, getting lemons,

      or 'round the back for lavender and rosemary

      or pouring yourself a drink and looking in the fridge.

Where's the cork-puller? you’ll ask as you dry dishes in your bare feet.

Check the drawers, comes the answer, and you do.

How long have I lived here? you’ll think.

We don’t question it.

According to this place, everyone is a relative, belongs here.

Whatever goes in the ground takes root:

it's a wild natural riot of bermuda, camphor, myrtle, roses, geraniums,

      Mexican elder, bougainvillea, creeping fig and periwinkle

      with eucalyptus, pepper, vinca, cactus, oak and pomegranate in the back.

Every now and then somebody waters or prunes,

      but mostly everyone's on his own,

from the skunks in the basement to the occasional raccoon in the attic,

      or coyote on the drive:

We're all welcome here.

Here, the earth, the house, the wild creatures

      work a strange imperceptible spell.

We all grow wild, go barefoot;

Take off your shoes!

—you're standing on holy ground.

Because of my experience of a childhood home, I have believed that each of us has at least one place which becomes a part of our DNA. Maybe not—many of us move house so often. Is there a place for you that is an important part of your identity?

Occupational Therapy

It was in the time when the rains began

I awakened from my coma

            Weak and twitchy.

I don’t know what had roused me to consciousness—

            Was it you?

I remembered more than I thought I would,

            But with less interest, having now rested so near death.

Your shoulders are very broad, and you are strong,

            So I think that you hardly notice how I am leaning on you

            As I exercise the tightness out of my mind,

            Stretch the sinews of my heart

            And restore circulation to my limbs.

And I am fairly certain you are unaware

            How precious your small remarks are, which you take for granted as courtesy,

            Because they confirm my small successes,

            Incremental restoration.

You surely have seen, though,

            That I brighten as you walk through the door.

My feeling of gratitude remains undimmed for small gestures in a time of weakness.

 Go ahead and be kind to someone today. You just never know.

Family Man

He’s gotten a child on her—

She’s been earth to his seed.

Pleased with the idea of it,

He hesitated at its quickening,

Doubted this not-undoable deed.

With nowhere to go but forward,

She’s grown this small creation 

Limb by determined limb,

Cell by quivering cell,

Thought by whisper of thought,

Until it found its own life,

Breathed in hot summer air.

Glad to be delivered of her pregnant burden,

Relieved it birthed whole and sound,

Hopeful, she’s held it, damp and mewling, 

Up to his trepidations.

He’s taken it to himself with delicate caution,

Surprising at his own attraction.

And with this little thing 

Gathered close in his arms,

He’s begun his fathering.

She’s seen him drift a short way off from her,

Absorbed and wondering, 

And heard him murmur into his shoulder—

“I will call you Rose.

Everyone will love you,

And you will grow beautiful and strong.”

Would it surprise you to learn it's about something else entirely?

Watch For Falling Girls (a triple Brian—almost.)

Misapprehension
upon mischance
upon mistake
upon misunderstanding
were all piled on top of high hope
and higher wish,
then sandwiched with ballbearing layers
of worry
and weary.
Girl, forgetting she was no acrobat,
clambered up the teetering stack
and, naturally, lost her balance,
landing quite hard on Boy
without even saying excuse me
(though grateful he had broken her fall.)
Briefly, as she tumbled down,
it seemed to Girl the sky was falling
or the earth was rising
awfully fast.
They picked themselves up
and dusted one another off a bit,
checking for bruises
(no broken bones, thankfully.)
Too tall a stack, thought Girl,
Must remember to practice closer to the ground.
For his part, Boy
felt a sign should have been posted,
and decided to watch where he was walking
and glance upward more often,
just in case.

A "Brian" is a short-form story of exactly 50 words, with a title up to 15 words, which occasionally requires some acrobatic wordplay. Also called a mini-saga, the Brian is named for British author Brian Aldiss and is popularized in competitions held by The Daily Telegraph newspaper of London. This one aims for a triple, but only manages 
slightly more than a two-and-a-half gainer.

You can write your own mini-saga and post it to the Comments!

