Wittgenstein's ladder wavered in the wind,
as he set out to scale the great garden wall
of language. His ladder, hand crafted for many
years in Vienna and Cambridge, came up short.
He could not climb the moss-dappled wall --
his intellectual paramour since
he started building a new metaphysic of the word,
with his Tractatus.

Suddenly, he hit a stalemate. Not able to scoot over
the wall, he washed his hands of trying to analyze the
black hole of predicates, conjugating verbs and slippery
allusions ******* up each particle of proper speech.
He splashed his face in mystic water. then offered
a gnomic pronouncement over his failure. A type of
recipe for missing the mark:

Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent.

A proposition of the limits of language; it turns out we
cannot say everything about everything, after all. So we
must embrace silence in its coarse cloak of humility.
We must stare down our limits.

Jacques Derrida thinks we must write what cannot be
said on the other side of our mystic sputtering.
The written word has an immediate, imperative tone
of authority, he implies, an authority that renders
silence a respectful remnant of our former backward ways.

But silence butts up against the scruffy gray wall
of meaning. And echoes off it precisely as what
has been said. Pointing by writing opens up another
avenue of speech. Writing speech only codifies it
as a once living thing. You must read the written
text then still point to be understood.

As Wittgenstein knew, silence proves less reductive;
writing simply cripples the living word.

The lighthouse looms
far off-shore,
its blinding Cyclops eye
circling like a hawk
closing in on weary prey.

The beam blips to
infinity, signaling
wayward ships to slow
their progress through
the choppy sea.

From here, on land,
the house rears up like
a medieval tower, a defense
against dragons menacing
murky depths unknown.

I blink back, trying my best
to reach infinity on my own.
The sea is no substitute. Its
vastness sweeps to a pinnacled
caesura on the Western islands.

Ask Melville whether the spiny
reefs held infinity at bay.
Only for a fleeting moment.
Only until a colossal crash on
the firmament sounded. Paradise lost.

We have no paradise here, save
the spectacular Oregon coast
after sunset, when flat sand lights
up like a neon walkway and
purple streaks paint the sky.

Star fish, in puerile pink, cling
to black boulders. Slimy, crooked flesh
at low tide. The lighthouse
keeps signaling to no one.
No shred of infinity to be found.

A languid loon
liltingly launches
a dive to the bottom of
a small stone pond
staked by straggly trees.

Near the shallow end
of the water, greenish
bracken forms
a wispy fringe
waving farewell
to the overgrown,
fulsome banks.

The taciturn trees
burst into capillaries
of naked branches,
as the autumn sun bears down
upon them from its
mid-afternoon throne.

The loon breaks
the glassy surface,
and a ring of irregular
circles spreads skyward
toward the luxuriant sun,
overlooking the lyrical,
liquid world below.

I sit on one of the dampened
stones, stoically awaiting
the loon’s arrival air-side.
Its last breath plunged it
into the darkened depths.
Now, another breath must
propel it upward to rejoin
the living.

But there is no movement,
no minions of bubbles
scrambling to the surface.
The supercilious sun
slinks further toward
the flat horizon.
Nothing happens.

The loon is lost, it seems,
listlessly failing
to defy the odds
of survival under water,
content to linger in
the glory of a long,
lonely yet lovely
swan song.

Angels
1.
The color fields shimmer
in yellows and blues.
Rothko’s ghost lingers nearby,
wearing his snappy, green
editor’s eye-shades,
studiously red-penciling
every word that a painting is not worth.
He labors in Limbo because
he took his own life,
even though he did not believe
in an afterlife, or in Limbo,
or in laboring endlessly
for redemption.

