the buddha's smile

the buddha's smile


there, reflecting off the golden statue
we bow to pray and find our own
is our proper path herald of a
greater awareness this lily
on the pond, crickets humming
in the shallow water the moon and stars
gyrating in supple ammunition
against the Night, we are
the Meditation of a caring Mother, the
sudden Surging
of light in darkness -- the buddha
holds his fingers against his palm
and whispers quietly
among the whispering reeds --

A Moment in Time

A moment in Time




in the golden tinsel on the window pane
a reflection in the rain a
surge of life
in this darkness;  I cried
for you, here, here
where you could pass as Native
in the dusk we the
solemn brothers out to Sea,
carousing with the best of them -- hell
is not an option, only a
metro stop on the way
to a greater Circumspection these
days our great
hurrahs at the top of the steps Counting
backwards until
we lose Track; the turtles
crawl along
the mud bank slow in determination
and ready
for our Realization we the
afterthought
of a sudden Spasm --

haiku

Clouddispslays shine here
moving slowly along the
Sky; this, Our essence --

Ghosts, Phantoms, Memories –

It all began on a tripwire here accumulating

trust – Our horses neigh  in the Wind

keeping time with their surging hooves – We

have Chosen to be Silent here, under

a dark sky harkening back to a time when

we would Surrender easily and with Calm – Who

are you there

undermining your Vision with blood not baked

but burned

in great Carapaces above Our heads

divining a Time

when We could laugh with Impunity?

Furious optimism

What bell shakes the rooftops? – It

seems there is less time for things that matter

and more matter unearthing riots, here; --

these Celibate angels and Spies are Crying  – What

form of a Woman

are you to extend to me your utterances

alighting on a tall tree-branch? – Have

you installed in your

spine’s Arch a knowing inclination?

Inching toward the fire’s Edge

we are warmed to You, you

who would hold out to us

your subtle graces and shattering

     instinct -- We

wonder at Constellations

our Feet poised for a new equilibrium

     counting

the hours to our Communion,

      hearty, breathless --

Essence --

the Moon-Protected Sky

full of Promise – Nectar, vines,

branches, Milk --

will come to You tonight --

A Cantor’s  Blues –

for Silent Bear

Sing to the multitude dark and hidden melodies

surging Scions breaking here our bread

we lift or lilt in our present  incarnation

to see you in Mississippi  mudflats

counting the beat on dirt roads and dry

grasses your head held high Nightwalking

with  Coyotes and Ghosts in

the Valley of the Grandfathers  you

blow the whistle and chant  the tune

as we drum rhythms under Stars

that Gyrate with their Own succinct

Ovation --

pride –

“Ah, vanity – my favorite Sin”

Al Pacino, The Devil’s Advocate --

glued to the TV I sneeze my way through jungles of doubt

and foreclosure to arrive en masse at my beginnings there

where the sprouts burst laughing in the grass –We

are very delicate here in our glass house poring over

the details of Our demise  wishing only to be recognized

for what we are, proud idolaters on the run

from demonic avatars posing as Men; We

will collapse in Time to the beat of a distant drum

there where we can

kiss with impunity scarcely surviving our guilt

this time coalescing

in a pure white Cloud over barren Sands --

Strike from the Record





Left hand in the Cookie Jar, right Hand

in the Muck; What we know; and

where we Suck

on the Mad Teat of Invention:  It is

glued to delivery

and Succumbs

to Our Inventory -- our Quantum Leaps

in the absolute Green -- We

are the inchworm

Snarling at the Gate of our Redemption -- it

is Our Illusory Stigmata

that keeps us bloodfilled, Whole, we

Who dissolve

in an instantaneous Shot from the muzzle's barrel --

when you’re with me I can feel you

close to me your breath on my neck

your hair spilling over your shoulders

this Night our last together

When in the Night there is Sorrow we glean what we
can from the wreckage; our
Hopes are held
high above the Waters -- Our Certainty unclouded and Pure;
who would
dance there on the Sand, hand held out
to our Gesture?

Is this the Key to our Heart?

time Out –

the disequilibrium of drunken soothsaying

untethers its audience; to the hearing

there is nothing but silence, long drawn-out

cadenza underscored with incision

of a deaf-man’s inheritance; who

are the shadows, then, who stand leagues off,

gnawing at our shirtsleeves?  Should

we call to them, Now, our half-sisters

in purgatory?  With prayers

we may ease their suffering; or are we

too late?  Diamond-back

      adjudicators

of some forgotten Statute have come to us

hungering for absolution – are

they worthy?

