Thursday, April 5, 2018

In Judgement



I have tried to do
As I should.
I have tried to be good
In this miracle of you--
This sphere of sea and stone.
We know we're not alone
But part of you, Universe--
Your heart and first
What your vision sees.
Overhead, the moon 
Gets snagged in trees.
This is understood.
I try to be good,
But nothing could induce
Me to climb and set it loose.


Monday, March 26, 2018

Cogito Naranjado Sum (2)





We  think, 
Therefore are,
And must be--
Here to think, 
And be, by asking
How: how is such
Thought defined 
As much by what is 
As what is not
Then all thought
That is not me,
I must also be. 

*****************************************
 Cogito Naranjado Sum (1) appeared 4 years ago on this blog after decades of tinkering. I revisited it this evening with the intention of correcting a fallacy. I don't blame Descartes --beyond "The Substance of Dualism"-- but only myself. If we consider an entity, like a cat curled up asleep in a pie tin --as one of ours often did-- we see some existence is fluid, seeking the shape of its container. So is thought. That's really what this poem is about. Enough said. I welcome opinions, all opinions --and appreciate them without criticizing them.

Saturday, March 3, 2018

Thanks Lisa, 7:27 P.M.




Each daffodil echoes the
Universe in explosion.
We're all dust from
The same flower. 

Saturday, February 24, 2018

March, 2013



77000-Year-Old Bedding Found


[Prof. Christopher Miller sampling sediments. (Credit: Prof. Lyn Wadley, Science Daily)]

This is where they
Laid their heads.
They fell asleep.

We found their beds.
Between lines three
And four is a space,
Punctuation indicating
A pause of
Seventy-seven thousand
Years --amnestic mornings,

Nestled in settled stone
Waking alone, eager,
In love or sad, in
Their beds where they
Dreamed, worried,
Trysted, cried, laughed,
Whispered, petrified.

Here on prehistoric
Beds, this is where
They laid their heads.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Summer Snowflake




My head is strung to
Roots in earth; 
Body parachutes
Time from birth.
My feet reach into
Gravity and that
Is all there is of me.




Saturday, January 27, 2018

Detail

At first it could be
A granite cliff but 
If we look closely,
Isn't --only a fallen tree.
What we see in 
Adjusted distance, moss,
Mass, is black wood
 Over grass,
                 which seems 
To rotate from
Simple plane  to 
Lemniscate, and at
Its tip retain spheres
Of recent rain. 
In neither garden
Nor brain can we
Find any better 
Signs for infinity.





Saturday, January 20, 2018

Theatre of Season in Change




How did it get so cold?
It can't be I have got
More sensitive,
Which leaves Earth
Farther from its sun --
One and all need to
Get out and push!
Where rain-rotted tree-
Leaves fell and froze,
Bulbs are rising now
And those lift to  bring
This show of spring:
We clap our calloused 
Hands, our hurting 
Hands --intermission 
Complete-- and return
To our seats.