2.
The color fields waver
in primary hues.
You can see the suspended
movement in great stationed,
feathered rectangles, electrified by,
shivering with, transcendence.
Van Gogh believed in it.
So did Chagall: Angels,
on the order of Rilke’s
terrifying beings from
a realm of suffering higher
than our own. They hear
our cries as shimmering rectangles
of color. Pick a hue, any hue.
Any hue will do.

evening falls heavily
like footsteps in the sand
gliding with the weight
absorbed in the formless

moonlight reflects
in the dull moving water
through the saw-toothed-edged grasses
all images refract

he takes a step, stumbles
in the darkness, falls heavily
the white sand wrings his ankle
the silent burning in his hands

the pale moon has robbed him
his cries abnegated
he dies
a rivulet of clearer water
trickling creases to the open sea

Rows of lavender lunge
against the plastered stone wall
that sequesters the brilliant,
purple bushes from
the ancient Provencal farmhouse,
standing stoically on the Plains.

The wall, almost as old as
the farmhouse itself, keeps
utilitarian flora in
and extravagant varieties out.
It knows no other function.

Lavender, in all its aromatic,
purple plumage, doesn't mind.
It will seek out each crack,
each empty space, each low
spot in the wall to slither through
to the other side.

Lavender knows, as the wily
farmer cannot, that beauty
will always prevail, no matter
what obstacles stand
in its way.

Beauty thrives, stronger than
the building of any wall.
It knows that all its fellow
plants think likewise,
stretching toward extravagance,
their whole life long.

Beauty is their destiny.

heavy yellow-grayish waves
of swirling ****** backwater
**** steadily at the runner's knees
foaming at the ankles
deep green and lathered
in the sweeping middle distance.

he sweeps the rise of sand
and sedge with arms outstretched,
eyes afloat
fingers ply the flesh along his back,
brush water from his legs
the sheeny stinging film of brine

the white beach runs its sweeping course
swirling, sinking with the sand
drowsing in the drunken sun
refuge is offered -- a luminous blue
screeching of the soaring gulls
the thunder of the surf

great black rocks divide the tide
rolling in fields of azure
limitless, integral
he calls the sky
sweeping back
upon the distance
the endless sweeping middle distance

sunlight dazzling complexities of colors
ascetic flashings in richness of form
purity of beauty in fragrant elevation
the taste, the touch,
the vital intensity

swept away running
for the purely accidental,
the happiness, success
of the accident of nature

movement in rhythm, swift in apprehension
swiftly toward the integral combination
to combine the elements
fundamental, the intensity,
the taste, the touch,
the vital intensity

I lie down to dream
but see only images of you running.
In my sleep, my feet will not move.

Rome conquered Gaul,
erected vestal statues
whose vestiges still stand today,
symbols of the lust for
power that turns all foreign
territories into home.

Romans enforced the
Pax at swordpoint,
built long, straight
roads throughout Provence.

Centuries later,
Vincent van Gogh
wandered among
the ruins at St. Remy
and sunflowers
began to bloom.

St. Teresa swoons
in ecstasy as an impish
cherub punctures her heart
with arrows of divine love.

Eyes closed, mouth agape,
she falls back into marvelous,
wrinkled marble,
Bernini's brilliant sculpture
of genius.

Is it physical or spiritual
ecstasy she feels?
We wonder because
the ****** expression,
the body language
are the same.

No matter.
If she did not swoon
in ecstasy, she would
surely levitate in love

Deceit is the deceiver
who tarnishes our golden words
with the blood of angels.

It is a diamond blood, hard enough
to etch a tattoo on the iron in our soul.
A mendacious message
that even poets cannot read
without swooning.

Deceit deceives itself,
stalks us like wounded prey,
until we lie down,
dead weight, to read no more.

We cannot see what follows us to
the chambers of the underground.
Does deception supplant sanctity of mind?
Who harvests the center of the soul?

Deceit deceives deceit.
Meaning we have lost all meaning
except for poems written
in angels' blood.

Merchants buy and sell my heart
like a slab of heady cheese.
They slice it into ever tinier bits.
With their bulbous lips
they praise the cows and sweet grass
that have produced the milk.

I cannot join them in their chorus.
I see nothing in the animals
or their pasture that is mine to keep.

Cheese molders on the wheel.
My heart will not permanently heal
from the knife blade.

I am weary from carrying the weight
of the world like an unkempt confidant.
It rides up and down my back,
turning my spine into an eternal question mark.

Why have I yielded to the world’s grimy gossip?
Why have I so carelessly given my heart away
for 30 pieces of silver?
Why have I squandered my power to resist?

