Poetry

Poetry was the topic of conversation just now. I'll leave names out, but one said something along the lines of, "poetry is a group effort...it's inspired." Another had just read two poems from a book he recently self-published, and another sat on the couch, quiet, and yet another stood before the author, attentive.

The moment passed at the pace of conversation, but the truth lingered. Poetry is, when all those words come down through the pen, about the sublime relationship that inspires the man to set them to a form a bit more permanent.

blind bard

You have the eyes
Of a blind bard;

Neither of which has seen

But for sight
Have searched the untold far.

Urban Monks

Doug came up with the idea for the Urban Monks years ago, back when we were both in Ithaca, New York, running for the Big Red. I think he was lingering there, walking the poets path, long ginger hair covering his face as he'd tie up his shoes. I remember. Doug dedicated himself to something he believed in and now that I am dedicated to something I believe in, I am just coming to really feel and see the light of his vision. Before, I think, I just felt it. Anyway, he sent me this today, regarding the Urban Monks: urbanmonks is meant to be an inclusive term... simply put... the urbanmonks thinktank is a loose collaboration of thinkers, artists, seekers, community folk, feelers.... any of all types of folk who devotes some energy... to the emotional healing of our culture. "The emotional healing of our culture." He might have put it like this to me before, but it wasn't until today that the description really resonated through my vision of "the way things are".

Trent'anni

Half a day old;

I feel ages of youth

and see, like,
stars.

Old as fuck burning stars.

Athlete on a Bus

A man
Lifts his child
From the seat
Onto his lap
For a homeless
In orange
With tote --

This is the bus.

And just then
A warmth
Worth all the calories
A lifetime would have me burn
Passes through my skeleton
Making my eyeballs
Want to sweat.

excuse

It's like this
I tell whomever asks
About my inconsistencies:
A poet is intoxicated
off the plain, thin air;
so, can you blame me
for finding sobriety
in a strong spirit
or Belgian ale?

Listening

I don't know what was going on when I was born. What the mood of the day was like. I know it was hot as hell. Mom told me that. But I don't know what was on the minds of men, or what was in their hearts. I know there was love in mom's heart and in dad's heart, still, despite what they were or weren't going through.

I did not know that I would be born into such an age, where love would be the message, but I suppose I knew, one way or another, that we would be able to deliver it. that we'll always be able to deliver it. that our generation would and will do remarkable things, for human achievement is survival, and we survive to bear witness to our achievement, thus are the god's summoned, their invisible rain goose bumping our skin, sometimes making the most vicious of us weep, sometimes, too, when a god descends, a memory is resurrected, and this is like the moon, and I am 90 percent water, after all.

I am just human...100 percent, so.

Stretching After A Morning Run In the Marshland Paths

There I was
filling every pocket
of my lungs
giving thanks and praise.

I squatted
to stretch my thighs
toes, soles,
Achilles'
and just then noticed the bees,

then the flowers

and their interaction
made volumes of thought
as I turned home.

I reached long
into the shrubs --
and into my mind, simultaneously --
concluding that Nature is a way
unto itself.

Then I asked,
feeling momentarily noble,
or superstitious,
if I am indeed welcome
to snatch a grip of flowers
from the shrub.

I name not to whom or what the question was cast.

Less subtle than their scent
as I now write
is the sensation no organ
but Being itself perceives:

blessed,
in a word.

Seersucker Robes

To sit,
read,
think 'till thought is
vivid dream

history shaped 'tween
the timing of 'tings

and placed
like words or phrases
seemingly haphazard.

All we have forgotten:
the bud of cotton;
the cold flows through it,
woven, now.