Quip and Quill

Vulnerable

2009-02-16T09:24:00.004-05:00

Fury is wild

It cannot be harnessed

It writhes and recoils

Like snakes in a pit of fire

If you show you are willing

They will get a step ladder

And pick all the best fruit

And leave the rotting ones

To decay on the ground

Like you didn’t have a soul

Or an opinion

Or feelings

Like you don’t have your own

Taste

Or scent

Your own color

Your own shape

Or a pit in your center

Now they are busy growing

Their own leaves

No longer to embark down the path

That leads to your shivering branches

The tree without water

The skinny tree without enough sunlight

I saw it once

A reflection in an abandoned pool

Somewhere in the woods

“What about me?” it’s placid expression

Plaintively questioned muddled by all the damp

Leaves floating on its face decaying

In the autumn chill like dark malignant warts

You might stumble upon it

Like a white carpet of cherry blossoms

Like a skirt fanned around a tree

It may take the form of forgiveness

And even the bright transformation of joy

But if the snakes in the pit are still feasting on each other

Still tangled around the fire

The unbridled fury like a bright ball of passion

Is still there too

Don’t wait for “thanks”

Take care of it without it

For the pickers will keep picking

Until you stand before them naked

Until you stand there with the wind

Winding through your skinny branches

Until the harvest is over

When they will finally leave

I know you’ve seen it too

2009-02-12T15:16:00.002-05:00

A bird fluttering
between the curtains wrestles
Domestication

2009-01-16T00:31:00.002-05:00

yellow wall coloring
for the darkened room
lit by tea lights and a
Christmas tree and small
lamps too

the marble table is
stone cold
the sugar cubes are
tumbled in the glass
jar; the china
reflects the low lights
and the day's last
glimpse before turning
alabaster and star lit

12.21.2006

torrents of july like giving birth

2007-09-01T13:06:00.000-04:00

Lightening flashes, thunder claps, the restless movement of the curtains. the wind flusters them. cool air and fresh mist. darkness.

puddles in my shoes. streams down sidewalks. pools forming along the platform. torrents of rain crash down upon the umbrella, which slightly leaks. droplets form snakelike rivers along hidden paths in the damp frizzing hair. pants bottom heavy with water.

20 minutes later. The trains are suspended. Flooding somewhere.

The walk home weaving through ringlets on the ground and strings of water streaming from awnings and tree branches. Everything sticking and clinging.

The LIE is back to back. He knows other ways. Motion sickness. He is clever. He weaves and turns, stops and goes. Severe motion sickness.

The 7 train. Yes!~ express. Flying through the rain on slick silver tracks above the ground, close to the sky. 42nd Street. Then the A.

Morning tea. a long day.

aroma of death

2007-06-16T18:05:00.000-04:00

i like watching his bald head
turn red
the spindly hairs on the side
standing on end
the agnostic snickers
her arrogant eyes
slanted like lemon slices
her voice a tidal wave
trampling the natural
current of the conversation
sell your soul to a qualified life
it's one tragic disaster
after another
without the fragrance of the
fuchsia roses blooming
in early june
they know nothing of
the early june
roses-- the fuchsia
that dangle from
the fence of the yellow house
they would walk right past
without even noticing

pendulum

2007-06-01T06:31:00.000-04:00

the pendulum

clocks each heartbeat

the steady countdown

the extreme shifts

life takes from

caution and safety

to daring adventure

there isn't enough time

to choose both

so it swings this way

and that

with a monthly rhythm

a caustic see-saw

advertisers count on

the easy predictions

of impulsive desires to dress up

life with precious stones

and malleable metals

of muted meaning

somewhere felt

the organic

within the structures

hourglass

2007-06-01T06:28:00.000-04:00

the hourglass

imitates the shapely

curves of a woman's

body and the soft

sands slowly drift

along-- her clock

does not tick, but

sifts silently down

in a salty mound

her womanhood bound

by the limitations

of the glass

beautiful as it marks

time-- until it is

turned over again

going around once isn't enough

it takes several times

to get it right

Either she drifts

or waits

Nothing is so safe as sacrifice

or so daring as

a life poured out

the undressed existence

paired down

a pruned tree

sarcastic in its very prime

its arms

stretched out

sifting through the

waves on the wind

its leaves drifting...drifting...drifting...

