Atlas Landscape
-inspired by the eponymous painting by Maxfield Parrish
Even the clouds weigh
more than he imagined,
they, orange with sunset,
skintone, wrinkled with age
and the strain of holding things.
This is summer’s end;
these shades of calm and anger,
are storms half-empty, half-full.
He tenses at the prospect of letting
wildness fall from his hands,
then forebears, a man
who knows of freedom lost
to wrath, impatience, hate
and would not pass this on:
his sky of troubles.
And seeing the forefront dark,
I discern the beauty behind it:
a placid bay, the steadfast range,
and I’m thankful someone holds back
the storm, the night, himself.
---
This Time Of Night
Night gives way
to dawn, a bright hope
we sleep through
until day gives way to dusk.
The sun like a hero
in the time of heroes
departs for a distant country,
unable to shine everywhere
at once. Gone are the hours
of easy, selfless work,
the clear conversations,
the vigilant eyes.
Often I am found
sleeping like a star
in the time of stars,
silent, soft, unseen
behind a haze of dreams.
Now, the eyes of the dark open:
burnt orange street-lamps
staggered footsteps of crowds,
and singing shadows.
Tonight, I am likewise
restless: a specter
in a time of specters,
roaming shifty streets
searching for a new fire.
Who will save us now?
We are eager like birds
circling the halos of broadcast towers
or deer imagining in the headlights
a sudden miraculous dawn.
---
Odyssey
- “How great is the darkness in which we grope” - William James
You awake forgetful:
what is this bed?
this tangled blanket?
Another night,
sudden
and confusing with darkness.
Where is the world
in your dream,
still yanking at your hair?
You wrestle
with definite shadows
and escape one sheet at a time.
The floor lunges at you:
hardwood, socks,
your grandmother’s carpet.
and even then you believe
it must be close to dawn,
not 2 a.m.,
your moment, irrational,
your dream, a continual lie.
---
The Bicycle
As a child, it was my way
of moving forward,
of outrunning myself,
my mind still stuck
on an argument with my mother,
a clash in the kitchen,
or my brother,
our late night conversation
turning cold with the dark.
Then, I had the freedom that comes
with no one to look after
but my own childhood.
I learned the neighborhood,
the secret trails,
the magic of losing myself
in an unfamiliar place.
Suddenly, I was a bird
struggling to find a nest.
Or I was a star
in the patchwork of night,
sewing clothes for the walkers:
gray, soft light
reflecting off their shirts,
so I could see them,
wanderers who were not
children riding on a rusted bike,
my mother’s, my brother’s
(I would forget
my arguments, my winning lines,
the desperation).
I would return home
as a child used to changing
the rhythm of wheels,
though I didn’t understand
how I had overcome my frustration,
only that I was happy again.
Later, I discovered
bicycles have always been a mystery
even to the experts.
We know the wheels spin,
but not how it stands straight and moves,
---
This Time Of Night
Night gives way
to dawn, a bright hope
we sleep through
until day gives way to dusk.
The sun like a hero
in the time of heroes
departs for a distant country,
unable to shine everywhere
at once. Gone are the hours
of easy, selfless work,
the clear conversations,
the vigilant eyes.
Often I am found
sleeping like a star
in the time of stars,
silent, soft, unseen
behind a haze of dreams.
Now, the eyes of the dark open:
burnt orange street-lamps
staggered footsteps of crowds,
and singing shadows.
Tonight, I am likewise
restless: a specter
in a time of specters,
roaming shifty streets
searching for a new fire.
Who will save us now?
We are eager like birds
circling the halos of broadcast towers
or deer imagining in the headlights
a sudden miraculous dawn.
---
Odyssey
- “How great is the darkness in which we grope” - William James
You awake forgetful:
what is this bed?
this tangled blanket?
Another night,
sudden
and confusing with darkness.
Where is the world
in your dream,
still yanking at your hair?
You wrestle
with definite shadows
and escape one sheet at a time.
The floor lunges at you:
hardwood, socks,
your grandmother’s carpet.
and even then you believe
it must be close to dawn,
not 2 a.m.,
your moment, irrational,
your dream, a continual lie.
---
The Bicycle
As a child, it was my way
of moving forward,
of outrunning myself,
my mind still stuck
on an argument with my mother,
a clash in the kitchen,
or my brother,
our late night conversation
turning cold with the dark.
Then, I had the freedom that comes
with no one to look after
but my own childhood.
I learned the neighborhood,
the secret trails,
the magic of losing myself
in an unfamiliar place.
Suddenly, I was a bird
struggling to find a nest.
Or I was a star
in the patchwork of night,
sewing clothes for the walkers:
gray, soft light
reflecting off their shirts,
so I could see them,
wanderers who were not
children riding on a rusted bike,
my mother’s, my brother’s
(I would forget
my arguments, my winning lines,
the desperation).
I would return home
as a child used to changing
the rhythm of wheels,
though I didn’t understand
how I had overcome my frustration,
only that I was happy again.
Later, I discovered
bicycles have always been a mystery
even to the experts.
We know the wheels spin,
but not how it stands straight and moves,
what keeps it stable.
---
A Love of Repetition
I must tell you
as one sincere reader to another:
read and re-read.
