Skip to main content

Brown Trout



Okay - let’s push.

It’s brittle outside,
it’s a day dry as a carapace
begging to split and fall away.

Follow what rises
out of the claustrophobic
the rot of dark dreams;

what feeds rootlets that push life
into fresh buds that swell with
a sweet tang that makes love to bees.

Okay - blush at the newness, at the innocence
that cleaves to this bawdy verve.

Even when we try, there is no hiding
what breaks open with each bloom -
Each breath is a well spring.

Today - I believe
my shoulders can bear everything that wants a ride.
.
I believe I am the lake
who carries flock after flock of geese,
splashing down, dithering -

to travel on, to stay around.

I believe my spring tonic
is spider bites and brown bats,
blessed with fireflies, already out in March.

Together we admire Mars among the poplars.

I believe I well up
in purple, yellow, green, softest blue -

another chimera circulating with galaxies
around this moon and that sun,
my own big bang – birthing universes.
Tonight we can sleep like brown trout in deep water –
an easy, drifting shadow,
dreaming about everything and nothing.

Then rise radiant in the morning,
solid as wren chatter- golden and present;
so beloved, no trying.

Now
let’s push again.




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.

Venus in Aspect

(for Iris and Joe, September 10, 2011) Let’s make it a day for conjecture. When two get hitched at one on nine ten eleven, Ripe scarlet transecting a Shenandoah slope. The sum is not a Fibonacci. I saw a proof on that. When two get hitched at one on nine ten eleven. Venus blesses them with generosity The sum is not a Fibonacci. I saw a proof on that. The beauty of this wedding will feed multitudes. Venus blesses them with generosity, Maybe elephants and the Arctic ice won’t disappear. The beauty of this wedding will feed multitudes. Here, today, two hearts already together, are everything but one. Maybe elephants and the Arctic ice won’t disappear. And being so close to a full harvest moon plus equinox, Here, today two hearts already together, are everything but one. It’s easy to extrapolate that love goes on and on. And being so close to a full harvest moon plus equinox, Ripe scarlet transecting a Shenandoah slope, It’s easy to extrapolate that love goe...

2020 Pandemic Journey Day 44

May 4, 2020 Today’s idea – What has the fog of our modern conveniences begat? I read an article last night published in 1950 by Berton Roueche’ titled The Fog . In October 1948, a toxic smog settled on the borough of Donora, PA. This town is tucked away on a meander of the Monongahela River in the Allegheny Mountains.   During that time, it was home to three huge mills, a steel plant, and a zinc and sulfuric acid plant. The towering factory stacks of these industries pushed out thick plumes of coal smoke all day and all week. Also, given the town’s proximity to the river, boats and trains added their emission to the cocktail. To seal the deal, Donora sits in the topography of secluded bluffs and hills that allow for little or no wind to carry the smoke and fumes out of town.   So the place was known to be a smutty, smokey mess, tolerated by residents who referred to the sulfurous stench as the smell of money. On this weekend in October, a thermal inversion put a tighter li...