No answer descends from the sky,
Just the brusque busyness and noise
of endless worldliness.
The clamor is too much with me.

The merchants slice and slice again.
I have waited too late for redemption.

In the morning, I must eat my heart out.

1.

Like a colossal black hole,
the pitiless night devours
every glowing shred of light,
generating an impenetrable
darkness for the pilgrim
groping to find his way home.

2.

Darkness is its own reward.
The lines on the highway
disappear into pavement.
Compasses swirl counter-
clockwise, blind to true north.
Death hides behind bushes, reaching
out to ****** the unwitting soul.

3.

I yearn to embrace the night
in all its inhumanity, to find
its weak spot for the traveler.
But there is no shadow of
direction. The night hides
within itself, dense and tragic,
like a Puccini opera.
Who can sing its arias?

4,

Like a colossal black hole,
the night compacts every
beam of light. Who can lift
the curtain of darkness
that falls across our lives?
Who can bring light back to the world?

From York, I booked a train seat, then arrived
At Leighton Buzzard, where my good friends came.
We had dinner with whisky; I survived.
Their tidy house, **** and span, looked the same.
In Stratford, we found Shakespeare still alive,
And Anne Hathaway’s Cottage earned its fame.
We reminisced: In the Lake District thrived.
At Wastwater, the wild we could not tame.
In Grasmere, bountiful meals were prescribed.
Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote poems to shame
Those who keep their meager talent alive.
Back to reality in Wing we came,
Renewed bonds from which our friendship derived.
That they ended, only death was to blame.

Beware the way your forebears came,
dragging goods and cattle, horses
and wagons, whimpering children,
not nearly enough food or water
to cross the unforgiving mountain passes.
Destination unknown.

They mistook the rugged, rocky, drought-
ridden road for the path to the promised land.
What they found instead was a land
full of promise, but beckoning only to the prominent
few, who could survive without loss of pride
or prowess or precious blood.

But that is not your way. You are destined
for much finer things, unseen, celestial
things that repair and reset your
spiritual compass, and unfurl the map
of successive crossroads you must face --
the terror of angels, the awe of the
miraculous and the angst of self-overcoming.

Your home is not of earth or water,
but of the sky, its heliocentric emptiness
broadcasting a better way to wander
through the inevitable suffering of
humankind. A delicate, mindful way.

No, your home is of the sky
and of its stars in all their ancient glory.
Together they project a haven of words
to protect you from the elements
and from ambush by the
rash mountain climbers before you.

Theirs is not your way, no.
Yours remains the way of Li Po,
the vulnerable, venerated way,
the way of the poets.

1.

Like a giant chrysanthemum in full bloom,
Carmelite nuns in white habits overflow
the chapel of the Gothic church carved
exquisitely into the Spanish hillside.

Faces averted from the pressing
crowds, voices rising in ethereal
harmony, the nuns sing the world awake,
seeking absolution for its night
of restless sins.

An empty crucifix hangs as the only
stick of imagery on the Spartan,
straitened walls of their cells,
illuminated by a tiny opening
ten feet above the penitent floor.

They would surprise their audience
if its members knew that after
each vespers service, the nuns quickly, quietly
meld into the foreboding night,
sleuths on the trail of their greatest treasure,
the Beloved, who alone can satisfy
their deepest yearning:
abiding union with Him.

2.

Slicing through hedgerows, thickets
and medieval gates; scurrying past pristine gardens
and quiet patios, they flee the convent
in the dark, moving by trust and desire, not sight.

Under a brooding half-moon,
their habits turn slate-gray, as they begin
the spiraling ascent to the peak
of Mount Carmel, where their Beloved awaits.

It is no easy climb. Scrambling, falling,
grabbing low-lying branches to pull
themselves forward. Discalced—shoeless—
they slip and slide, cutting and bruising themselves.
Dehydrated, with no light to guide them,
they fear losing their way.
Knees scuffed, sweating, breathing heavily,
they struggle to stave off chaos and disorder.

3.