4.09.07

smoldering

2007-05-30T21:47:00.000-04:00

a jimmy leg rattles thoughts
the floor quakes
the table shimmies
but the candlelit flame stands still

in the other room
a sonorous voice prays
for the world
for the Israeli-Palestinian struggle

but it’s a sunny day in South Hamilton
summer light adorns the trees, the parking lot
shimmers with cars, and the pavement bakes
it hardly gets very hot in New England

the praying ceases

outside the flesh is order
composition
like a trinitarian chord
gravity weighs down the elements
books, TV—even flame

the suspension is inside
the invisible world
the immaterial reality
ideas, thoughts, uncontrollable anger

hope, ambition, love:
the inner world that hangs
mid-air, moveable, malleable
upturned like an under-wind

blowing upwards and out
smoldering, steaming
pressing and persisting in shame
in confidence

the wheels of a baby carriage grate on the gravel outside
momentary voices murmur
it is busy with purpose and structure
it is controlled like an automated machine

it is not surprising or altogether unexpected
it cannot contemplate the thought
of asking
other than what has already been

tree leaves shake like tambourines
by some mysterious unseen wind
there appears to be no clouds
as a lone bird calls

7.3.2006

storm windows

2007-04-07T10:32:00.000-04:00

storm windows shudder
and stay closed
boughs laden with heavy dew
scrape the glass
the damp wind
child of the metallic sky
sways even iron bridges
the cool waters below
rush past
wandering in smooth curves
a February blast
resists thawing and the warm
ides of march
even still
birds like wind chimes sing

Desert Feast

2007-04-04T21:26:00.000-04:00

I’ve never been to a desert
Except spiritually
A place that is endless and dry
Parched, empty, desolate…
like fasting for days
That turns into weeks and years
Everything is hungry and yearning
Weak and burning
First there is wrestling and refusal
Then exhaustion and resignation
Then silence…
All different kinds of silence…
Faceless, expressionless, deep
Then there is weeping
Solid, steady weeping

From the hot sand somewhere
I came upon a rock
A lone rock that rose up
From the barren earth
There is natural water by the rock
And shade too, depending
On the direction of the sun
So I sat there a long time
Hidden in the cleft, bored
There was nothing
For miles and miles—
Nothing. What a waste—life
What a big damned waste
There’s the hot sun or the cold rock
It’s all uncomfortable and inconvenient

I drink of the shallow pools
And slowly, after a long time
Fresh green shoots of grass grow
out of the hot sand
The landscape around flourishes
It must’ve been the weeping—
the desperate crying
Maybe the silence.
I still don’t know
which way to go
And as I look out
onto the green pastures
I notice there is a table
of loaves and fishes
And I sit and wonder

Who
can prepare a table
in the desert?

9.28.2005

Lorna

2007-03-01T08:14:00.000-05:00

crown of laurel; alone; solitary

the lovely crown of laurel
lying in the dust
overgrown depths of grass
linger and sway over its eternal circle
she will walk alone in life
a wanderer looking for love
falling into romance after romance
an empty jug; a cracked jar

a master’s skillful hands
caressed her frame
his fingers painted flowers
wild but living things
along the shapely curves
of her elegant form—
from voluptuous waist to long neck—

she is not glass, but clay
pottery burned in the
potter’s kiln; her beauty is of fire
unforgotten she is a chosen vessel
crown of laurel
there she lay on the sodden ground
full of earth
waiting for devotion.

2007-02-27T09:42:00.000-05:00

storm windows shudder
boughs laden with heavy dew
birds like wind chimes sing

2007-02-25T21:24:00.000-05:00

heavy morning dew
weighs the days from waking mood
march lass breaks spring bread

2007-02-21T20:38:00.000-05:00

Sacrament of Praise: Luke 5:20-25

he could not
jump for joy
though his sins were forgiven
first
in appearance
he remained a cripple
legs limp
lying in front of the healer
amidst a crowd of mumblers

they missed the moment
of soul-resurrection
a new-born
a man-babe
cradled before angry witnesses
none saw
or stood in awe
at the perfect state of his soul
for he lay before them
like an unwanted fetus

exposed
naked to the inner eye
in unexpected infancy
he dared not cry out
or gasp for air
while taking his first deep breaths
for there they sat
debating and doubting
his newly opened eyes
there he lay
unobserved
he who was just lowered
already lifted up

sacramental legs
made warm
the needling pins
as sleeping legs
leapt up
inward praise made public

who would believe
as blasphemy bent down
for his mat
and walked home

for what is more
unbelievable
healing crippled legs
or forgiving sins?

