old man on coffeeshop bench

i will be old like you
one day (not too too soon i hope)
and let my beard
hide my sinking cheeks
sprout lumps and  growths
body rebelling--like
a second puberty:

without the sex.

slump forward to sip my coffee
fall back to stretch my legs
beg the sunshine light the fire
my bones have let go out.

my veins like yours will glow
rivers of blue beneath my skin
and my breath
will come in packages
shaped like coffins.

i know you. i have
already guessed your name.



(Pretty self-explanatory, I guess. Just the view through the open window this Tuesday afternoon...)

definite articles

the rain fell
the way curtains fall:
obscuring the stage
erasing the dust
easing the thirst
the ground accumulates.

traffic--the city pulsing--
slowed, stopped:
abated, you say.
the air smiled.
everyone breathed.

love the world
the way the world wants love.

learn the shapes
(learn the names
learn the language)
learn the way
the world whispers words.


(By way of explanation: Brian told me it was impossible to write a poem using only nouns, verbs, and the word "the." I'm not a big fan of the word "impossible." But I love the definite article, that singular and specific "the." Take that, Brian!)

swim

I write a lot of poems about swimming, it occurs to me. In fact, I'd say I write poems about swimming more often than I actually swim, these days. I read this one tonight as part of Behind the Kiln #8, an improv music and dance night at the delightful Artword Artbar, where Jennifer Lockman and I had the privilege of accompanying legendary Canadian artists and improv pioneers Nobuo Kubota and Eugene Martynec. So if you'll pardon the brag, I thought I should post about it. What a great night!

Oh--and if you like this poem, it's available, along with many many more, in my most recent book, Closer to the Sky.

swim

we swim
and the sand drops away beneath us
we trust that water will do what water does:
will hold us up
rock us
wash us clean
and finally remind us
we are water, each ourselves.

arm over arm over wave
over shipwrecked grave
where the faithless
and the leaden equally lie
sunk to the bottom
those unfortunate fortunate
dragged to the depths
by pockets full of gold.

our treasures are always
our torments.

our secrets are always
just unfulfilled hopes.

our dissatisfied pockets
are always lined with gold.

we swim
and the sky is an ocean of dreams
smiling down on us every one
waiting for us to learn
to put our faith in the wind.

when we finally line our pockets
with a joyful nothing at all
we will swim
(like birds,
waving empty hands)
up into the ocean of dreams.

worry, if you must

don't worry, sensei said,
about preparing to become a black belt.
worry--if you must
worry at all--about what
you
are doing
right now.


do that well, 
day after day.


when the time comes,
the black belt
will have already
taken care 
of itself.

simple sky (let's swim)

simple sky tonight

glows bluegreenpinkandgold

a shallow coral ocean blooms

above the complicated rooftops

of this almost-dreaming town.

turn off this common gravity, my love:

let us draw a breath together

and dive into the gloaming.

we’ll bring back treasures

scavenged from the rags and ruins

of sunken airships, aluminum ghosts

wrecked amongst the constellations:

ophiuchus and saggitarius—

the healer and the teacher;

aquilus and cygnus—

the eagle and the swan:

all our great birds

all our great magicians

all the hollow bones of flight

waiting to be carved into song.

the wind tucks our clothes

tight against the contours of our bodies,

half-closes our eyes

like we’re all just waiting—

          every sleeping soul 

          in this west-facing town—

waiting to be kissed awake

from centuries of sleep

by this optimistic sunset

on the edge of an ocean of sky.