The nuns know that the Beloved’s love
for them is their greatest good. And they know
that their natural faculties are inadequate
to achieve the union they desire.
So they must put their senses to sleep, and let
the Beloved’s own virtues guide them up the mountain,
drawing them to Himself through
His power infused into their souls.

To receive Him they must be like Him;
They must be brought to nada inwardly
To be filled with His todo.
This is becoming like for like.
This is how to ascend the heights of Mount Carmel.
This is the mystic vision.

4.

At night, the nuns remain hard at work chasing
their ecstatic dream. In the pre-dawn hours
of the morning, they return to their mundane,
daily post at the convent, selling marzipan
to visitors through a miniscule opening
to the outside world; *****-faced urchins press
against the iron grate, awaiting their turn.

With sensations of the holy pursuit
still freshly imprinted on their minds,
the nuns recognize that this, too — in all its
worldly humility — is part of the mystic vision.

Soon, they will sing the world awake again.

Desolation, smoke and ash.

The world and its relentless, restive urgings
are not enough.

The edifice of order is too ephemeral,
the tenuous bonds of meaning
too easily razed to rubble
beneath the nihilist's gaze.

No doubt, the end is assured for all,
prolonged by believing,
hastened by the wait,
but coming just the same in fullness:
the fat, swollen belly of death.

Perhaps.

Or is it not our calling
to struggle for exemption,
to defy the violent course of history
and its pitiless lack of purpose?

Is it not the triumph of the will
to rise above the ruins of time
on wings of wisdom,
to sing and dance, to sup and celebrate
the marriage feast of laughter and the absurd?

Surely, necessity can be resisted.

Who, then, will dare to tear against
the bruised, battered earth
with new-honed tools of abundance?

Who, then, will dare to seek out
the sweetness of day
that whispers and beckons from the one, true dwelling?

Who, then, will dare to begin?

Warm and tender, the sotto voce passages
of The Passion of Joan of Arc soundtrack
waft softly through the room,
replenishing the pre-winter glow
of a perfect autumn afternoon.

Deep yellows, oranges and reds line
the cracking, gray sidewalk –
beacons of the inexorable killing to come
in this, the outpatient season.

I have survived many such seasons,
thinking only of what lies ahead,
willing myself blind to what has come before,
vainly trying to grasp what is here, now,
dream upon dream upon dream.

I flee Time, the incorrigible executioner,
who leads each brilliantly colored leaf –
its medical gown gaping – to the lip
of the abyss, forcing it, with
an icy hypodermic shove, over the edge.

At the bottom lie piles upon piles of
fading badges of courage – oak, maple, elm;
crumpled prescriptions;
fraying prayer flags once flown to protest
Nature’s annual euthanasia.

Now, in this outpatient season, let us not forget
the sap of the trees slowly freezing,
let us not forget the mesmerizing harmonies
of angelic anthems urging us to turn away
from the illusory beauty of death.

But let us hear the screams of Joan of Arc
as she is burned at the stake for heresy,
the flames leaping as high as her crudely
shorn head, singeing away her wispy eyebrows:
She, the chief victim of ecclesial euthanasia.

Yes, this is the outpatient season,
the season where autumn goes to die –
stripped, prepped and scrubbed –
and where we strive to survive,
in deep yellows, oranges and reds.

The Czech travel guide slumped in his chair, hair disheveled, eyes distracted, sipping a beer, then coffee at the Ostia Antica bar and bistro just past the tiny railway stop. He was tired, he said, of leading groups through the maze of Europe’s famous sights, explaining history, significance, value. His 42-member entourage would soon return from dissecting the massive ruins of the excavated Roman city — avenues, therma, fast-food kitchens, masks. We needed no guide to make our way along the brick-lined streets, stopping to stare at frescoes, mosaics, the sprawling theater. Ostia dwarfed Pompeii in size, if not drama. No contorted bodies, no brothels or sewers. Only a meticulously gridded urban sprawl. Headless sculptures heralded the humanity of history. Crumbling sarcophagi held water like broken baths. Few others like us tread the slick-stone path: The grimy chaos of Roma replaced by Ostia’s bucolic Pax. Its stone-masked ghosts, spent from wandering, embraced the resurrected statues in the stately museum. Peace in Apollonian beauty. New life springs from eroding stone. We needed no guide to show us where the tired spirit rests. Here, in the shadows of Ostia Antica, brick by brick, history was explained.