                 (are we?)

the populace shifts and grins -- we

are only unholy here in these our half-formed

     utterances

awaiting a kind of succulent

embrace –

                              *

Words of a shy librarian

Take some off the back there, the View

is Engaging said the shy librarian – We

can Stack with the best of them – Here

we stand grieving for

books that have been banned, burned

or just forgotten – you the avatars

of poetry or novels, biographies, stories --you

will come to us in a dry Silence here

pulsing with dirt and mirth – please

us with your Wisdom here hunched over

this mahogany desk your

hands crimped  with multiple

washings --  a wishing Well here where

we may amaze you

bursting with compassion --

Militant Grace –

We stand here at the edge of the ledge with

Our heads

Held high – What will

This be when we come to visit you?

Home

is apart from None – What

Will you see

When the clouds part leaving grass in

Their wake ? --

how to beat schizophrenia –

take turns intuiting

make friends with the Undead

kill off squared demons – Heave

justice to the wind and Smile – believe

what you think until

it’s truth collapses in your arms --

Coming to terms with Christ --

Impassioned,  Fragile, down

at the Mouth; bitter Wine, Vinegar of

a pure Sort – marathon

ascetic in the Mountain you

battled your Devil

for forty days, they said – What

kind of Man

are you? – “Get

behind Me, Satan,” is all you said

     and it was Enough –

You would

leave this land

heavy-hearted our blood flowing

in your Veins you cry Salt tears looking

upon Us – What manner

of Man are you to be when you 

     come back 

to this Earth here where we await you

prayerfully holding our hands to the Sky?

What is the Sword for?

(Some say if there wasn’t a Christ,

we’d have to invent One); He

is a ghost we acclaim as Saviour, the

suffering virgin burnished by the Sun sweating

     blood

this Carpenter’s Child who walks on Water

     under Circling doves

     above the Sea

his beard grown long in the Wind,

     this Nazarite, student

of books and stars the Careful

     mapping

out of a Life before Him here

     where

the desert Sands wash away

      pious longing

in our Hearts –  We

are master and Slave to his

will – he who would redeem

     us with

his blood an aging poet angling

for Conversion –

template –

We have the right to Our Incertitude – We

wash in Waves here

in this warm Sea undertow pulling us down; Our

hearts beat loudly in our Chests as

we break down Our histories

to uncover hidden passions

Here in this succulent Garden – We

     stamp our feet

in frustration lifting vines and snakes

     our Whole accusation

here waived for a close call at cliff’s edge

     my paramour an angling Salt

loudly ringing bells and bellowing We

     find each Other in

this haze our heads upturned to the Clouds,

our feet planted firmly in the Earth,

     here, where

we find intrepid Solace like a glove -- 

the bums of Nuance –

Shifting toward

the Sun we unwind our Sultry

habits

wrapped in skeins of Glory; We

adhere Now that

everyone is Cut loose in this, our

pitched  Unity an

Accusation

replete or ancient in these

times divining a treble flute

sounding

with acute Alarms startling

the  jays 

at the feeder – We are seized

by a quiet Rapture

here in this dry Earth our

grateful

reckoning uncovered  --

Skin Heights




Imprecise and Vulnerable we

scale the Heights of disrepair -- We

climb through Clouds

of skin, our fingers out and Longing here

the Essence of Our

hypocrisy -- When

we Die we shall Discover a future already

beyond Us fading in

an amber Mist --

Sidewinder

scrape the  snakeskins

from your Eyes – mount

the  cliffface

now – it is Time

for an Upsurge of

things Material, a glowing

terror poised

as heartfelt – How can I trust You here

with cannonballs and

half-heard Anecdotes ? We

are succinct

in our Pleasure bursting with Ire --                                                                        

unkempt Sonnet --

when we are lovers entwined in a curious spelling 

 of syllables for contemplation we wield

words as axes the thematic shift telling

us we’ve come to the battle with shield,

sword, and incensed arrival – we’ve grown

rich with Sacrifice this horizon that we cross;

memory of an ailing Knight, his Wound

uncovered in Evening’s quiet  loss –

what manner of man is He who hides under stairs

to trick his demons into submission?

