334.365 - history books in school

somewhere in a history book
a mostly blank page stands for
cowboys chasing down cows and calves
scattered after a windstorm
shepherds seeking the strays
hoping to find them before
coyotes or wolves do
union busters beating laborers to death
coal miners armed with stolen rifles
waiting for lawmen who come to gun them down
the peaceful gathering of workers
and their allies unsuspecting
a cavalry charge against them that day
oh, children, study your history books
most carefully, some of what they say
is true, but most of what is true
is in the spaces the text and pictures
do not take up

333.365 - madness

would Freud have called her mad?
we'll never know
he lived a century ago
and mostly we know what he wrote up
individual cases
persons
unable to cope with what
people around them
knew as the real world
those persons each
had invented a world of her own
a world she understood
in which she was no more misunderstood
than in her friends' real one
some of us now say
he got his diagnoses wrong
fitting each one into
the same box he had made
I do not know
have not the training
but admire
that patient listening
that listening and waiting
for each patient to talk herself
into a new and realer world
a world her friends could live
more comfortably in
and he could shake her hand
stop listening
and work at fitting her story
among so many others
and make sense of them
of what we do and think
to find some kindness in our worlds
some understanding
that we are happier with
than even patient listening

332.365 - the opposite of knowledge

see this book?
yes, it is empty
these are the poems he meant to write
every night when he went upstairs
hid in the attic from the world he knew
he poured out ink and tears and blood
scrawled on loose paper
wadded it
tossed it in corners
we have collected the ones we found
unwadded them
flattened them
tried to read the scrawls and the blurs
tried putting them in different orders
tried to understand
tried so hard to understand
too late of course
he needed that before the night
but none of us knew
none of us knew
surely one of us
two of us
three of us
some number of us
would have done something
talked to him
or listened
I think no one ever listened
except to explain to him
what he must not say
until perhaps
there was nothing left he could say
just as there was nothing he ever found to write
in that empty book
and somewhere he found that gun
taught himself how to use it
then on the night
let himself down from the attic
he found and he killed
his teacher
the principal
his father
all of them men
he even tried to kill the preacher
but that one
dived through a window and ran away
and the boy
the young man
whatever he was
alone in that office
set it afire
and shot himself dead
leaving behind this emptiness
and so many questions

331.365 - we

are a broken people
we break ourselves
we are stupid
and proud of it
we boast of it
and we vote to prove it
but at least we
are not brown or black
we
vote against ourselves
vote for our owners
thinking
when we do
that when they are
comfortable enough
they will pass down
their spare pillows
and of course
we
will get one
probably with a silken case
we can take with us
in a cheap box
although if this world
is any promise of the next
there we will still clean toilets
for our masters
tell them thank you
and step out of their way
remembering to be grateful
to the maker of us all
who engineered a world like this
for its beauty
and was kind enough at least
not to make us brown or black

330.365 - belief

I was telling him
what few things might be believed
"for instance, this rock," I said
"you can't walk through it
if you try to walk past it
without stepping over
it will trip you"
he frowned and shrugged
"that's what's wrong with you," he said
"you try to figure out what you can believe
and how you can believe it, that's so wrong!"
he swigged from his beer and shrugged again
"nobody cares, I mean, nobody else does
y'see?"  he waited for an answer
"we believe" he paused to let that sink in
then recognized he talked to a stone
he shrugged a third time and explained some more
"we believe, everything, that rock, those swings
the street and those parked cars, the stop sign,
but we believe too what politicians say
and preachers, teachers even, it's easier that way
nuthin worries us, we hear no contradictions
then you, you come along and annoy us
a person could die your way, you should try mine"
he opened another beer and handed it to me
we watched the clouds change colors in the sunset

329.365 - a thank you of sorts

thank you, Robinson Jeffers.
thank you, Lew Welch.

in case I could not see it, you pointed it out
painted it on a wide canvas
sang it as a hymn and an anthem

it is not the world, pitiless as that is
it is what we build on it, from it
but mainly from what's in us
that scrapes at the souls of men
wears down their spines
cuts off their feet
and leaves them dragging their knees
across the pavement
the pavement they put there
allegedly to ease the wear on feet

it is men who build the strange temples called factories
and men who close them
to taunt other men with memories of jobs
it is men who taint the seas
with effluence even the ocean cannot cleanse
it is men who build great granaries
in plain sight of other starving men
it is men...
but my readers and my listeners know
even if they choose to ignore it
or dismiss it as something others do

the world provides its own backdrop of horrors
cancer, plague, the wasting diseases
but it is men who make those look puny
who daily visit tortures on prisoners and loved ones
who flay each other slowly day by day

no wonder you withdrew to inhumanism
turning your back on all we praise as great about ourselves
on all that may be great
but sometimes seems like frills and ruffles
hung on a rotting dress
sometimes seems like fringe on the cape and hood
flung over the head and shoulders of
the crueler cousin of death

