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Resurrection
The first Sunday
after the first full moon
after the first equinox of the year,
rise early and lean outside
in the spiced air, listen to the bells ringing.
Morning bells,
bells of the far churches
chuckling their delight for the advent of another spring
in a world that has dawned.
Easter
and already the snows have grown weary;
they drop their coats
and troop back into the darkness.
Already the gale, brabbling wind
discards his piercing shrillness
and his iciness;
he bounds forward on us warm and naked.
Already the distant sun, long aloof
forgets herself,
wanders our way, smiling broadly.
Already the crocuses and daffodils,
the jonquils, the dogwoods, the wisteria, even the white iris
alone in the field by my house,
cast off their shyness; vulnerably
expose themselves before the world,
unprotected and beautiful.
And it is spring. It is spring.
I look beyond the empty lot, out past
the steeples that stand like toys on the far street; suddenly
I see earth supple before me like a gardener
like a mother suckling rich seedmouths
and they spring up.
They spring up, they spring up
in eudicotyledon splendor of living,
resurrected in body once again.
Jenny’s Wind
Jenny would love this gusty wind
were she with me here to see it playing
in these tall oak and birch she knows so thoroughly.
Yes, Jenny
would love this gutty wind which sneaks
beneath the leaves, and rustles them
until they waken. The breeze
pretends it’s morning still
pretends it doesn’t know about the darkness
the silence
which has swept across the world
since yesterday.
The wind is trying harder now.
Relentlessly it tries
to sweep the leaves and branches
into some sort of playful mood
some whim
to rouse them from the death-like mourning
of their silence.
Now and then
it pauses haltingly a moment. Then
rampages on
as if to chase away a darkness
as if to quell
the soundless whelming of her death
before it blackens out September.
Lake
the slim dark flower
i saw this morning
while walking beside
a lake i’d seen
for only an hour
pressed without warning
down deep inside
and made me dream
of her lips’ sweet power
Love Story
Carl & I spent many Mays
roaming the hills on sunny days
fighting pirates, routing thieves
building castles, climbing trees
right though to the breezy fall
when leaves became our rampart wall.
Mid-summer of our sixteenth year
something changed, another sex appeared:
a dirt brunette, and a blonde who tracks
Carl up the hill and back.
Between the two he’ll get to choose,
lucky Carl — he cannot lose.
His eyes are good, he will not miss
her soft blonde hair, the way it twists
and curves like Nature made it do,
and gleams with love in the afternoon.
Then her face he won’t forget –
the chin so soft, yet firmly set
beneath her light blue eyes (those sing
like summer raindrops in the wind).
But I get the girl he leaves behind,
God, I hope that he is blind
and does not love the one that’s blonde:
she’s the girl my dreams are on.
Summer Love
Now winter’s come
I like to hum
and sometimes sing a tune
To bring to me
the memories
of times we had last June
When I gave you
some summer love
beneath the night’s white moon
Recall we were
beside the shore –
a woman, and a man
Who held her firmly
next to him
on blankets made of sand
Your eyes on mine
were soft and kind
as you pressed against my hips
And the stars above
bright with love
as we tasted with our lips
The waves rolled in
and in the din
we danced a while
Afterwards
we had no words
but silence and a smile
As eye to eye
beneath the sky
we shed our clothes and hugged
Our bodies stark
in the dark
nakedly we loved
The morning smiled
on clothing piled
aside our makeshift bed
And was no talk –
I’ve often thought
of things I might have said
While rapt amazed
I gazed
at the woman I should wed
But now like summer
you are gone –
my winter lingers on
And midnight brings
a pain to things
my heart has felt too long
Sun
Sun is a flight of photons
pelting me in the morning
entering the soul of my body
in photonic penetration.
Gold little embers
enter me through the fingers
through the weak frailty of my arms
cocked before me.
How should I know what the secret of life is
when it is only embers
even the sun’s little embers
come to me by these arms?