The monks pressed wine for the Pope in Avignon.
The Vatican drank fizzy water.
We tasted hand-squeezed orange juice
and eclairs for our petit-dejeuner.
Breakfast at Mas Vieux was a spiritual affair.
Transubstantiation of goat cheese and bread.
Here, the spirit thrives on mortar and stone.
Ancient walls as thick as oaks.
No town lies in sight: the isolation of prayer.
Old Farm grows a bumper crop of transient souls.
They crunch the gravel, find a body called home.

The psychiatrist declares
himself pleased with my progress.
I am stable, hypomanic,
glibly articulate.
My mood feeds
on poetry and travel,
the exultation of grace.

I can face
the limits of my fate,
Ravenous for glory,
gluttonous for Art.
No work in retirement:
creativity is no work.

Outside, the lawn shines
In neon greens.
Irises, poppies break
The color plane.
Beauty, too, is no work
For the Creator.

Unlike Lowell,
My mind is quite right.

Sly Ulysses strapped himself to the mast,
So the Sirens could not lure him away.
His return home proved anything but fast.
Circe, in her cave, kept him years, for play.
By cunning, he ****** her into the past,
And to Ithaca set sail straightaway.
Penelope stayed faithful to the last.
Her hope for him never lost its strong sway.
He roamed far, once the die of Troy was cast.
His horse, filled with Greeks, the vast city razed.
Cleverness made his sailing ventures last.
“To the beyond” rang the mantra he prayed.
Homer had him **** his wife’s beaus, aghast.
Dante dispatched him to hell, where he stayed.

In the checkout line again behind someone who has forgotten:
her wallet
a photo ID card
cash, check or credit card
an item to purchase
a coupon
her loyalty card
a note to self to not forget
to ask for cash back
forgotten

Ah, how simply the simplest things
turn complex.
Buying groceries is not brain surgery, of course.
If it were, the patient would be dead,

and once the mortician arrived
to collect the body,
the checkout line delayed
even longer.

The first word is the hardest:

Letters combining and colliding
to emerge from the vast,
empty whiteness of the page,
a facsimile, an imitation
of matter taking form.

Some say
form is what really matters:
pre-existent, eternal,
the God-force of creation
dictating ex nihilo
the process of becoming.

And some say
matter is what really counts:
seductive and inert,
a slumbering potentiality
murmuring softly to be
molded and transformed
into an ever-eroding effigy
of the permanence of Being.

But I say
only the Logos calls and answers --
in dialogue and soliloquy --
deep sounding to deep:

A cry is formed in the dark heart of matter,
and a poet is born to utter it,
struggling -- his whole being burning --
to speak the last things of existence
before his voice gives way
and the gift betrays him.

Yes.
The first word is the hardest
because it is the last word,
it is the only word,
coming into the world as a whimper
and passing out of it as a groan.

We are pushed by
out-of-date clothes,
chased by boldly printed scarves,
shoved by trinkets
and lozenges.

St. Remy’s market bustles
in the morning sun.
Massive crowds craving
bargains. It is
a festival day.
Vendors lace the cake with
eternal candles, turned off
shortly after noon.

We wander through the
giddy ambiance, peer at the
high-priced wares, wary
of being taken for tourists.
Art, cheese and spices
catch our eyes. We
take home paintings,
etchings, nougat.
We nourish the local
economy.

A church hovers on
the brightly colored fringe.
Its steps a convenient
respite from the madding
crowd. I taste
cheeses, meats, candies
and foie gras.

A twinge of conscience:
Innocent geese gorged
on grain.
Farmers work hard to
achieve the right-sized
livers: bloated.
They can their product,
stamped with primitive
labels.
An immoral delicacy
proffered on tasting sticks.

Euros drop like flies
from my wallet, emptying
it. In search of cash,
we discover antique
wine-tastings cups.
Burgundy tinged with
pewter.
Materialism thrives in
every crammed, covered
booth. Bartering for
prices the hard truth
of commerce.

