Body, Life, Peace, Poetry from The Well, Poetry I like

Perfect Harmony

Without warning the familiar pull

to speak and smile in perfect harmony

lends me the grace to dip my tongue

into the silvery pool of conversational talk.

It ends the same. Two voices deliver

the harvest of their minds, thoughts unraveling,

into a heap. The conspicuous

absence of beginning and end. I wish

to bend and twist with other branches,

but out I stick, taut, serious, too much my own.

Peace comes when that pull to combine with

the others passes – I am again centered

between ground and sky, calm and contained

inside these four quiet walls.

 

This was inspired by the poem reproduced below from Cold Mountain Poems, the Zen Poems of Han Shan, Shih Te, and Wang Fan-Chih. The bitter taste of an unfulfilling interaction is familiar.

XX

I’m used to living in some hidden, shaded,

mountain place,

but once in a while I walk straight into the

Kuo-Ch’ing Temple,

and sometimes I pay a call on old Feng Kan,

or go to see that honorable sir, Shih Te, the

foundling.

But then I come home, alone, to my cold cliff.

No one’s talk makes perfect harmony with mine.

I search a stream that has no source.

The spring dried up, but the stream water’s still

flowing.

Standard
Photographs, Poetry from The Well

Winter Mornings

wintry

Have you one person

knocking at your heart?

She has grown too big

for the space you cleared out

years ago.

You feel her nudge

on winter mornings;

across the mountains

her body rests

warm and safe in bed.

But her dreaming eyes

soak up secrets leaking

through her dreams –

she is being chased –

she is trapped at the very top –

she is lost – she is slipping –

Is that you chasing her?

You just wish her thoughts

spun soft,

light as the tapering snow.

Beneath the blanket

she grips hot sheets

with sweating hands.

Standard
Anxiety, Life, Mental Health, Poetry from The Well

Disordered Trust

Symptoms include sputtering breath

and high winds behind the eyes.

Possibility of sudden dizziness

and eyes blurring at the sight of memories.

High risk of forgetting the graceful sheet

of stars and moon above the clouds.

May coincide with severe boredom

and perceived inability to move the limbs.

Treatment consists of forgetting yourself

and tending to the rest of the garden.

Common side effects involve a flip flopping heart

and the desire to fold back into oneself.

For help please solicit the love of everyone

needed to calibrate the mind.

garden

Standard
Life, love, Poetry from The Well, relationships

Shadow of the North Star

penns cave

In his eyes

there is no horizon in sight.

Two lush pools watch you

from the height of the moon’s

mother. Dirt from underneath

his feet clumps and crumbles

the same as the mascara clinging

to your lashes. Raindrops mix

easy with tears. The clocks spin

round as loyal blood passes

through cave after cave

of your insides –

in his eyes

sits a shadow of the North Star.

Standard
Mind, Photographs, Poetry from The Well

Swing the Sun

IMG_0010

You can’t fool me,

icy eyes (heart of glass),

I see your dry hair beneath the mist

I swim inside the hot blood funneling to your

brain and if I must

I will drag through clumps of snow

cased in ice —

I will swing the sun around

so you can crawl over baby

blades

of

grass —

 

Standard
Poetry from The Well

whether here or there

I followed you

then I hid you

 

kept my back near the outskirts

by all the ways out

 

Couldn’t stick to the speed

of your orbit

 

so here I go – floating off –

            planet alone –

farther away – I mourn –

            what it means to be inside –

your hive –

 

from here I hear

happy laughter gushing

like a waterfall

 

whether here or there

 

it remains to be seen

 

if I remain to be seen

Otaki 037

Standard