Preparations
That day
when spring is come
and birds blow song,
when wind is blue
and sun stirs up
thrashing about till cold be gone
and buds peek forward
from the womb of the tree
raising their heads like flowers to the air,
while black flies buzz black with
the quick lust of the bee
and butterflies
flair
with their certain, butterfly flair
and ants spin hotly
out their cave-doors in the ground
searching new food
and dragonflies wake soft,
wee in the silence of the morn
beyond the winter-death of sound,
that day, I’ll prance to you
out the early light
and we’ll make our bed
until it is night.
12
All life-long I have been lover to fire.
Nothing I like better
than my back straight to the heat,
hat off, mouth wide open,
staring up, gulping down to the full
your unintended gifts of food.
My genitals lay exposed before you,
you who must handle me freely.
Unclothed, my quivering penis
stands in life-long hard-on.
You don’t seem to notice — suddenly
down comes your hand. You pull me about
by this like a handle:
you never hesitate.
Sexless you call me
but into my lipped interior insert
your precious fluids.
The meat of your life, the bread,
these are my nourishment. Digested,
unused, I regurgitate
them up again, to the delight of your hearty appetite.
You call me strange one,
almost all head, you say.
You peer into my wide mouth,
you dentist searching for cavities
in a toothless hollow.
You inspect my very insides
till I have no secrets. You plumb me,
then you put on my hat; my mouth is closed.
5
What kind of songbird am I, anyway?
I, who have never sat in a tree
or pecked at the bark of a pine.
I, who have never nested in forest
or flown with the wind, smelling the excitement
of a flock of birds on wing.
– Why dream? I couldn’t fly anyway.
I am a captive of man.
Man
who granted me a voice
only to deny me a song of my own.
Who bids me to sing at his pleasure
running me around
until I think I must finally run out of breath.
Until I wish I could die.
Man
he put me in a rut and left me there.
And I can’t escape.
I’m not even caged.
I must be one of Hugo’s miserables.
I am a songbird,
but there is no song in my heart.
4 Poems on Nudity
Dirty Eyes
Public nudity is illegal in the national forest
for the forest has no eyes
but dirty men do
and dirty men run the world, run it dirtily
and when dirty men get naked
it is only to put dirt on someone, usually of the opposite sex.
Public nudity is illegal in the national forest
exactly
as it should be.
As it should be
in this obscene national world.
Wealth & Poverty
The Tasaday get to go naked
any time they feel like it, which is most of the time
and they are the poorest people in the world.
And I, one of the richest –
no it is illegal.
My body is obscene. Don’t think of it.
Illegal Wilderness
When I was hiking down the river trail
inside the edge of the Cohutta wilderness
with all my clothes in my arms and my nakedness public below me
public to the woman, anyway, who was with me
and who made
me rise up in stout freedom
as I clumsily hiked along
– if other
hikers had come around the bend
I could have been arrested! My
wilderness –
unclothed of God and all!
The Lord’s Way
Actually, if Christian friends tell the truth
(and I know they would never lie)
God disapproves of nakedness.
Which isn’t surprising, seeing He made it.
Smells
There are certain smells
that hang around
no one but girls
I’ve found.
There must also be
a smell for boys,
maybe the scent of their pee
or maybe their toys.
But I cannot tell
no matter how I try
what a boy’s smell is.
Guess I’m a boy is why.
Whether
If you take ten things you know
and mix them well together
and dump them to a salad bowl
will it help you find the weather?
Ok, you bring a million things
into your search of weather
or split them to a million bowls
is your salad any better?
And have you found a single cloud
from your verbalizing loud?
Have you seen or touched a sound?
Have you made a raindrop round?
Dreams
If dreams were my fingers
and prayers dances come true,
on falling meadows I would linger
sleeping with you.
And life were a true thing,
which it is (but not soon)
I would give up my manhood
to relearn it from you.