We hold out our hands, our instep, our glare

at this, a prescient moment master’s schism --

     in certain circles birds fly blind

     transcending  blood, transcending time --

     

“I don’t need to be forgiven” – The Who –

basking in purity, Our lights out and remaining mute – what

can we do to make things right?

Here in our sullen jungles we attain justice on the Wing, a

wild Osprey gliding overhead in

grand Circles hunting down our Night-Mistress

obtaining subtle Sacrifice from the Muse

who stands in the way with hip thrust Out a

Chimera whose tricks are surely up against

a Wall – We

have fathomed the dry skies as a sort

of divination, ready from

the Start --

 Cave Fish –

undeveloped Eyes there darting about your ankle

in the Water they swim in and out here

longing to come ashore with a Message from below

that All is well with the World

or Else it is tipsy drunk on Wine and prisoners

call to it here in the Darkness the Medicine Man

Sits cross-legged and Solemn in the Earth – We

are imprisoned by Our Minds

hauling water to the fire our hands hot

to the touch We pray

for Freedom of the Spirit from the

Churches to the jails

lighting up the Sky with our Pride our

hands held out  to

those in Need in

 this great Machine – fireflies

pulse slowly in the Night’s air

out of Reach of  Mind’s

Eye; you will 

see them in your dreams, the

Spider there on your bunk

is your Companion, Bear Heart said,

it is alive with Nature

even behind barbed wire, out of Reach

of  Sentry’s gun it spins its web

a testament to your Enduring Strength

behind these bars you who

would hear the hawk and teach the fish

to see at last in this dark dungeon --

Holy Incantations --


we begin at the beginning, there
where time stops
and beggars Relapse; it
is here, in Our Eyes, that
we find
Relief; these, the Solemn days
resounding Full and Glorious -- What
manner
of Speaking is at your Command, you
who would spark
the Divine in a minute, the
vestigial
forms adhering to the Sky, a palate
Cleft awaiting surgery?

These days arrive with thunderous Appeal, our
hearts out and pulsing
through the Wound, there, where
we least expect it, there,
where scattered
icons are Supremely Felt; We,
the unpaid
Justices of an
intimate Night reflecting Purity or Waste
with Our incision must
count the days out on our Fingertips these
tipsy beings affording
us a Window
into Wine, our sullen Shadows
hoping for glimpses
of his narrow shoulders
and upheld arch:  He is

the Master Puppet here in our Surprising
brevity, our
handheld Terror one
of a quiet Child
basking in the fountain Wants
to know
your Name, you
who handled guns and bombs Now
kneeling to
the Earth to scratch the kittens' Ears -- all

laid in Precise implication of our lungs
heaving in
a lacquered breath, Replete --

Rima the bird girl –

Watch carefully as we tumble into the woods

our eyes Searching her out -- She, this

Sudden sister glued to the wind who

whispers in your Ear unspeakable things

must be some kind of Priestess, holy

as She is --  Her mind is diamond-cut

and quiet We see her skittering

between  elms, hiding her face with

her hands, smiling, there, beneath

 the leaves, this, prayerful heroine here

 to lift us through our Pain – She

must make the most of her

delicate Step to save us from Ourselves

      We the rootless

and abandoned Ones who glimpsed her there,

knees bared, sitting

by the branch humming a tune

unsettled in breathless green Mansions --

For My Mother

First the Morning Came

billowing the Sails upon

which she Danced, lithe

in Motion twirling

in Synch with her Breathing

this Young Woman

grown in Brooklyn, born

of immigrants

from Palestine, land

of Refugees, her Father

a quiet Carpenter

of gentle Patience and

sure Hand her Mother

teacher and Guide she

aimed at the Stars who

showed her the way into

Medicine healer of

wounds and aches with

a quiet Grace singer of

Gretchen at the spinning Wheel

and the Queen of the Night -- I see

her now in her hospital bed

breathing slowly now

she could not swallow she faded

into death with peace

and gentle forbearance my Mother

who bore me up when I

was down, whose compassion

of great depth

kept me afloat through difficult times, whose

love for me reminded me

of the beauty in the world the

neverending cycle of

birth and demise whose memories

will only grow with

Time this my Mother may

you rest in peace.