328.365 - of fire and rock

the fire ran low across the ground
finding almost nothing for fuel
the low brush burst quickly into flame
the wind threw sparks and tinder
a little farther along
brush turned to ash
almost as quickly as it lit
grey powder covered the ground
as before, flame had
and before that, the dried brush
the edge of flame ran up against the rock
and, finding nothing to burn there, stopped
night fell on ash
breeze sifted it back and forth
but found no embers to re-ignite
no kindling and no spark
a poet watching from a tower wondered
would civilization end that way?
run out of fuel and spark?
leave only ashes sifting in the wind?
he shuddered and shook his head
surely not, he told himself, surely not

327.365 - a very healthy tree

look at this old tree
here where the roots dig into the ground
it must be two thousand years old
maybe three
climb up with me three quarters of the way
we barely recognize the sounds
but linguist-historians tell us
it has already separated itself
from what the Angles and the Saxons spoke
it has taken on a cast of its own
borrowing of course from the Welsh, Irish, and Scots
but also from the Danes and Norsemen
and has brambled a grammar of its own
recognizably the ancestor of our own
climb up with me again
up near the top
where the trunk
twenty feet across at ground level
is no thicker than my thigh
and sways with breezes
bends with winds
picks up African words
words from anywhere
if they be useful
we make up words from our own
and other people's languages
and even grammar twists in the hands of master arborists
two or three thousand years and still in health
still growing
still forking twisting splitting and recombining
still grafting new words and new forms
still poking out pods and berries
and shaking in wonder when a wind or breeze
brings new twigs to adhere and attach
up here and even higher is where the poets come to listen
to enliven an oldest way to communicate
with words and grammar and meanings
the tree barely recognizes so far
but will add soon
no wonder we can barely understand
our children

326.365 - absolution

a man dies and his priest
or preacher or whatever
knows that the man has entered heaven
he had declared the man saved several times
it must be so
but still
remembering a few arguments with the man
and his perverse insistence on winning
wonders if maybe this time God could forget
and send the man where he truly belonged

a man dies and his wife
sits dutifully beside his bed
she does not weep
suppresses a smile when she hears
"Stoic in her grief"
suppresses another when she thinks
he'll never black her eye again
or bruise her arm
or thunder her unworthiness
or pick at some failing he considers sin
he's gone and for this lifetime anyway
she's free of him
she bows her head and prays
that wherever God consigns her when she dies
it be another place than his

a man dies and his son
arrives too late to wish the man more life
although it would have been a mouth-only wish
his real wish that the man left him some cash
and no more debt
knowing the common practice
he sits in the living room and looks forlorn
and prays no one interrupts him while he shams
he dredges up expectations from other funerals
and invents memories to satisfy them

a man dies and his friends
gather and whisper what they'd like to hear
when their time comes
the man becomes
renowned for loyalty
for helpfulness
generosity
and faith
no one
not one of them
dares think the transformation a waste of grace

325.365 - parable

the elephant
raised his trunk and admired it
"surely folks can see
I am the only beast with one of these
clearly the gods loved me
more than others"
the elephantess
scolded
"you silly goof!
when did anyone ever see
you do something practical with that
all day you swing it back and forth
use it to feed yourself
or make that dreadful noise with it
you are so taken with yourself
you never notice
you call the lions to us"
the elephant harumphed
and swore it was not so
secretly promised to himself
if ever he figured out
how to write a sacred book
there'd be no elephantesses in it

324.365 - on the edge

he sat his horse, the old cowboy
and stared down the mountainside
the horse, never at ease with standing
unless grazing, looked back
the cowboy smiled and patted its shoulder
then turned it and looked back also
looked down onto the mountainside and valley
where he'd spent most of his life
all of it since his voice stopped cracking
he smiled and thought a moment on that boy
so eager to become a man and get on
with what he imagined life would offer
impatient with his father's farm
glad to learn a horseman's ways
and now the world had mostly outgrown
its use for horsemen, he smiled again
looked where he'd met his wife
never having imagined a wife
and where he'd buried her
never having imagined life without her
he looked at all the places that he'd ridden
and those he'd never, from here they looked the same
he'd never ridden up so far, always imagined
this new side of the mountain would look the same
he turned the horse again, looked down the new side
no, nothing looked familiar
he touched the horse's sides with his heels
began his curious descent