Touch the Looking Glass

Life feels sometimes like a mirror
Cold hard and empty
of the image it reflects

Touch me, let me touch you

I am lost in my reflections
like my mirror turned cold and hard
but I am not empty

Touch me, let me touch you

You’ve formed yourself whole in my heart
break it with your songs
with your dancing

Touch me, let me touch you

I will not cut you with my mirror’s sharp edge
cold and hard sometimes
but I am never empty

You touch me, let me touch you

Fine Line

On one side, eggshells,
on the other, slick ice.
The line between fear and arrogance
is so slender a division,
that balancing upon it slices the soles.
One is always tempted to step one way or the other.

Miracle #32

What did Lazarus feel,

waking in the dark

shrouded and shriven?

Did he rise

cursing the contagion

that killed him

and stop open-mouthed,

mind agape at his living self?

Is there surprise

to find life again,

having once lost it?

Did he grumble

at the lot he drew,

his turn to be the one who dies

to prove that life

is sleight of mind?

And the rumble 

of the stone

as they levered it aside, 

was it welcome?

Won't You Join Me...

...in a sociable experiment? In honor of a local dining institution, I've cooked up a middle stanza based upon a [Poe]tically perennial favorite; but it's missing a little something—salt, maybe. 

You, add a few words, or a line, or more, and let's make "stone soup" poetry together, eh? 

As contributions come in, I'll come back and add them to the poem.

It may take us a while, but there's really no rush, after all. 

Post some "ingredients" below in the comment box,

and let's see how many cooks it really takes to spoil a broth!

(I'll even do the dishes...)

Twohey’s
.
.
. (YOU MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING TO ADD HERE!)
.
.
.
I dare open that gossip, so spry. A bottomless pit reveals my inner eye
One that takes and wants and needs and never fills, but so hard I try
I hear the buzzards blustery approach, cawing, cackling. Is it at me?
It's my soul they peck on with beaks, like yellowing leaves on a tree.
Food my comfort, my friend, my blanket of soft buttered rye,
Won't you fill me and cause their taunts to flap and fly?

(Thanks, Connor! aged 17)

. (OR HERE!!)

Then at length I finally ordered sides which on the greasy bordered
And their platters many fat grams - many calories did store.
Fried in such deep fat this snack’ll work like an arterial spackle.
Hark! e’en now, hear vultures cackle from their perches, “Have some more!”
Laughing while their great wings flap and croaking loudly "Have some more
Onion rings, and even more!"



.
.
. (OR HERE!!)
.I cry out, "But my stomach is sore!" yet still they screech their gleeful cry, 
"Have some more, have some more!"

(Thanks to Iain, aged 14!)

. (OR HERE!!)

Burning Butterflies

These butterflies glow with a cold blue heat
that sets all the bones afire.
They rise from behind the solar plexus
and from the space just between the hip bones
spreading outward upward downward inward again.
Feel them alight in the knuckles of the hands;
the roof of the mouth
the knees, the soles of the feet,
everything burning airlessly.
Eyes may well up water
enough to drown Vesuvius, rescue Pompeii
and avail nothing
to quench the flutter of glowing tissue wings
confusing the heart’s steady rhythm
and suspending breath in the throat.

Well, happy Valentine's Day, everyone—

Today's all about The Romance, isn't it? Depth can wait until tomorrow morning.

 It can be a lot of pressure, trying to affix feelings to a single day. For me, this is my grandmother's 

birthday. But I wouldn't refuse any honest gestures, would you?

If you've had butterflies over someone, you know how this feels. 

If you haven't, I hope this one helps you understand someone who has.

Love, always,

Kathryn M.

74. "Parsque est meminisse doloris."

I cannot side with our friend Will in this:

That lively form of life is but the dross.
In memory’s cup’s a sweet, and anguished kiss—
Alas, your Love remembered, so your Loss.

Over the last two days, there's been a good deal of conversation

following the death of a well-known singer, with whom I happened to share a birthday.

I'd like to offer this response to Sonnet 74 of W. Shakespeare, to honor the memory of that voice.

The Flowering Desert

When, after a long dry spell,
a cloudburst breaks over the Mojave,
for days afterward
the sand is dotted with color,
tingles with tiny exquisite blossoms,
and desert insects move busily among them.
Two weeks hence,
the memory of that precious downpour
stirs in the dreams of seeds
resting beneath the shifting grains
as they parch,
awaiting another distant, drenching dew
and barren to a casual eye.