Who knows a value when
you see one?
Who needs another object
to shelve?
Yet we buy, buy, buy, eyes
weak against temptation.
Humble elegance especially
earns a tip.

i have watched herds of buffalo roam free and unassuming around me
their majesty and inheritance innate;
the earth could but tremble when they moved so slowly

and i have seen elk in groves grazing docile like cattle,
their flanks thick with sinew, their heads lifted and turned,
carrying antlers like a crown and destiny

but this,   o this is something new:
i have seen alaska come tumbling from her eyes
bright and flickering like a candle in amber

i have fallen through those amber eyes that turn away quickly
from my face
i have come tumbling from her eyes
to speak:

"there is always hope

i have climbed the mountains of the West
massive, endless, and blue
forsaking the common trail so well-known and so well-defined by
stones painted orange   green   like shrines
rising high and far apart:   forever forward

and i have dug my hands deep into rocky  hillsides
to stay upright and have fallen
to go where no man ever was or will be
trekking cautiously through smoky forests and snow
always higher, gaining so much ground steep and sloping
until both air and trees spread thin
and i would stop  

yes, i would stop
to listen to the wind blowing hard through the pines below
clouds would cover me:   they could go no higher
and i would breathe, with my whole body,
the silent serenity of solitude and half-frozen lakes

time had no meaning here; there was but one day always
and in the afternoon it began to rain
silver beads of water, like tiny clouds
froze upon my beard and glasses:
i could not see nor speak

the darkness would grow cold and numb and cover me
a blanket without warmth

the night afforded no apology
i could not be distinguished from it
i do not remember becoming part of it

part of it shivering beneath the stars
shivering into dawn
alone

i could find nothing there but strength pure and flowing
from within
it was here i built my dream in homage and wilderness
so high above the earth."
having spoken

having spoken
i see my days come tumbling from her eyes
and i am tempted
bright and flickering like a candle in amber
i am tempted
to smear the dripping wax warm upon my forehead   over my body
when it dries it will be tasteless and intoxicating
yes, smooth like wax
like amber

The clock stops for no one.
Sunday turns to Monday
turns to Sunday.
Endlessly absurd days.

Grief becomes you.
Your wan, tear-stained face.
Your razor-sharp finely cut dress,
black shoes, black pearls, black hat, black veil.

You were cavalier in life,
cloying with black at death.

i am encapsulated

with a curious ambivalence of the will
i cast off
the chaotic cosmic cloak that shatters
into a myriad particles of tiny plenum
-- reminiscences, shadows and reflections,
sorrowful leaves sparkling with the glint
of dazzling light,
like tiny jewels of dew --

all this and more lies scattered on the wind

the struggle is so heavy; the flames consume so much
now, here
beneath the distant, burning stars,
shuffling through these crumbling
monuments at my feet,

a nervous flash of lightning
the shape of infinity in all i see:
the apocalyptic evening sky is exposed

wearily, i must lay myself down to rest
to breathe gently in this sweet, elusive silence,
the silence of the Void

rest in weariness
rest
and the unpredictable predispositions of the cosmic structure
will expand and divide ever so slowly
with the course of my breathing

The company owned
the village.
Residents slaved in the textile factory,
Huddled in Communitat, a social,
industrial haven for the soul.
They shared a workplace,
Housing, amenities made
by modernista architects.
All that was missing was
A church.

Gaudi stepped in
in 1898 and conceived his
elaborate construction.
Perennially distracted,
he finished only the crypt.
A keystone project that
synthesized politics, nature
and faith.
Abandoned, in flagrante, in 1914.

The portico forms a forest of
leaning columns.
Convex vaults shoot from
polygonal arches.
Symbols, monograms,
mosaic iconography
adorn the rugged façade.

The Trinity dwells within
the treasures of the crypt.
A dove perches without.
Alpha and Omega,
beginning and end of
a grand, operatic idea.

Workers bowed in
worship, thanked God
for their jobs,
Gaudi for his art.
No one sits there now.
An empty sprawl of the spirit.
Only ghosts settle in
organic-shaped pews.