3.15.2006

desert flower

2007-02-17T15:42:00.000-05:00

the sun beats
down
lashing every small thing
each grain
every granule
even the thorny parts
the thistles bowed low to the ground
soil and dust particle
vulnerable
in its hot gaze

the earlobes tumble
and touch each other
the breeze ruffles them
they are soft
delicate
still dancing
bright against the camel
colors; resplendent even
ardently glowing
in the unrelenting light
red fans gently flapping
in a furnace
yet unconsumed

there once was a garden here
iron bands
flaming swords
foretold
the garden flowers remember
the morning dew
the chattering trees
the shade
and the cacti contemplate
a distant time
without their armor
before flashing flame

back and forth
but not back again
endless terrain
the cacti have learned to stand still
to conserve
to listen

the room is silent
there are no ringing
call-backs
no pressing assignments
no sudden interest
not even the crying of children down the hall
no lawn mowers
no car doors slamming
not even the constant undertone of the refrigerator

the poppies laugh
alone
earmarked
their radiance enhanced
through the sun-glory
alien, other, amiable
sun-daughters
burnt-breezes
tickle and tease
through their tears

7.4.2006

magical papyri

2007-02-13T11:52:00.000-05:00

the magi came
with magic mix:
frankincense and myrrh
and writ upon gold leaf
the spell
that would bow prostrate
before infant-majesty
before ancient wisdom

they plotted
from afar
the star that startled
astrology’s diagram
wonderment drew them
to map it

the sorcerers sought answers
to the universe—
destiny—
resurrection
and ceded to it.

12.12.06

crown of waiting

2006-12-27T10:58:00.000-05:00

lift up this crown of waiting
for it is a prize labored for
tears, frustration, and faith-spurt
have grown it
even in desert places
where the rocks are caverns—
catacombs of sorrow and
prayer
Anthony won it
as did others less known
but it is sure suffering
a grief of suspense
longing for promises
beyond cheerful gratification (life)
past death’s entryway
through the bog of judgment
such a journey
is a chosen identity
that ends in praise
this crown will be lifted
and cast before the Flame.

12.13.06

rich stranger

2006-12-27T10:52:00.000-05:00

imagine a stranger that shows
kindness to an average person
even the closest friend
forgets the small kindnesses
in the rush—wanting kindness instead
but the stranger
a station agent

he methodically comes down the aisle
on the evening train
as evenly & predictably
as the rhythmical clicking of
the ticket puncher
the second car is somber
with weary professionals reading
in overcoats & leather gloves

the agent sometimes hums
his expression cordial; his manner congenial
he takes my ticket, looks, clicks, and hands it back
it is like Elijah’s jug
that does not run dry
in the time of the famine

existence is suspended to another ride
as he walks by
humming
in one simple act
the universe shifts
tilts its head closer—listening
the ordinary job of a ticket agent
suddenly mysterious
aglow in grace

12.13.06

loneliness

2006-11-29T01:06:00.003-05:00

my most loyal friend
how could I forget him
like a persistent lover
he’s here again
serenading beneath my window
and I hear him
my heart aches
and then a placid smile
yes, he’s here again
to claim me
and take me back
to a quiet place
where no one goes

I used to resist
but now I relent
easily
and turn the ring on my finger
as though ashes
it may fall
but loneliness will remain
vow or no vow
loneliness doesn’t judge
it accepts those rejected
those failed—those overlooked
the neglected ones

and he grows handsomer with time
at first repulsive
then someone
then appearing at those unexpected times
when others have forgotten
when others have priorities that come first
when other friends demand more
or flatter
but loneliness knows
better

he gently kisses my hand
as I pull away
but he doesn’t mind
he knows I’ll be back before long
and I do
never the first choice; not even second
but most faithful to the end
he will stay
when all others leave
when promises break and shatter
when the lies are unveiled
when words are suddenly shallow and falter
he will hold you
and rock you
till death parts you.

11.29.2006

2006-10-29T15:21:00.000-05:00

The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy. Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then will the lame leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy. Water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert. The burning sand will become a pool, the thirsty ground bubbling springs. In the haunts where jackals once lay, grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.

sautéing a mushroom

2006-10-12T13:42:00.000-04:00

it makes you want to shrink
like a mushroom
in the hot sauce-pan
sizzle you
and then you sit back
slouch back
put on another movie
uncork the wine
and drink it straight from the bottle
even before it has time to breathe
even before it settles
it warms the blood
or at least gives the appearance

sometimes appearances aren’t that bad
they can comfort
when the rest of life is in disarray
they can provide opportunities
where there was nothing before

appearances can warm and embrace
where lies can’t
it’s the subtlety that matters
the curves and slants
not the blank stare of untruth

no one wants to get dressed
and appear
if there’s nothing to show for it
if there’s nothing to tell

nothing other people could care about
such as awkward employee moments
relationships that sour
bosses that are liars and cheats
coworkers that take long lunches

those things are meaningful
they are life
the resistance of immanent death
they are defining moments
they are the pulse and pattern
that make the check-off list sweet with accomplishment

don’t snicker
we all bow
even the arrogant ones
the ones that can buy the penthouse suite
overlooking the others
in fact
they bow the lowest
the ones you worship
they’re the ones you’d trade places with
if you could

let’s try again with the mushrooms
they’re nice big and rounded
but even better sautéed
and maybe it’s no coincidence
they must shrink first
in the juices of the other
they’re not less arrogant
just smaller in size

