Glittering brilliance, these crystal panels
dressed in their thick, gold frames,
cupping and shaping the light,
pooling images the second they appear,
then, unlike the camera, they let go,
swallowing the world whole,
preparing for the next procession
of time-bond creatures.
They respect transience,
creating their own temporary ripples,
their own instantaneous installations.
They are mime artists of illusion,
disappearing as the earth darkens.
Patiently, for they wait for the return
of light, never doubting it will come.

Silence: the whispered voice of grace,
its careful slowness and this planet,
in time’s enormous hurry passed charm,
left behind in a dream, spring field’s
openness, now crowded with the goings-on
of business, each body,
each speechless phenomenon crying
to be heard above of roar of the collective:
chatter
twitter
buzz
shriek
thunder…

Headlines blaring their soundless alarms,
unlanguageable media: the execution of privacy,
and the Oneself, ignored yet fascinating
in its own becoming.

Watch it grow, mute, change, strive
for its own fragile path, each journey unique,
each arrival a new beginning.

There’s this crazy house but
Where? No one really knows.
And it’s full of poems, not a line of prose.
And even though the sky’s the roof
all the doors are closed.
She keeps the whole place clean
and neat so anyone can see
that what she’s really after is Possibility.

For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
this is the Dickinson rag.

There was that carriage, sweet and slow -
Sunday driver – stop and go.
He picked her up along the way -
It seems it was the end of day,
and they drove to some strange mound -
damp and musty, underground.
Was her gossamer gown a bit transparent?
Cause the guy’s intentions weren’t apparent.
I guess she really liked the ******
Cause she wrote him poems in great number.

For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
This is the Dickinson rag.

Her characters are really weird -
Those roses “out of town?”
Wish I’d gone along with them –
but I got no scarlet gown.
Yea, Emily, your verses rock,
but I know I’m not alone
In not quite understanding
what means “zero to the bone”.

And that’s the Dickinson rag, yea yea,
that’s the Dickinson rag.

The sea – calm, immense as space
and shining – one instant in time
with breath rushing in before me,
flagstone path turned silver
in the moonlight –

Your hair in the wind -
gently picking up the sand.
It’s hard filling the days
without you.

But the nights fill themselves
the velvet peace that is yours
and soon will slip into me.

Childhood address remembered
all these years. Used now as
a password, a code, a credit card number:

the place itself a mist
of memories, light palpable
in the smoked filled air

Lawn springing downhill,
steeply impossible to mow,
steps winding up to a green door
as if in a dream.

garage below where is used to hide
among small dark thoughts
hanging from their webs
barely discerned in the dust
of time.

That’s where it all began
the endless internal battle,
the wasps’ nest of emotions,
the constant buzzing of the mind’s
heavy present that always
“seems to fail this bubble of a heart.”

To soothe away the pain,
first dip into the glacial glow
of a million galaxies,
full of fire and ice.

Next, catch a moonbeam –
just one – in the palm of your hand
to remind you who you are.

Then carefully collect the wreckage
of the past to celebrate rebirth.
Search for wisdom’s blade of grass
hidden in the crevices of naked stone.

Deeply feel the force of things
but try to find how not to shatter
in the in-betweens of chaos.

Let the half-moon remind you
Of the of the shiny side
of you. Then go out searching
among the prickly weeds,
armed with shears of patience
To give all good things
a chance to bloom.