m(other) tongue



before...
       when moon and stone
               were the bulwark
       against which          everything pushed
               and blood
                       the first syllable
       in the body's cup

       when the pulse
               at the base of the spine
                       was a seahorse
               galloping

       before Raven
               tore open history's bag
       or the equines rode
        the rock face of Lascaux

       when time was the mind of the stars
                       as Pythagoras says
       and the bright arms of motion
               our first song


(RUNES, 2005, Pushcart Nomination)




BLOOM

         If you bring forth what is inside you,

         what you bring forth will save you.

                  Gospel of Thomas




the time it takes a thing
to work itself thru
                   is
the flowering

prayer
ascending
          its stem


to open is
to be taken           utterly

                   is

                           (I know it by heart
                                    the children sing)
to be

         stung

Canto for the Birds (excerpt)

dusk
          in South Dos Palos
& 7 mourning doves
                  on the wire
above a silo where
                           los vatos         meet

(these are not my words
         but the guys in prison
                  teaching me         theirs

                           chale Julia, they say
                                     this valley is our llano!
in the room where we         meet
to talk about
         poetry
& you cannot talk about poetry
         without talking about
                  the land)
YOU CANNOT TALK POETRY
WITHOUT TALKING LAND
                  in the chapel
                  where we meet to
                           open
                  our imperfect
                  hearts

                  7 mourning doves
         perched like
                  the shadows
                           of ideas
         whose movements between
worlds
         we are
                  the animate
         powers of
relax          I tell them
         you're inside poetry now

                  admonish they
                            read themselves thru
                  concrete walls

          entrust my few
                  magic skills
         & confide I've come
because I
         wish to grow old with the grace
                  to risk being
                           ridiculous
         & am practicing
                  now
Tule Elk
         near Buttonwillow
a mature buck
         with antlers
                  up
                           into the morning fog

         you are the mirror of dust
                  I love

                  *

                  close by
                           Sandy Marsh Road
         a single dowitcher
                           & 1
                  2, 3, 6, 11

                  15, 24

                  sandpipers of some kind
          feeding in shallows
                  on swamp
                           timothy

                  a black-necked stilt appears
                  & now
         a throng of several thousand
                  snow geese
                           rise

                  soar
                           over the feeding ground
                  in mimetic display of the

                  Thrones / Seraphim / Principalities

                  of angelic lore


a single undulating
                  mass
         of radiant white
                  feather
         caught
                  by sun
         cut
                  by wing-tip
                           black
are these
          the lights
                  of Dante's
Paradiso
                  wintering here?



                  these
wholly vegetarian
                  mated for life
graceful birds

         slaughtered
         by the million
         for landing in
         grain fields

*

EPIPHANY


Poet
put down
your pen

become silent
like a woman
like a worm

become
all who have been
despised

let no one hear
the earth you move


Dim star
few follow
be veil, be shroud

be dust
be         the risen
scorpion




short song
         for M.C.R.




even the stars collapse
fall out of their heavens
disappear into black holes
from which no light
          no light at all          escapes

we are made of that starry stuff
as if used to draw splendor here
pour it through a bone, a cell, a strand of hair
and so born to those Orders
         must take our leave
                  accordingly

that last time I held out the jacket
-- your hand coming through
that black tunnel of sleeve