10.12.2006

isaac

2006-10-05T12:34:00.000-04:00

the cluttered desk
speaks
the parking lot
almost empty
there was a notice in the mail
a thinly sealed envelope
a rejection
and then a wave of relief
answering phones wasn’t the right calling anyway
but still

a lit candle for hope
but as the wax spreads
into a small pool around the wick
it melts a large hole through it
slower than a bullet hole
a gradual tearing

the mute phone
the job given to someone else
that simple job

autumn teaches a lesson
glamorously dying
a feast for materialistic eyes
yet no one has yet created a robe like that
like that tree
illuminated by the natural light
even a cascade of beauty in the headlights

it’s hard not to sigh
although spared a long commute
and low pay

here, silently here
abandoned to watch the beauty fade
not in a glimpse
but as daily bread
supping, sipping, and cynical
before the evening glory
this Sarah-laugh
turning
into Isaac
known only
as a distant promise

10.05.06

Call

2006-10-05T12:22:00.000-04:00

I need a trumpet call
a golden brassy sound
that shouts over hills
and resounds down dells
gathering distant soldiers
scattered abroad

loud like the war-call
thunderously blowing
cutting through fierce winds
shattering mountains
like a volcano shaking
the center of the earth

if not that, let it be then
the roar of a hungry lion
pacing along the borders
of his territory for food
not crouching or stretching
but ravishing and devouring

better yet, let my call be
the horn of deliverance
sweet and melodious
like the ancient lyre
liberating the slave
setting the captive free

must I hide my face
in the cleft forever?
let it not be
a whisper
or rustle
or subtle sound

but—a lightning flash
shaking the desert
twisting the oak tree
stripping bare the forest
or I might not hear
and wait forever

11.14.05

(1 Kings 19 & Psalms 29)

scrub

2006-10-05T12:13:00.001-04:00

around the rim of the toilet
smatterings of unpleasant
color patterns—distasteful
textures accumulate like a
collage made from a paint
wheel and its spinning

there are also intimate
touches, those trimmings
from the body that shed
they drift down to unexpected
places, which are discovered
at the uplifted seat

then there’s the dust
that has settled like restless
earth creating a slight
film over the countertops
and the porcelain parts
the chrome and mirrors

it’s hard to look at yourself
in the mirror, specks of
toothpaste splattered; unnamed
smudges suddenly reside there.
it’s hard to stare through
the consequences of living.

the sink is filled with water
colored green with detergent
the scrubbing begins extending
to every crevice around. Rinsing,
washing, wiping, and weeping
this is humility: cleaning

your own sink—and that bowl
where friend and stranger
go behind closed door
quietly, undisturbed, hidden
to pour out excesses
and wash the hands free

cleaning is intimacy
too close to the soil of humanity
too close to forgiveness—

3.14.2006

inlet exodus

2006-03-22T20:49:00.000-05:00

inlet rivulet
methodically washing seaward
a stalwart cadence
of melodious water-sounds
rushing inward and out

a seagull stands at the gateway
intently watching the clash
where sea and inlet entry meet
fish are caught there in the current
of the shallow stream

then there is a bend and curve
and then unobstructed shoreline
where small pools form
and then break with the tide
the sea foam flowers and fades

beyond reach of winter wind
frozen sand is caressed to life
rolling water, foam and low
flowing waves create texture
dips and ridges like fish scales

glow and shudder in the sun
patterns like alligator skins
glisten within the frame
of restless water-blankets
shimmering like mail

it brings to mind fish’s gills
like malleable metal plates
that armor and breathe
like a ship’s rudders move
and like other sea things

things that are not flat or dry
but round and rolling
mermaids maybe or baby
dragons-- other creatures
with watery composition and life

after a time the sun stretches
and lowers to the west
while to the east the moon rises
growing ever brighter
in the darkening sky

the ocean dusk shrouds
like standing inside a myth
like watching the elves of Elbereth
sing in solemn procession,
‘I will diminish…’

3.15.2006

march

2006-03-10T15:55:00.000-05:00

footsteps clamor
on the wet pavement outside
the steady sound marches in
through the window

heavy morning light
creeps silently in
between cracks of the shade
sodden, slow-paced, yawning

a drizzle-day-- dawning
the foreign footsteps fade
in the mist of the moist air
passing on to somewhere

quiet, mysterious, wondering
where the journey ends

3.10.2006

autumn seascape

2006-02-23T15:06:00.000-05:00

The windows in the house—
low glowing lanterns
orange-glow
pumpkin shade
deep and sad
setting

The sky out stretched
with multi-color
streams of unconsciousness
the sea
in a surface mood
of evening lavender

But deeper—
a green—a blue—
and then a penetrating black
into an abyss of thought

10.31.2005