This is the bad part
I can feel it coming
I can feel it every time

It's almost a relief
Like falling down a hundred foot cliff
The first ninety-nine feet aren't so bad
Exhilarating, in a way
But those last few seconds
When you know you're going to hit the ground
And you know how much it's going to hurt
That's the worst
The knowing
Because you've fallen down this same cliff
Countless times before

So when I finally slam into the ground
And the air is knocked out of my lungs
Lying on my back, staring at the sky but not really seeing it
I can rest for a while
Because the falling is so
Exhausting
Once you've stopped

I guess we're addicted to those first ninety nine feet
Even though we know what awaits us
At the bottom

Eventually, we'll pick ourselves up
And try to collect all the pieces that broke off  
Though of course we'll miss some

Then we start the long trek
Back to the top again

For Robert Lowell


This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,

rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.

Once up against the sky it's hard
to tell them from the stars--
planets, that is--the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,

or the pale green one.  With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it's still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,

receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.

Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down.  We saw the pair

of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.

The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,

and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
O falling fire and piercing cry
and panic, and a weak mailed fist
clenched ignorant against the sky!

Being a writer
Is not a part-time job,
Like being a nurse
Or a teacher:
Where clocking in
And out
Is as simple
As lifting and putting down
A pen.

No,
Writers have words
Flowing though their veins;
Poignant thoughts and emotions
Shape and reshape themselves
Into poems in the writer's mind
Almost by instinct.

But
Do not be fooled:
The writer's world
Is no paradise:
Thoughts tug at our brains
In the middle of the night,
Like a child pulling
At its mother's coat
Beckoning us to the page
Where finally we free the thoughts
That have been held captive.

And finally with sleepy,
Satisfied eyes,
We place the final fullstop
On our latest masterpiece
.

Late at night I'll watch the sky
& I wonder to myself

*How did I ever make it this far

They sigh at the clouds when it rains
They curse the wind when it blows
They look at the sun with disapproving eyes
When it lingers too long in the sky

The weather in my own head
Is much more violent
Screaming thunderstorms  
Wild, breath-stealing hurricanes  
And a heat so scorching
That it burns anyone
Who comes near

So I've sealed myself up
In a glass box
So people won't feel  
Or hear
Or see  

For surely, if they can judge
The unstoppable force
Of Mother Nature
I can only imagine
What they will do
To me