If a book is a friend,
let her speak more than once;
let your conversation be deep
as once mine was, driven home
by a woman twice my age.
I learned of her past
and there was no silence
between us for hours.
If a book is a companion,
counsel with her in dark times
so that, each time you touch her
and read, you are familiar
with the wisdom of smooth pages.
Every repetition reveals
a mystery that hadn’t been
written there before.
If a book is to be more
than a fling in a bookstore,
keep coming back to her;
you will find her changed,
and yourself, suddenly new.
I spoke with the past,
perusing my mother’s memoirs.
Why not relive them?
If a book is an escort,
let her lead you time and again
through the back passages of time
until the way is etched
on the life-lines of your palms.
Re-read these words, my friend,
there is a blessing
I must tell you.
---
Teach
To raise the dead from empty graves
and to guide the living to the eternal edge
where they might find themselves afraid,
and, paradoxically, unafraid to step out.
To tuft taut rope into an unkempt mess,
then light it on fire - strike a blaze
beneath the teepeed sticks of a bonfire
and say “Now carry this into the night;
a candle, a torch, your hands if you have
no fear of burning.” To give fear a name,
a three-piece suit, a place to stay (we know
how long the night is, how eerily alone).
To provide a savory turkey-dinner for him,
a hot bath and blankets without complaining,
because, this way, you are no strangers anymore.
To lead by example, the simplest lesson
that requires a lifetime to master, and faith
to spark the first footstep, not fear (no,
he sleeps in the backroom, stuffed and warm,
the tended fire in the fireplace, aglow and silent).
To build from what is known, not unknown.
---
A Love of Repetition
I must tell you
as one sincere reader to another:
read and re-read.
If a book is a friend,
let her speak more than once;
let your conversation be deep
as once mine was, driven home
by a woman twice my age.
I learned of her past
and there was no silence
between us for hours.
If a book is a companion,
counsel with her in dark times
so that, each time you touch her
and read, you are familiar
with the wisdom of smooth pages.
Every repetition reveals
a mystery that hadn’t been
written there before.
If a book is to be more
than a fling in a bookstore,
keep coming back to her;
you will find her changed,
and yourself, suddenly new.
I spoke with the past,
perusing my mother’s memoirs.
Why not relive them?
If a book is an escort,
let her lead you time and again
through the back passages of time
until the way is etched
on the life-lines of your palms.
Re-read these words, my friend,
there is a blessing
I must tell you.
---
Teach
To raise the dead from empty graves
and to guide the living to the eternal edge
where they might find themselves afraid,
and, paradoxically, unafraid to step out.
To tuft taut rope into an unkempt mess,
then light it on fire - strike a blaze
beneath the teepeed sticks of a bonfire
and say “Now carry this into the night;
a candle, a torch, your hands if you have
no fear of burning.” To give fear a name,
a three-piece suit, a place to stay (we know
how long the night is, how eerily alone).
To provide a savory turkey-dinner for him,
a hot bath and blankets without complaining,
because, this way, you are no strangers anymore.
To lead by example, the simplest lesson
that requires a lifetime to master, and faith
to spark the first footstep, not fear (no,
he sleeps in the backroom, stuffed and warm,
the tended fire in the fireplace, aglow and silent).
To build from what is known, not unknown.
To bridge life’s chasm, and to learn ere death.
---
Portrait of a Tragedy
He wakes up again
to the news of children
gunned down by an unknown
man.
He cleans up like normal
and breakfast is the same cold
you might hear in a voice
today as any day.
Before leaving, he fails to remember where
he dropped his keys last night,
pats himself down in a panic: his sides,
his back pockets, his heart,
but there on table, they linger
by yesterday’s paper, splattered
with gray pictures and words
that almost have no meaning.
There’s a photo of a dead man
whose face could be anyone’s.
Next door, his neighbors
begin a war and he hears
their infant wailing.
He hurries out to the car,
turns the radio on then off again
and drums his fingers against the wheel.
His drive is a dream, arriving
with a feeling, not a memory.
On the sidewalk, he notices
an elementary girl trailing behind
her mother’s occupied phone
and brushes past them
down this path into his routine.
Work will consume him,
he trusts; he prays
it’s only a bad beginning
a day that feels clouded
though no clouds cross
the everyday blue,
another morning where nothing’s changed,
---
Portrait of a Tragedy
He wakes up again
to the news of children
gunned down by an unknown
man.
He cleans up like normal
and breakfast is the same cold
you might hear in a voice
today as any day.
Before leaving, he fails to remember where
he dropped his keys last night,
pats himself down in a panic: his sides,
his back pockets, his heart,
but there on table, they linger
by yesterday’s paper, splattered
with gray pictures and words
that almost have no meaning.
There’s a photo of a dead man
whose face could be anyone’s.
Next door, his neighbors
begin a war and he hears
their infant wailing.
He hurries out to the car,
turns the radio on then off again
and drums his fingers against the wheel.
His drive is a dream, arriving
with a feeling, not a memory.
On the sidewalk, he notices
an elementary girl trailing behind
her mother’s occupied phone
and brushes past them
down this path into his routine.
Work will consume him,
he trusts; he prays
it’s only a bad beginning
a day that feels clouded
though no clouds cross
the everyday blue,
another morning where nothing’s changed,
except suddenly he doesn’t know himself.
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