323.365 - smiles of the gods

he writes as if
the gods had always smiled at him
even in those days when desire
fought with itself
to make itself known
and what hid under a skirt
was as cherished as candy bars
from Mrs. Ashley's grocery

I shake my head
try to imagine
having known no gods
since I was told the Greek ones never were
and admired the Greeks for being such great jokesters
they wrote their gods' antics anyway

in any case
no gods meant I made my own way
perhaps the world and objects on it
shone brighter than they might have
how can I know?

and when the time came
that what hid under skirts and blouses
made me frantic to know
I may have lucked out
instead of going to jail I found
some books with drawings
and numbered explanations
which told me nothing really
but made me think myself wise

later wiser girls taught me there were no numbers
and I knew nothing but names
they cared nothing about

and for a while what I had thought of gods
settled on girls, holy, wise, and taunting
until I fumbled worship into love and learned
they were human as I
and though no numinous smiles floated around us
we made our own
drove parents and each other crazy
somehow survived
discovered other mysteries
but none perhaps
quite so engaging as those first

322.365 - between the lines

there are poets
their words and lines so smoothly stitched together
they resemble a fine asphalt highway
with new tires humming over them
and I ride along transported
with never a thought of my own intruding
and where the highway ends
I get off pleased, satisfied
but not inspired

and there are other poets
whose lines and words make a more cobbled road
no tires hum here
old cartwheels creak and stagger
and thoughts of mine
leap from between the rocks
scamper off in various directions
until two or three
catch my hands and drag me along with them
to a new place where I can look back at the cobbled road
or down a hillside new to me
at the foot of which children or men play
and moonlight shares the scene with the sun
and off to the side three or four trees
give shade to the skeleton standing
watching the players dance

321.365 - another omen wasted

the bird stopped the slow stroking of its wings
and fell out of the V-formation
the other birds shifted to reshape the V
and kept on flying, going wherever they headed
but that bird fell and fell and splashed
into the lake, it sank, then rose again
and floated a brief time, no dog swam out
to retrieve it so it sank again
no hunter cursed that I heard
just as I had heard no gun
I wondered that I had noticed
I mean, nothing called out that death
a bird that had flown powerfully for miles
gave out and plunged just as I happened to look
evening continued darkening and I walked home
wondering if what I'd seen meant anything
if there were some part of some story
I was supposed to play but didn't know my role
I shrugged and hung my jacket inside the door
perhaps some old one-eyed woman will appear
and demand my story, more likely not

320.365 - the story resumes

night fell
a storm crawled in from the west
lightning sprang from the clouds
and fell upon the cliffs
the mountainsides
a man on horseback found a cabin
lit by no fire
with a stable beside it
he helloed and Hallooed without answer
then walked his horse into the stable
dismounted and hung there a moment
between two worlds
the rider's and the pedestrian's
he soon caught his balance though
without thinking deep thoughts
he unsaddled and unbridled his horse
found food for it
and brushes to care for its coat
and only after the horse was cared for
plodded through wind and rain to the cabin
it was clean inside but deserted
whoever had lived here had left
but their pride demanded they leave it clean
maybe more
he found firewood still stacked
matches that still flared
made himself a fire in the fireplace
another in the stove
and slept in the space between them
but before that he sat and stared into the fire
and remembered old stories
the war on Troy and Odysseus' journey home
Orpheus' trip to hell for his wife
Joan's victories for her king and her reward
and lately the endless wars
in which we try to find a story of our own
or even a way out we can call victory
the man shuddered and went to sleep
he dreamed an enormous eagle
carried him across land after land
and everywhere below him men battled
men fought in forests and deserts
on mountains and in marshes
on plains, on steppes, and even on tundra
finally the eagle flew him out to an island
somewhere in the middle of the Pacific
somewhere big enough to farm
the eagle promised him seven years of peace
and flew away
in the morning a woman woke him
and asked where the hell they were
and how he had gotten her there