If wind be my voice
with a tongue green as leaves,
I’d speak you no noise
harsher than breeze.
And thoughts were an oak tree,
not intellectual — but were dark –
words curl like black branches,
kisses thicken like bark.
Faith
Oneness is found in the East
Wonder’s at home in the West
but Faith resides in a place of peace
between a woman’s breasts.
Pickings
The Queen’s Lace puts a heavy head
up. I put a light.
The Clover’s frock is red tonight
beneath moon’s parasol.
I’m liable to die.
Even the flowers cannot be erased
from the backstop of time.
Even grace
can’t save the lonely daisy
of Human life that has lost its stem.
The wind can be stopped
by a factory at work.
The life
of every worker can be stopped
when the flower’s plucked.
The flower’s been plucked.
Romantic
Thought never made a man be a man
Machines it has made on every hand.
Thought-machine nabs a woman, woos her by soft
Cooing rhythm of the electric hum of his cogs;
Then thought-woman, like an earthworm, swoons, makeup gone smuck,
Uncovers her hairless legs, straddles machine, and they fuck
By the light of the silvery moon
In Ju — Ju — Ju — June.
Gibbous Encounter
Sit then, we shall make a nest
and I shall clutch you, my lips impress
a dark rose on your breast.
I will put it for a test
of this encounter as your guest.
There then, and let me plant
another here, and here beneath your pants
let loose another in the forest: we’ll let him tramp
around for a woodless valley. Let him find the camp
I will make tonight — but first must go out the lamp.
No lie back again — don’t stir.
It’s now too dark and — brrr!
it’s cold! But don’t act so uncomfortable. I’ll cover
you warmer than the warmest fur.
Me or blanket — which would you prefer?
Go ahead then, hesitate.
Let that silly mind of yours step in to legislate,
like some old spinster, the kind of love you make.
Go ahead, let it tell you wait
until it’s worked out some ideal, romantic way to mate.
Why do you huddle on the bed
squeezing double knees to the breasts
like that; why fold arms around your naked head,
throwing such a volley of tears, and nothing said?
I’m not impressed.
Look at me.
Lift up that naked face — don’t you see
you must be sensible. This isn’t fantasy.
And it’s no game; now will you please
take down those knees?
So cry at me. You say it’s sex
I’m after. You think I’m out to flex
my muscle in your female factory; your text
is that you’re the big production, me just the annex.
I’m the one that’s vexed.
I took you for a woman. I thought
you saw me as a man. In moon we walked
this night to your apartment, now at the bed you balk.
It tires me, this talk –
now, feel it! my erection’s hard as rock!
No, no, don’t try to slip around
me to the door. Sit down!
You stay there on the ground.
I won’t be made a clown
even if I have to hold you down.
Since you won’t get on the bed
we’ll do it here. I’m fed
up with your resistance! See, you make me whip your head
against the floor, and now the wood is red;
and now you’re still.
I’ll have my way before you’re dead.
9
In evening woods I met a snake.
coiled up as if to take
out anyone by the lake.
As night grew in I met a flea
running off so franticly
that the smallness of him frightened me.
In the dark I met a sound
ten hundred yards long and bound
by silence it knocked down.
Sex Real & False
Real sex is beyond the mind.
Real sex makes you blind.
Real sex brings in the demons.
Real sex is the living semen.
Real sex whorls you deep
in the other’s sleep.
False sex is a skill we’ve learned.
False sex is a fear we’ve spurned.
False sex is the mind’s cute fun
meeting the other one one-on-one.
False sex is the fear of feeling.
False sex is the body’s heeling
falsely to the mind’s chosen fun.
False sex, facing one against one.
Real sex is a breath let out.
Real sex is an unstopped shout.
Real sex is tears on the face.
Real sex is fear let escape.
Real sex is the nude revealing
of oneself to the other’s healing.
Real sex can’t be talked about
or the flame goes out.
