Slow me down woe Lord

Woe me down slow.

Bleed me some peace Lord

Peace me some bleed.

Grow me wide deeply Lord

Deeply me wide.

Law me fist raw Lord

Raw me fist law.

Low me fast glow Lord

Glow me fast low.

Sail me down gale Lord

Gale me sail down.

Praise me slow raise Lord

Raise me slow praise.

Join me vast coin Lord

Coin me vast join.

End me wild bend Lord

Bend me wild end.




Dark purple silk palms
spread profusely from twig wrists,
trail delicately over the tall woodslat fence
that separates our yards.

Tiny fragile white startles
of petals cluster together
on the tips of lean, limber vines,
shimmy softly in the uneven breeze.
The jungle next door tantalizes.

On the opposite side, my other neighbors
plant a waist-high picket fence
between our yards,
whirling windtoys
and tidy raised wood boxes
of dark soil,
beds for vegetables and flowers.

Rakes, shovels, a worn pitchfork
lean against the wall of their  home.
Adolescent fruit trees
elbow awkwardly
from corners.

The old two-story oak
with recently shortened limbs
waiting to grow soft,
supple again.

My yard,
a bare block of crewcut grass
and clover, a thick short hedge or two.
A chest-high rubbery roundness
hunkers down in one corner,
a succulent cabbage-like hulk.

Spindly impatiens scrabble
across from the bedraggled fern.
The fading wood lattice
slants sideways, empty.

Calla lilies weed up
by the back door,
forest green
plastic Adirondack yardchairs
arm by arm
on the rectangle of concrete.

The gray cat prowls the bare patches
of survivor growth,
peers through the weathered picket fence.
I imagine she wants to lie
in the tender charmyard
of cherry tomatoes and bachelor buttons,
to paw at spinning yellow windmills
and tiny wood stickbirds.

I sit
taking in the neighboring passions,
stumped, overwhelmed, unable
to turn over this soil,
wishing for green delicate grace
to materialize
in this small naked square.

Despair puckers its split lips
and mutters its busy rote
while my fingers
pluck at the
plastic chair arms.

Mapping the World

Mapping the World


Imagine the earth

illustrated in terms of the measurements

of blood surfacing from each country and region and area.

A geographical illustration of the shedding

of the spilling blood

as it mixes and merges and

increases in circumference

and then drips or more accurately perhaps pours

from each originating section of the surface of the planet

but then since the phenomenon and momentum of spinning is also taking place

well then the drops would be spun as well.

Imagine the bleeding globe heaving the web

of stunning and probably exquisite scarlet patterns and designs and trails and traces

which eventually and gradually and finally, we think, evaporates

in the presence of and/or within, who knows of course, a starry

starry  starry  starry  starry  starry

inconsolable universe

shadowed and brilliant by turn.


And then imagine a globe of the world

that illustrates the planet

in terms of the measurement of hope

generated from each country

and region and area of the earth

which of course is not a visible matter

but only a matter of imagination

and, so, difficult to picture

as it’s forms create unknown shapes and motions and colors and densities

so that each one is exquisite and possibly odd and wondrous and quite infectious

and the earth is bounteously and gorgeously flinging its hopeful imaginations

as it giddly circles and turns and circles

in the wild midst of kindred orbiting masses

blindly yet precisely whirling and whirling and whirling.


CC 4/29/16