319.365 - colonial triangle

they tried the man three times
by their own rules of law
they failed to convict him twice
the third time they used a drunken judge
and a perverted translator
the man on trial had no idea what they said
or what they did
he sat through all the folderol
and only now and then shook the chains
around his wrists and ankles
only occasionally roared at his chainers
they made him stand
while the judge slurred through his sentence
then took him back to his cell
removed his chains
after a long delay
the door opened again
and she entered
he would have rushed to her
except she wore the dress and wimple
he had no such words for them
of some of their women
she had not when she spoke in court
although he had no such word for that either
"what?" he demanded and gestured at her costume
"it does not matter" she said "and it does"
he shrugged and shook his head
she had spent too much time with them
"do you see that structure they build?
they will hang you there by your neck
in 'court' they said I said
you killed that horrid man
who tried to protect me
I never said that
not even once
in all the times they tried to trick me
it doesn't matter now
this does" she said and gestured at her get-up
"they say they have made me
a bride of their dead god"
he roared frustration and she shrugged
"it doesn't matter now" she said
she fumbled with her purse
removed his hunting knife
he stared at her unwilling and unable
to defend himself against her
she stabbed him three times in the heart
then smiled and held him while he bled
maybe none of it mattered then
she had already taken poison
it worked before the guards came

318.365 - a blind woman

she taps her cane along the sidewalk
and when it encounters the first body
she pauses to find a way around it
then continues, tapping her everyday route
another and another she encounters
deaf, perhaps, to the gunshots echoing
oblivious to the bullets zinging past her
only when she comes to the grocer's shop
and finds it locked is her day interrupted
she knocks on the door, pounds on it
a bullet ricochets from a streetlight pole
she backs away and finds a bench to sit on
perhaps to figure out some sense in this
perhaps to wait for someone to unlock the door

317.365 - why I stay awake

in my dreams
I still ride my Harley
I am, if anything, bolder
I am at least ten years younger
invincible still
invulnerable even
attractive to young women
and attracted certainly
the world is as I never knew it
kind
encouraging
and full of hope
until, of course
something good is about to happen
something I worked for
the sky becomes a shark's mouth
the air a tornado
a dozen fathers surround me
a jury of my father repeated
or a hanging mob of hers
either way
they herd me toward the funnel
and my boots no longer hold me
to the ground

316.365 - after reading Donald Hall

his was the book I studied
from him I learned contemporary poets
contemporary poems
from his book I learned so much
even if not to like all he did

he writes about a Henry Moore sculpture
I think I remember it
an egg-shaped stone
sits in a cavity
inside a possibly-feminine-shaped larger stone

he sees the color of light
birds launching themselves from the ground
swirling into flight

I wonder if I could ever see that
I see two stones
in a possible expression of a pregnant moment
I am enormously moved by the sculpture
but have no words for what it means
except guesses

maybe that is what he means
maybe that is all any of us can mean
but I see stones, shaped stones, placed stones
and he sees the color of light
birds leaping into flight
and maybe that too is a moment
immanent with possibility

may this be one also

315.365 - since riding

natural sounds do not come to me now
not like they did when I rode
motorcycle or Harley
they kept me grounded in the earth
now I drive or walk
more nearly a city person
I dash between buildings
spend most of my time inside
and the world is mostly people
and loud noises
sometimes conversations
I enjoy people
like conversations with them mostly
this surprises me
I did not miss them when I rode
but now that I drive and walk
I miss the earth

314.365 - veterans' eve

Hail!
Thank you for your service.
Thank you for giving more than we dare.
Thank you for daring the rage, the accidents, the waiting, the endless times between defying death.
Thank you for bearing our lies.
Thank you for believing our lies.
Know that we meant them earnestly, sincerely.
We too believed them while we spoke them, believe them now when we speak them again.
We know as do you anyone sane knows you were not protecting us, no one threatened us.
We know as do you anyone sane knows you defended no liberties of ours.
While you were gone polititicians nibbled and gobbled at our liberties, just as now that you're back, they will nibble and gobble at what we owe you, claiming loudly they do it for your own good.
Thank you for knowing that, despising us, and still giving more than we dare.
Thank you for your service.
Thank you.
Hail!

