Oh! To be free of earth!
To soar above the clouds
And see a thousand suns and more
In the black night sky;
To see without obstruction.
Oh! To be free of air!
To soar between the earths;
To touch other worlds
And breathe their air;
To see without distortion.
As a child I once feared the sky's portents:
The yellowed, bloody moon;
The immensity of space.
These fears I left behind, but still
As a child
I stare into the skies—
As into a darkened mirror.
The stars, the galaxies,
The countless possibilities;
The light and radiation
And tug-of-war of gravitation:
In them I see a dim reflection
Of myself
And of my Maker.
Oh! To be free of time!
To soar among all that exists
And see all time and space as here and now;
To do away with childish things;
To know without need of sight.
Then—I shall know as I am known.
Upon the sore surface
Of a purple-black bruised cloud,
Like a shard of glass, there shone
A brilliant sheaf of color.
I beckoned: “A rainbow!”
Another came and in the languor
Stared in admiration.
Intense, the color stayed on undulating clouds
While 'cross it lightning played.
But as it faded, the other
Was not content to stand in silence.
Why must such moments be contaminated
By human speech?
Awaiting the time twixt lights
When colors are splashed
Clouds appear self-luminous.
Imagining new worlds are formed
And disappear at dark
Or explode leaving bits of dust.
Awaiting the mysterious moment
Between two times.
Why hide your shadowed face from me—
Are you ashamed to bear the temporary stain
Of this dark earth?
Could you not peek around the clouds?
Do you not wish to be seen
Unless you reflect the Sun?
Now clouds have passed. You shine
Full, bright, without that eerie glow
Of light that's bent
By tainted air.
Wax on wane on bleached white moon
Always changing always there
Never really seem to care
Wax on wane on bleached white moon
-- February 24, 1989
Gray cloud cover
Always hover
Watch the breezes stir you by
See you float
Gray cloud coat
Lovely gray clouds in the sky
-- February 27, 1989
Great white stone
Dropped in a lake
Circle 'round
Circle 'bout
Clouds around the moon
Repercussive
Echoes make
Circle 'round
Circle 'bout
Clouds around the moon
-- March 18-20, 1989
Fat crescent moon
Low in the sky
Strange glowing pink
Setting is nigh
Fat crescent moon
Late in the night
Strange glowing pink
Strange eerie light
-- March 18-20, 1989
Moonbeams shining bright
On a clear and cloudless night
Awestruck moonstruck in your light
Moonbeams shining bright
-- November 12, 1989
Everything takes on a bluish hue,
Or is it orange?
Clouds gather 'round their sun
Conveying it down.
Some things disappear
To be suddenly seen again;
Not dark enough for light.
Slowly the layers of color converge into one band:
Darkest, deepest blue.
The clouds no longer need usher
So they scatter;
Winds blow the clouds
And swirl down to the trees.
Many lights appear:
Some small and far away,
Some large and close at hand.
The sounds of silence are heard
As trees sing and winds blow.
Several hours of such elapse
Until. . .
Barely audible there is a sound,
A low roar—
Or is it absolute silence?
It grows louder as clouds gather 'round their sun
Conveying it up.
The roar grows, crescendos,
Yet I think I never really hear it.
That which disappeared
Is suddenly seen again.
Slowly the layers of color converge into one band:
Lightest, palest blue.
And the roar of silence is replaced by the roar of day.
Oh, how I wish to be free from this temporal beast!
It steals my days,
It steals my life away.
What do you mean? “It is my life.”
Can this be life?
Days running away,
Running away.
I just want time so I can stop and see,
I just want eyes to see.
Is this too much to ask:
That I have time
And eyes
And freedom to be still?
Oh, how I wish to be free!
What a marvelous texture has
The sky
Held
Within its grasp.
The sky owns the texture;
The texture binds the sky,
It does not matter.
The bumps and scratches,
Blemishes—
The perfect imperfections
Of a spring evening.
There was a rainbow in the sky,
Though sun was hid and rain fell not—
The clouds themselves did bear the drops
Of crystal that did shine.
It did not stretch across the sky;
It was not brilliant in its broken light;
But small and simple, elegant it shone.
There was a rainbow in the sky,
Set in a fluffy snow-white cloud
For just a moment or a few.
And this I saw
And thanked my God:
His promise remains when sun is hid
And rain falls not.
The sky is green—
Not just any green:
An aqua/turquoise green.
Not the light blue of the day;
Not the dark blue of the night;
Not the yellow of the sun that's set—
But somewhere,
Somewhere
In between.
The sky is green—
Not just any green:
A “nothing-else-matters-except-for-this-moment” green.
Not the moment before;
Not the moment after—
But somewhere,
Somewhere
In between.
As am I.
To think on that great distance
That separates two stars,
Two cells:
That great nothingness
That separates in infinite multiplicity,
In countless fractions;
To know that worlds, baryons,
People
Can never touch—
But no matter how great the distance—
Must interact;
To see the protons hurled into my eyes
By some great force so far away,
So long ago:
I see, I am influenced
But I shall never know.
Though I may never touch another soul
May my influence be as noble,
As far-reaching,
As eternal.
Darkness sweetly hovers,
Suspending life in space and time,
And making what light there is
Much brighter.
Like “wanderers,” the distance suns
Seem unchanging, sure and fixed,
Yet fly away so swiftly
Producing light and bending time.
So I stand in this moment, transfixed
By an illusion of what once existed,
Dreaming of what is to come when
We are free of time and space.
Dance little wanderers, dance
Whirling and swirling in elliptical orbs
Performing your intricate counterpoint
While the distant stars
Provide accompaniment
Planet and moon, dance together
Around
They say it's not the heat
It's the humidity
But I can tell you—
It's the heat.
