Defunkt.

So: I've decided to retire this "blog," if it can be considered that. I'm going to start a new one that's more streamlined, more focused, more...something. Not so random. Yeah. Probably.

So, in finale, this poem, because who doesn't like e.e. cummings? (And because it was the only one that came up when I searched "defunct poem.")


Buffalo Bill's
defunct
                 who used to
                 ride a watersmooth-silver
                                                  stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
                                                                                                            Jesus
he was a handsome man
                                                   and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death

__________________________________________________________________________________

g'bye 

It's Friday,

but it feels like Sunday. The day is soft. There is no wind; the leaves are meditating. In my neighborhood people are napping or thinking of napping. Big white clouds with grey bellies sit in the sky. Even the dogs are quiet.

& you are gone, & I wonder--when you return, will you be different?

Quiet now,

quiet. the sun
is setting,
the shadows are getting long.

Quiet now,
quiet. the trees sway gently,
the breeze is soft & warm.

& in the next room
your son lies sleeping,
as he dreams of the simplest things--
quiet now,
quiet.

It's time to let go & stop striving.

To sit down with your belly in the sun.
Don't worry--
there is absolutely nothing
need be done.
The answer to your seeking's
all around you--
you are the only One.

This morning the sky is white
& I'm rain listening.
No wind. Black branches.

In the window a candle burns
in the paper thin
white lotus

pretty things.

Taken mostly @ the Desert Botanical Gardens in PHX.

a hike.

Wash in the Hood

Taken in the wash.  In my neighborhood.  Except the agave--that's in my yard.

Home sick.

I have a hard time resting, even when I really need to.  But I stayed home sick today with a cold, and tried not to feel guilty for not going to work.  It was the perfect sort of day to be at home on the couch watching Twin Peaks: rainy and dark and full of magic, as days like that often are--especially in these parts, where they are seldom.

I stood in the kitchen earlier looking out at the strange unnamed tree in our backyard that has shed most of its leaves.  Through its branches the sun was a white orb in the mist.  It was so silent I felt like the only person on earth.  I felt the mystery and the strangeness of everything; and I understood that I understand nothing.

Now I'm reading W.S. Merwin poems in the half-light.  There are quail calling from the little ravine across the street.  And that other bird I haven't been able to identify. 

Soon I won't be able to see.

Unknown Bird

Out of the dry days
through the dusty leaves
far across the valley
those few notes never
heard here before

one fluted phrase
floating over its
wandering secret
all at once wells up
somewhere else

and is gone before it
goes fallen into
its own echo leaving
a hollow through the air
that is dry as before

where is it from
hardly anyone
seems to have noticed it
so far but who now
would have been listening

it is not native here
that may be the one
thing we are sure of
it came from somewhere
else perhaps alone

so keeps on calling for
no one who is here
hoping to be heard
by another of its own
unlikely origin

trying once more the same few
notes that began the song
of an oriole last heard
years ago in another
existence there

it goes again tell
no one it is here
foreign as we are
who are filling the days
with a sound of our own

--W.S. Merwin

"To be, or not to be"--

is that the question?  Here we are.  The universe is vast & we are fumbling through it.  I'm fumbling, anyway--perhaps you're dancing effortlessly.  But I'm a late bloomer, still pulling myself up out of the dirt, shedding seed coats & artifice.  Still learning how to be true to myself.  I have moments, of course, when everything is in tune, & I am the golden bird.

Even when I'm not, everything is.  Nothing isn't.

Here's a poem by Wallace Stevens.

Of Mere Being

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know that is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings.  Its feathers shine.

The palm stands at the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.