313.365 - no conversation

I try to imagine talking with my father
a conversation
in all the years I knew him, we never did that
man to man, quiet, truth thrown on the table
like cards after a poker hand
whenever we spoke, I recognized the preacher
lying to me again and shut him out
politely waited for the words to stop
and guessed whether to say "unh-hunh"
or just nod, either way let him finish
whatever he had started on
once he acknowledged that he knew
"you haven't heard a word I said"
I grinned and admitted "not since the sermon started"
he looked away, silent a while
then told me of the church he attended then
I listened and asked questions
until I heard the preacher coming on again
maybe that day I recognized
he couldn't help it
that was the way he talked to people
I don't know if that's true
when I was young and heard him
he always was their preacher
or an invited preacher
so it made sense
was appropriate
for him to preach to them
maybe there was no way to retire from it
no path back to the world I knew
maybe he was stuck forever
out on that rock in the stream
telling the waters where to go
knowing they'd go on as they pleased
obeying him or not and unconcerned
and maybe he knew too that people
however reverently they listened
flowed on around him
regardless of his words
running where nature demanded
and their helplessness let them

312.365 - sundown sunrise

no sunset ceremony tonight
the sun ekes down until its edge
touches the horizon
then passes behind it
without the usual garish displays
without the oranges and reds and golds
the teals the blasts of yellow-orange
the sun touches down
then slides slowly out of sight
some perhaps wonder if it's too tired
if it has lost its flair for drama
if from now on it will just sneak off stage
some of us "know" as well as humans can
the recent rains and winds have washed
dust and smoke particles from the sky
so for the moment it has nothing to work with
no way to scatter the sun's nearly horizontal light
in those brave flashy colors
it's hard to talk science to a people steeped in magic
and superstition
maybe especially so if one just barely remembers it
the sun disappears and night falls like a cape
or drape or curtain, science or no
we welcome it and shiver
darkness is when we let our monsters out
some of us, we too embarrassed to let them out in daylight
some of us do not let them out even at night
but huddle under the covers with them
some few remember when we were little
and our monsters hid in closets or under beds
hid deeper when our mother spoke or fathers
but now they've grown enough they need not hide
those of us with science scold ourselves
for letting monsters persist
even while knowing we no more can help it
than we can stuff Pandora's box full again
or hush that little voice called hope
we sleep to turn our backs on what we have let loose
and in the morning welcome the sun again

311.365 - how the mind works, perhaps

moonlight flowed over the corpses
over the rifles
the unexploded grenade
just like it did over the stones
near the surface of the ground
the tufts of grass
the low scrub brush
the moonlight felt no pity
no hostility
no mourning
and no blame
it felt nothing
it simply did what light must do
it is we
who if we see at all
make distinctions
judgments
and feel whatever feelings we do
we are not governed by laws of physics only
we feel or not and act or not
and so
those soldiers who came upon the scene
did nothing to disturb it
they separated
and swept around the little clearing
we can say alert
ready to fire
but what we saw is
they separated
swept around the clearing
and out of sight
we conclude they never saw us
we live

310.365 - credo

what then do I believe?
there are planets
and I have seen most of them
up close
as robot explorers slid by
there are moons
and we have math that lets us plot
where the planets and moons will be
there are electrons
and other tiny particles we can't see
but have the math to tell
how they'll behave
probably
and there are people
but we have no math to predict
how they'll behave
those few of us who read history
think we can predict
but people fool us
some are magnanimous
some generous
most of us think kindly
sort of
but act to protect ourselves
maybe our families
and some of us are grim
sadistic
horrible
we would not need those words
except for those of us who earn them

once in a village so small
that you and I do not know its name
only that it was near a border
between two countries the villagers had hardly heard of
and had little contact with
once in that village
lived a family so poor
that when the father got sick
the neighbors feared the family would die
so every neighbor gave what they could spare
including time to cook their gifts and feed the man
including time to draw the baths and wash the children
and tell them stories
once in that village
the man began to heal
had almost reached the health
with which he could get out of bed
when soldiers came
it hardly matters from where
they didn't expect a village
so knew it was illegal
they killed the men and boys
stole food and anything else they fancied
including the women and the girls
then burned the village away

later in that war
most of those soldiers received medals
for gallantry in other circumstances
two of them became officers
and one of those was elected mayor
of his home town

the universe sped on
yes, sped
most of it moves at enormous speeds away from us
there may be meaning in that
but probably not