1.

Edward Estlin Cummings
rode Buffalo Bill’s watersmooth-silver
                                                          stallion
into my high school English class in 1971
and broke onetwothreefourfive lightbulbsjustlikethat
                                                                                   over my head
he was a forceful man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Poet

2.

E. E. Cummings
whistled
the

goat-footed
balloonMan’s        tune
far
and
wee

in Just-
spring
and
      i heard
nothing but
the world as puddle-wonderful

3.

e. e. cummings cut the tops off
his capital letters and i

                                    stayed a little
                                                        person

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

y

i never signed
                      my name
                                      the same
                                                    again

Sleep eludes me like
a jilted lover.
Eyes shut, ears shut,
craving unconsciousness.
Brain waves break
against the waking shore.
Breathing falters, gasps,
Hiccups in a fitful daze.
Tiredness descends like
the evening fog.
Vision doubles, loses focus,
seeks the unity of dark.
I dream the world
in aching color.
The world dreams back,
a screen of void.
Who can project the emptiness
of calm?
Who can protect the solitude
of rest?
Vertigo ***** the marrow
from my soul.
Pain fills the fissure in my head.
I turn to turn in the ocean
of my bed.
I no longer can go under.
In the shallows, I cannot swim.

The battered robot's sword
will no longer fit its sheath.
The blade is rusted and bent.
The handle tarnished and broken.
Now the sword is good for only one thing.

The robot's enemy offers a truce,
with a miraculous incentive:
If the robot throws down his sword
for good, he will have the chance
to become human. The wizard

promises to make this so.
The robot, battered himself,
turns his back on his enemy,
falls to his creaky knees
and commits hari-kari.

The Black Madonna weeps alone.
The stream of pilgrims
Dammed at its source.
No more touching, no praying,
No pleading for grace.
Only desiccation and silence.

The mountains of Montserrat buckle
Into grey stone clouds,
Rising crookedly above the monastery floor.
They will not rain.

Inside the small art museum, monks
Bank their bounty,
Largess of modern painting.
Degas to Dali.
The Madonna reigns in a room of her own,
Levitating beyond the mountains amid
Angelic beams of light.

It is dim in the basilica,
Candles flicker above a grave.
There is only the sound of weeping.

I carry the land
like a stranger in transit.
Wilderness calls me home.
Aspens shiver.
Knife-edge mountains slice the sky.

1.
Stone castles float high above the moat,
rising in the empty sky.
Colonnades of clouds pummel the shoreline,
but plunder only Time.
The silver lake reflects the face of God.
Forsake its lifeline;
trace its outline in darkness,
then dive, dive, dive
to retrieve your destiny.
The horizon sleeps at the end of the road.
Light turns, but withholds its blessing.

2.

Pilgrims clamber over slick, thick cobblestones,
combing the ruins of history.
They slip, slide and slither back,
only to lose their way.
A baby-faced mountain bends low
to brush a raindrop off a rose.
The rose reddens; the mountain shudders;
and love blooms —even as older peaks,
streaked in early snow,
grind their teeth in envy.
Obey your nature.

3.

A crown of fog settles on the silent village.
Wet cobblestones snake back upon themselves,
pooling castles on the ground.
The road plummets to the shoreline; the horizon weeps for no one.
Light turns; Time tires; and infinity seeps into the soul.
Bruised pilgrims withhold their blessing.
Beneath the love-struck mountain,
a lonely traveler gropes homeward.
Patches of empty sky carry scents of welcome:
There, unbidden, La Tranquille awaits.

— Chaulin, Switzerland.

1.

Sasquatch stalks
the Washington woods.
I lope through low-lying
bushes in search of huckleberries.
The purple-reddish stains on my fingers
are as real
as the grumbling in my stomach,
or the solidity of these mighty pines.
The “small rain” begins to seep
through the atmosphere.
It will not wash away my stains.

2.

I do not believe in Big Foot.
He towers, an outsized legend of the forest.
A Nessie of the woodlands.
A mythical creature created
to satisfy our impoverished imagination,
atrophied by the ever-encroaching
artifice and sterility of the human world.

