Pueblo Day Poetry

Today I went into town of Bemidji (often referred to as the "Pueblo") with the 4 week campers that I'm counseling this summer. They were only allowed a bit of their electronics, but I didn't have anything I could bring, having lost my phone earlier that day. So I wrote poetry, first one poem, then another, then another. I think the 2nd and the 3rd turned out pretty well; at least, they are meaningful to me. It's amazing what we can accomplish when we disconnect a little from our electronics.

The Laundromat

Once there was a boy and a girl who met

because they were stuck waiting for their clothes,

nothing to do but magazines from last week

and one window to the lake, constant and changeless.

So they opened up their mouths and their hearts on wings

flew away from themselves, every week until finally

they met outside in white, clean and happy.

This happened so long ago, the lake has forgotten.

Their grandchildren and great-grandchildren come

and go each week like floating islands, cut off

by closed eyes and plugged ears. Lonely beaches

littered with bottled messages and words in the sand

saying “Speak to me,” “Listen,” “Help,” washing away

like dirt on clothes or hours in silence.

--------

Café

I like to be gone,

find a somewhere filled with strangers

smoothies, smells, and sleep.

There the walls come down

and whoever I was

(before the workweek, stern-looks,

good cries and nail bites,

after the late dreams, dances

soft songs and longings)

sits down with who I’ve become

two drinks between us

happiness and sadness

both hot, both cold,

that we drink from in turn.

No one notices our table or the memories 

that sit down and leave

that fill the chairs 

and leave them empty at the same time.

My mother or father used to tell me

truth comes in contradictions

dark and light, order and chaos,

strife and peace, who I am

and who I want to be.

Everyone needs a little silence

to talk it out, a rest

to work on what’s to come.

Some hours we spend days

lost in finding deep things

on the surface of ourselves.

Afterwards, I go, again myself,

again in a world I know is larger,

yet easier to understand.

Sum Summer Poetry

It seems I'm slower to post these days than in years past, but I thought I'd upload a few poems from the ones I've written this month. Always, if you have any constructive thoughts, please share.

September Going Forth

August is the month of the gods

and parades of them puppeted through the streets:

spirits of rivers, roads, and street lamps,

from the large cryptomeria tree to the sidewalk bushes,

the Kami flash in and out like fireflies,

spirits of fireflies and of summer dying, his blazing beard

orange in the sunset. One of a million gods

swaying to the wind, singing with the silence. Oh gods,

how beautiful we feel as they pass among us.

There are gods we see and gods we cannot;

humble, they hide in shadows, the spirits of the night,

stones beneath our feet, a swinging door.

We see the shapes and forget the majesty. All of August

we are made holy by their passions until one

by one they retreat into their lonely shrines, separate again.

We have, every one of us, gone our way.

And September, poor broken month, wakes up

abandoned from the first. I am born to a lone and dreary world.

Heaven is that dream that thunders in the distance

and wherever I look, there are only men and women playing gods.

What have they done that I should worship them?

The moon rises this month with a toast and the sun rises also

and I bow beneath them to let my spirit stretch.

--------

Signals

When the last sound escapes 

each night, that moment 

before sleep takes over

and the false signals of dreams

begin their hollow sounding,

I hope a catalogue is kept

in the silent library where I go 

to write the day’s story,

wherever memories are kept,

with a faint ring of truth.

--------

The Lights Of Life & Death

Like white bedsheets rippling across the sky

the lights in the north and spreading 

remind me of life and death coming:

of children with flashlights, barricaded

against the darkness, and the darkness

that comes for all of us, early or late,

when it others come to cover us.

Angels swarming in the sky,

I see ghost and dragons

in the shapes you make. The light runs

like shadows behind a waterfall.

Who do I know among you?

Father, Mother, children yet to come,

your spirits dance while you are sleeping

and I am watching over them tonight.

I know they say it is the sun,

throwing out its arms to us,

touching the air like the finger of God,

but let it be God also, sending a sign

to me, here, on the other side of eternity

of life unbound by the gasps of birth and death,

of breath so beautiful, it shines.

---------

The Commute Home

A lamppost struggles at the edge of the woods.

Women flicker like stars at a distance, heads bowed,

and the sounds of a bus rumble on the dusty wind.

The air is full of waiting and the black of forests. 

As when home becomes the name of a country

long-departed, for all its hours left abandoned;

as when those around you are no than faint lights,

the weight on your eyes blurring the world like rain,

these wait alone in the near darkness, both tired

and brilliant, like a a galaxy in the universe of night.