Two Poems

“Someone You’d Admire”

as many ghosts inside as out,

old selves & no selves

haunting equally:

the invisible is not unknown,

what might have been was,

 and should be minded.

(until there is nothing left

unremembered

there will always be the imagined.)

all of this to get at what can’t be said:

                    so much of anger is regret,

& so much resentment ,

 only disappointment—unspoken:

only missing all the right words.

-------

soon all arguments settled by

birdsong  & journey:

    forest, mountain, a ledge to step over,

old sights for new eyes:

leave the dusty traps behind for silent friends:

there is no betrayal that distance won’t temper into tantrum only.

funny how ghosts (of self) slip away into obscurity

when the familiar slides away like an old commute.

I’ll forgive your changes if you’ll forgive my going away.

This is as much for me as it is for you.

There’s always next year,

 I hope we’ll all be someone to admire,

again.

Right Before My Eyes

nothing touches two-month eyes,

learning expression through patient practice,

impatient cries turn quickly to a look of budding love.

first willing stare: two seas of white, their  blue islands,

& dark centers saying:

                                        dilation, attention, will be love.

you, who already I admire, will learn love & fear

this way too: as we know, love's first

seed is only deepest need.

let that blue not betray:

be whichever you fits finest,

& let there be no debt to doubt.

there is no promise like watching you

become you, right when I need most,

                 & right before my eyes.

 Fleet Foxes - Someone You'd Admire  

The god that ate the world:

Annie's giant waterbug to the shell of a skinned frog,
The plump worm, skinnying itself in the cocksure beak of the backyard thrasher,
Frost's flower-walking spider to it's wispy, gullible moth,
The thick-headed, bovine breath to a field of luckless clover,
And finally, this windshield to what once must have been a butterfly on commute.

Book Club

It will take a visit from Jesus
For me to believe in the words
Of a dead theologian
More than the perfection
Of an ice cube slowly melting
In a glass of Irish Whiskey.

Field Marks: Between Three Seasons

I. Winter


"He knew it must have been a goose or a heron, but he decided that it was a crane. Its neck was tucked under its wingpit and the head was submerged in the river. He peered down at the water's surface and imagined the ancient ornamental beak. The bird's legs were spread out and one wing was uncurled as if it had been attempting to fly through ice." (Colum McCann, This Side of Brightness, 1998)

 

Happy Birthday, J. J. Audubon

a friend fishes
the same spot
each time winter
breaks the ice
enough for
catfish to rise
to meet
the dangling
trickster-curve:

above him,
huge, stately,
beautiful,
the white giant,
un-frozen,
lurks, looking
intodark water,
hungry for sun
in the shadowy
shallows:

let this be the
sign that every-
thing loved well
returns.



II. Spring


"The cardinal grosbeak calls out "what cheer” “what cheer;" " the bluebird says"purity,” “purity,” “purity;" the brown thrasher, or ferruginous thrush, according to Thoreau, calls out to the farmer planting his corn, "drop it,” “drop it,” “cover it up,” “cover it up" The yellow-breasted chat says "who,” “who" and "tea-boy" What the robin says, caroling that simple strain from the top of the tall maple, or the crow with his hardy haw-haw, or the pedestrain meadowlark sounding his piercing and long-drawn note in the spring meadows, the poets ought to be able to tell us. I only know the birds all have a language which is very expressive, and which is easily translatable into the human tongue." (John Burroughs, Birds and Poets, 1877)

from the Dusty Bookshelf's tiny books basket

sometime,

when the

winds come

& the grey,

green rain

settles all

arguments

about time,

listen for

a minute

to the shrill

chorus of

an acre of
county-land:

how many
voices does
it take to come
to terms with
togetherness?

if the poet
is to remain
employed,
let her ear

be strong,

let his eye

forgive itself:

there is nothing

worth writing
that doesn't
conform to
birdsong.



III. Summer

"The Western Blue-bird possesses many of the habits of our common kind. The male is equally tuneful throughout the breeding season. Mounting some projecting branch of an oak or low pine, he delivers his delightful ditty with great energy, extending his wings, and exerting all his powers as it were to amuse his sitting mate, or to allure attention to his short, often-repeated, but thrilling lay." (John James Audubon, Birds of America, 1840)


I know by sight the field-marks
of summer:

         blue coat                
                  brown band
                           mermaid tail

That travels take me to the taller places,
I rejoice:

               to know the peep peep of  hungersong.

Let there be eyes for seeing & a heart to hear;
May the little men,  my charge, find fruitful the search for the lost familiar.

from The Birds of America plates collection




Moving Pictures #1

The physics of travel
suggests relationships
often overlooked:

What blurs stays opposed,
what holds clear, in sync,
tallies the miles against loneliness.

April 19th

Reading Komunyakaa

in the side yard

on a blanket

in spring time

before the world

as we know it began

where now,

out a kitchen window

three robins,

orange as orioles

shuffle & peck

for seed or worm

as in the next room

three boys play

whatever roles

suit the mood:

hero or villain

depending on

each moment’s

instinctual need

just as that after-

noon’s poem

might have been

“songs for my father”

in which fourteen

sections serve

to illuminate a

relationship I

avoided once &

hope with every-

thing to avoid again

on the flip: that

catastrophic love

some fathers give

their sons

& here,

 this reminds that

there is some

 sadness in, even,

spring: sometimes

 a premature

nostalgia: things

change so quickly

it’s as if they are

already gone,

grown,  gifted

away

like those three

birds, now replaced

by a gray sky,

clouded & lined

with the kind of change

that shakes blooms

& scares the fuse

into retreat

in all of this

there is a constant:

(besides anxiety)

her beside me,

though these

between change

the magnetism

& the magnitude

of opportunity:

after all,

 this is still spring,

these our birds,

our boys, the

best defense

we have against

time & forgetfulness

Soon, I will search

the lost corners

of years for that

blanket

                  I’ve

already earmarked

the book to page 3.

April 15th

Storm, 4 am

wind pounds
& shakes,
the house heaves
& settles.

the lighter things
are pushed around
& the lightest
scatter.

soon a stillness,
ghostly,
will pervade
& caution linger.

the most delicate
instruments, alone,
will remain
trembling.

light will self-
consciously emerge
over parts slightly
 rearranged.

once again, I
am struck by
what there is
beyond desire:

by what persists
to circulate
within a creature
that needs to fear.

April 13th

Out on the Limb

There is never a guarantee of flight:
unchecked gravity & weight of fright.
The push, when angry, hurts us all,
to make a child cry, then brace the fall.

April 11th

A Family Affinity

My father's books on birds rest on several shelves,
an inheritance I did not wait to be assigned.
Each year one or another is pulled from its place
to double-check the facts on a familiar friend
or on luckiest days to search for color, spot, & song.
My wife endures our chants & putterings
from window to window to catch the best glimpse.
Tonight, talk of a diet of worms & bugs
sent the biggest brother to the shelf for research.
Out of a grandfather's collection,
a grandson's career as a naturalist is born,
one more beautiful case of collaboration
between the gone & the growing.

April Poem # Who cares?

The Worker

In our irony deficient
middle-west,
the idle idol rusts,
hammer in hand.