3.

Soon, the mist turns to big rain.
Clouds blot out the sky.
Dusk turns to night, hours early.
Thoroughly soaked, I
will seek shelter alone.

4.

Mountain folk recite encounters
with Big Foot like happy-to-be-frightened
children around a campfire.
The scariest tale is always the next to come.
Twigs snap, branches break, pine cones are crushed.
We all listen, acutely alert.

5.

Gorged on huckleberries, I will sleep tonight
beneath the pines, solitary,
curling up safely in the contours
of a giant footprint.
I can hear the leaves hit the forest floor.
Dare I dream of conversion?
Dare I dream of belief?

I carry the land
like a stranger in transit.
Wilderness calls me home.
Aspens shiver.
Knife-edge mountains slice the sky.

1.

Sasquatch stalks
the Washington woods.
I lope through low-lying
bushes in search of huckleberries.
The purple-reddish stains on my fingers
are as real
as the grumbling in my stomach,
or the solidity of these mighty pines.
The “small rain” begins to seep
through the atmosphere.
It will not wash away my stains.

2.

I do not believe in Big Foot.
He towers, an outsized legend of the forest.
A Nessie of the woodlands.
A mythical creature created
to satisfy our impoverished imagination,
atrophied by the ever-encroaching
artifice and sterility of the human world.

3.

Soon, the mist turns to big rain.
Clouds blot out the sky.
Dusk turns to night, hours early.
Thoroughly soaked, I
will seek shelter alone.

4.

Mountain folk recite encounters
with Big Foot like happy-to-be-frightened
children around a campfire.
The scariest tale is always the next to come.
Twigs snap, branches break, pine cones are crushed.
We all listen, acutely alert.

5.

Gorged on huckleberries, I will sleep tonight
beneath the pines, solitary,
curling up safely in the contours
of a giant footprint.
I can hear the leaves hit the forest floor.
Dare I dream of conversion?
Dare I dream of belief?

Kinderdijk stands like thimbles in the dusk.
The sky, thick with grey, settles on the ****.
Holland is its stereotypes, we trust.
Windmills sail in the breeze, near canals tight
With straight, flat flows. Tulips bloom in the dust.
Great wheels of cheese roll through the streets at night.
Bridges rear up over canals, can’t rust
From the waterways thirsty tourists like.
Here, life is keenly measured, never brusque.
The Dutch pursued this pace since thrifty tykes.
Their simple, ordered pleasures do not rush
The spirit of progress, shining in light.
Turning, ever turning, the windmills must
Show the elegant face of Kinderdijk.

Jeffers’ poetry is as hard as bone,
His windswept lyrics fed by his dark side.
At Carmel, he built a tower of stone.
Wind, sea and storm fostered his rugged pride.
On nature’s fiery force, his skills he honed.
His message bleak, from which he could not hide,
Foretold an elemental strife alone.
He wrangled roan stallions only few could ride.
His wide-winged hawks over the waves would moan.
He joined their wildness with soul open wide.
His poems made me yearn for his coastal home.
Nothing human-made would pull the tide.
His poetics read: Etch your heart in stone.
A Zen he practiced till the day he died.

Like Leviathan of old,
the rough, angry ocean
pummels the basalt shore
and coughs up its denizens
of the deep

California Gray Whales
breach the surface of
the autumnal Oregon waters, slide
over the waves like seals
on a hunt,
their colors mingling perfectly
with the yellow-tinged whitecaps,
their bodies aimed perfectly
at migration south.

How innocent they sound
as their songs penetrate
the cacophony of the
crashing surf.

How magnificent they sound;
untranslated poetry, haunting
love lyrics, caressing
the beloved with a sonata
of sonar.

Like a child, they sing for joy,
and the sea turns a deaf ear.

But I hear them. and am transfixed
by their emotion and intelligence.
They sing to me, a mammalian
serenade at dusk.

I dare not sing back
for fear of failure. Of foolishness.

Yet I weep to hear them sing again,
once more, before their majestic
passing to the milder seas of Mexico.