309.365 - what we found

the old man said
"you boys
this is the ninth day in a row
my meditations have been interrupted
by curious tourists
it's time to move
deeper into the mountains
higher"
"perhaps," I said
easily guilted and meaning to help
"you should find a less sightful place
one where people wouldn't climb to
just to see"
he looked at me
studied me and grinned
he stood and bowed
hands in namaste
"such wisdom," he admired
"anywhere I go," he nodded
"the world has something to show
the longer it takes me to see that something
surely the greater reward for seeing"
he winced and shook his head
"listen to me," he said
then frowned and shook his head
"no, do not, but nine days of talking to people
and I am looking for greater rewards
I wonder
is any seeing greater than another?"
he shook his head again and stood
looked perplexed for a moment
then jumped down off his rock
looked around and picked up a backpack
not so much unlike our own
then waved and walked into the brush
"should we follow him?" Robert worried
Ned shook his head
"whatever he experiences
that's what he experiences
if he wanted a gang of disciples
he would collect them"
not knowing what else to do
we sat down around the rock
staring out at whatever there was to see
we had not been there long
when a family interrupted
the little girl squatted and studied me
"are you real?" she asked
"too much so," I grinned
but her mother called her away
her older brother stepped nearer then
"what does that mean?" he asked
"that I'm still stuck with meaning"
I grinned and shook my head
he cocked his and asked, "do you make sense?"
"too much," I answered
"oh, you're one of those," he said, disgusted
his father called him back to the family
the parents' looks accused us
they led their kids away
offended at the likes of us
in their world
we didn't know what to make of our encounters
til Walt reminded us we didn't want to make anything of them
so we climbed toward the mountain peak
until the wind reminded us we had no jackets
we started back down to the car
chagrinned

308.365 - my friend says I complain too much of lies

what if truth came to visit
surely it would not stay
among a people such as we
so entangled in our lies
but suppose it came to visit
pat little children on the head
solemnly greet teenagers
who would resent yet another adult
telling them how they ought live
suppose it sat and visited
among our men and women
and we tried to tell it stories
but faltered not knowing how
to tell what really happened
what we really said
or what we expected
suppose, just suppose
it stirred its coffee
spoke gently of some foreign land
where it lives comfortably in exile
waiting the day when it can come and stay
but when we jump in to tell it
how much we look forward to that day
the chair empties
the cup falls to the floor and shatters
the coffee spreads out on the floor

307.365 - apparition

he held his pants up with a drawstring
he stared at me as mystified as I at him
"who are you?" he demanded, "how are you
partly here in these ruins where the river
runs blood, partly somewhere else
I can almost see behind you
some place like the fairyland the old ones tell
come!  step fully into my world
dare its winds, its thirsts, its dirt
perpetually blowing.  tell me the wonders
of your world, or better yet, show me the path
into your world
                  "I..." I stammered "I...
I thought you were a dream, a ghost
a figment of some war past, or some war now
I expected the echo of guns, planes dropping bombs
something to explain the devastation of your city
how strangely it reminds me of mine"
"don't be silly," the apparition said, "we fight no wars
not because we do not want them but because
we have no energy to spare on wars
the old ones tell of engines, fuel, water
and yes, of guns and bombs, and make them sound
both dreadful and enchanting, but we have none
we chase the green as it retreats
and those of us us who catch enough of it
live to chase another day; your world
the glimpses I see of it, has green to spare
to waste; I think perhaps yours is the old ones' world
and you one of the wastrels who would do nothing to save it
to protect it, to pass it on; if so, be damned
this is the world you left and we your inheritors"
he faded as I suppose I did
the alarm went off and unlike most mornings I rose
glad to leave my dream

306.365 - poetry

I wait
pretending to be a cove in a coastline
that poetry will fill as the tide rises
sometimes
the waves flow in softly, climb the sand
and flow back out again, barely disturbing sand
sometimes
the waves rush in and splash around the rocks
carrying away whatever traces humans have left
sometimes
the waves race in and smash against the cliff
climb halfway up its face, fall back as mist
I don't care
so long as poetry comes in and fills my heart and lungs
and flows back out my fingertips
let's change
the metaphor, poetry is a love affair
with a woman who is sometimes there

305.365 - helicopters

where could a village go?
how could it hide?
the helicopters
rose over the ridge
raised dust coming up one road
and down another
came across the jungle and the river
made a five pointed star
centered on the village
blasted the houses into flames
no one ran from
machine gunned anyone who ran
then dropped ladders
down which armed men climbed
to finish off anyone they found alive
so the three children say
who managed to escape
what was the village's crime?
independence perhaps?
failure to have a master
among the wealthy?
failure to pay taxes
to a government they never heard from
until that day?
the villagers do not say
none of the corpses talks to any one
perhaps they do not appreciate
their only chance to tell their story