I've been in dry West Texas
Baking in that oven
Where the scorching wind blows in your face
Where there is nowhere to escape—
It is no more pleasant
That the soggy summers of New Orleans
Where every year as a child
I thought I would melt away and die,
Where I built callouses on my feet
That could tolerate the sidewalk only
Long enough to dash to the next patch of grass.
I remember the summer our air conditioner died
All the repair shops were backlogged;
We bought a smaller window unit
And lived in the front two rooms.
Living room became my parents' room
Dining room shared its function with my sleeping quarters.
We scurried back to kitchen or bath
Like cockroaches in the middle of the night
Rushing back to our hiding place
Avoiding heat or light.
I remember breaking out in heat rash;
I remember blisters on my fingers;
I remember leaving early to go to school
Catching the (only) streetcar because the bus did not run that early.
It is a good thing we moved next spring—
Surely one more summer would have finished me off!
In piney East Texas the heat was not so bad,
We spent most of our time on the screened-in porch
While inside candle tapers would contort
Bending in gentle curves with odd shapes.
I always hated summer;
The older I grow, the more I hate it.
As an earnest student
I welcomed fall and the return of classes.
Always, I looked forward to cooler weather.
In college, summer meant I was even more broke than usual
And had to endure living with my parents again.
(Though, true, I broke that pattern
Once, I spent a summer in Indiana
Where the weather was actually bearable!
And once, though it was hot
I was free of responsibility—
Between schools—
Though I had no money and little air conditioning
I had much fun.)
Now, my work is busiest in summer
And though I'm not in school
I miss the attendant activity
Concerts, meetings,
Even TV shows.
I hate summer.
Heat
that oppressive heat
which defines this place
this region
stretching the days eerily long
weighing us with humidity
until we break in desperation
(or give up in perspiration)
(it is no wonder that of old
the rich in this place took their leisure
and in turn oppressed
those without choice—
for who would choose to labor
under the hot southern sun?)
these summer months are filled with emptiness
no school, the learning melts away
and the attendant busy-ness is gone
those who can do so leave on vacation
for what can be done?
no major feasts or festivals,
the green vestments to match the green plants
(too hot to bloom)
the one event:
a celebration of one hot summer
when revolutionaries put their fiery words to paper
when on the hottest dog day
Sirius arouses from his slumber
it is not surprising that he is reluctant
to join the eternal hunt
Come inside, my friend.
We'll close the door behind you
And enjoy the coolness of this room—
An oasis in the summer night.
(Nevermind the electric bill!)
Another year
Swiftly slips past:
Departure and evolution
And adaptation.
Another year:
Sadly sighing
For lost youth,
For friendship and love—
And home.
The melancholy joy
Of leaving,
Of age,
Weighs upon me.
Another year
Lengthens its shadow:
Too soon it comes,
Too long it stays.
Another year—
What will it bring?
Dare I ask?
bird on my window sill
preening
cannot see me behind the tinted glass
the sky filled with clouds
chest feathers ruffle in the wind
autuum approaches
Blow, wondrous wind,
Freezing breath,
Chilling breeze:
I am weary of summer,
Of heat.
Come, grayish clouds,
Obscure the sky,
Obscure the sun:
I am weary of its glare,
Of its blazing.
Fall, winter snow,
Purest white,
New and bright:
Cover all earth's flaws with peace,
Come, quench its heat.
Come, winter.
The cold this morning
Reminds me of the wind
Coming off the Mississippi
As a knife it would
Cut through scarves and
Gloves and hats and coats
And sweaters and sweatshirts
And skin to jab
Its point into
Your bone.
It wasn't really that cold,
But the wind and the
Water made it feel so.
The same moisture made the summers unbearable.
Every summer I thought I would
Sweat and melt away
And die
But somehow I survived
Another year.
That's how life is
When I think I can't make it
Another day
I somehow survive
And always feel on the verge
Of freezing or melting
Away.
Nothing makes one feel as lonely
As a cold night
When there's nowhere to go
That's warm and welcoming.
Alone and cold.
Too cold to do anything
Except bundle in layers.
Alone and bored.
Cut off from the world
Since everyone else is at home
And warm—
Or alone, like me.
I used to not feel the cold
I used to like the cold
But I am too tired to keep myself warm
And too alone.
I used to not feel alone
I used to like to be alone
But I am growing weak and old—
And cold and alone.
Time is not a constant—
It is a variable,
Always changing, fleeting, halting,
Never the same.
Things do not change—
Only time changes;
The moments last forever—
Life itself passes swiftly.
Too soon moments are only held in memory,
A memory no one else shares.
Time changes, carrying me to new places,
Carrying me to new people.
I may return to the places,
To the people I love,
But time will change.
You and I may stay the same,
But time cannot.
The fabric of the twilight sky:
Quilted with clouds,
Cross-stitched with con trails,
Tie-dyed in pastels
From pink to green to blue.
On this longest, coldest night
A warm receiving blanket
Prepared for an anxiously awaited Child.
Time turns 'round
And strange what follows.
Chance and logic,
But irony its favorite toy
With which to shape our lives,
So that I would never have thought. . .
And then I am surprised again.
I remember when everything will work out,
I remember how now seems distant past;
I remember the future.
But my memory fails as I try to recall details.
The past (from now) seems just as vague,
But it exists, this past,
Just as the future co-exists
With the past and present.
My mind wanders back and forth
Between these times.
There is no steady walk from past to future:
The linearity, the direction of time
Is a myth.
It all, the then-now-then,
Is.
Yet now is as difficult to remember as the future,
The future as uncertain as the past.
And I know not which way to walk
Or how.