Late Night Conversation with Blackie, a Cat

i am typing. he curls on the dining room table
in the warm and purring exhaust of the laptop;
closes his eyes and disappears into his fur. being a cat,
his ears remain open and listening. so i begin

with simple questions. are you fooled by the string?
where do you go when you leave in the night?
do you feel remorse for the birds you have killed?
easy stuff. desultory. but talk as always turns

to the importance or not of history
to the need or not for shouldering those
responsibilities that interfere with joy.
to whether cats even feel emotion, or if emotion

is just the residue that coats our human nerves when we are
untrue to ourselves. he doesn't say so directly, but
his stillness implies that i being human feel sorrow,
pride, happiness, love and hate all alike

only because i act outside my nature. he tucks his nose
beneath his tail, which is of course to say

be who you are. do what you do.
all these feelings fade only if you let them.
this search for joy upsets you just as surely
when you find it as when you fail.

and then, although it is hard to be quite certain with cats,
he falls asleep.

Not a Fish is Not a Bird

when we first crawled from the sea
and looked towards the mountains
all our dreams were there
among the clouds.

we wanted wings
but grew these legs;
wanted to fly but walked
away from the cradle of the sea
towards a sky that seemed
always out of reach.

not a fish
is not a bird.

our friends were swimming
while our feet grew sore.
when our dreams were frozen
the sea was still warm.
we just moved our feet
and broke the ice;
walked through pain
towards paradise.

not a fish
is not a bird:
we have fur, not feathers
but that's alright.

i love the way you walk,
the way you want to fly.
i love how you refuse
to drift inside the tide.
not a fish is not a bird,
but that's alright.
you and i sleep here
between the cradle and the sky
we have feet, not wings to move us;
fur, not feathers to keep us warm at night.

Who Are You Now?

It's been a busy couple of weeks. Not much time to write; not even much time to think about writing. But every once in a while lightning strikes the top of my head and I don't have to think about writing. I just have to write. Today was one of those days. I like those days--days when the words write me for a change.


Who Are You Now?


you're not the girl i fell in love with
all those years ago
you have the same eyes
and the same crooked smile
but you know so many things
that she could never know

i'm not the guy you fell in love with
either, you know.
i can tell all his stories
and wear all his clothes
but my feet, in his shoes,
have learned a whole new way to move.

so who are you now,
and who am i?
are we still lovers,
or just getting by?

every day i discover you
asleep in my bed
and it's warm under the covers
where the past and the future collide in my head
all i remember
and all i desire
gathers together in the loops of your hair
i'm here, and you're here
and that's all that matters.

so who are you now?
and who am i?
we are lovers like forests
reborn every day
from the ashes of dreams.
we are reaching our arms 
towards the sky.




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R37zkizucPU

Spicy Bulgarian Tomato Dumpling Soup

This basis for this recipe can be found in the cookbook "Sundays at the Moosewood Restaurant." I've modified it a little. It's not technically poetry, but it tastes like it, so here it is on my poetry blog. Enjoy!

Soup (start 45 minutes before you want to serve dinner!)

1 large onion, diced
4 garlic cloves, minced
3 tbsp. olive oil
3 jars strained tomatoes
4 tsp. hot chili powder
1/4 tsp. cayenne
2 tbsp. white flour
4 c. vegetable stock

In large soup pot, saute onions and garlic until onions soften but have not yet browned.
Add all other ingredients. Using a hand processor, blend coarsely (break down the onions).
Bring to a boil then cover, reduce heat and simmer 30 min. If need be, you can then turn the pot off and leave it covered and waiting; bring it back to a low boil when you start the dumplings.

Dumplings (let soup simmer 15 minutes before starting dumplings!)

2 tbsp. butter
2 eggs, separated
1/4 c. couscous
3/4 c. white flour
2 tbsp. finely chopped fresh dill
1/3 c. milk

Steam the couscous in a small bowl by adding 1/4 boiling water; cover, let stand 5 min.
Separate the eggs--yolks in a large bowl, whites wherever you plan to beat them.
Cream the butter with the egg yolks until smooth.
Add steamed couscous, flour, dill, and milk, and blend well.
Beat egg whites until stiff, then fold into the dumpling mixture.
Return soup to a low boil. Drop dumpling mixture into soup one rounded tablespoon at a time.
Cook, covered, 15 minutes, stirring gently once.
Serve immediately, topped with fresh parsley and grated Keshkeval cheese (also commonly known by its Italian name, Cacciocavallo).

Ten Points (Atheist)

one: there is no god.

so two: there is no joy in the world

except for what we make in it ourselves.

also three: when i die

i will cease to exist;

so four: the joy i make,

i must make now.

five: i am afraid to die.

i suppose that everyone is.

but six: in spite of that,

i am not afraid to live.

seven: the world will continue

for others when i am gone.

so eight: i must maintain this world

for those who carry on.

nine: my capacity for love

is stopped only by failing to try.

so ten: i must open my eyes

i must open my mind

i must open my heart

i must open my arms

i must throw wide the windows

and shout out hello

to the world as it is,

and not as i wish it could be.

start / stop dilemma

Lately I find myself starting poems, only to find that I have nothing left to say after 4, 6, maybe 8 lines. 

I cannot yet decide if this is writer's block--an inability or unwillingness to develop an idea--or an instinctive, reflexive movement towards shorter forms. 

Each of these short poems seem to be complete. But part of my brain keeps saying "This is not what you set out to write--it's too small to be of any substance; say more! Say more!" 

Here are two. You decide--are they done? Or are they abandoned and incomplete?I'd love a little feedback on this one...

I Do Not Love You

i do not love you
for your smile but
for how it glows and fades
and glows again, a soft parade
of private joys that change
with the seasons, with the light of day.



Sunrise Again

funny how the world
continues to turn. for all
our struggles and sorrows
imagined and real
we have not stopped it yet.

the sun rises; the sun sets.
we each experience it in our own way
but it is the same sun every time.

Snowplow Central Station (A Canadian Love Song)

My wonderful band has just recorded this song as our contribution to the 2011 Design Hope project. If you like the lyrics, you're going to love the music! I'll keep you posted on the release date--as soon as I know, you'll know, too...

Snowplow Central Station

winter erases this city 

one streetlight at a time

replaces the grey of everyday

with a palace of purest white

            me: driving aimless through this wilderness

            of straight lines

            searching for a curve to serve

            as model for my lost smile

the music of a hundred aimless

radios in our fingertips;

the static of a falling sky

melting on our tongues and lips

            you: working dispatch           

            for roadside assistance

            beating swords to snow plows

            for the Broken Heart Resistance Front

all the roads home

lose focus and fade

blue lights map the night        

invent us a city phrase by phrase

carving love letters—

black lines on this empty page   

        

            a map for every wanderer

            clearing the way back home…