O Again 8. O Virgo (the other one) O Virgo. O Dike, warning us and fleeing to the hills. O Atargatis, Erigone. (Look it up.) O Spica, Alpha Virginis, Virgo’s grain, not eclipsing, mutually interacting. O Virgo: Silver Earth sign. Could you anyhow be the Mother we hail, still full of grace?
O AGAIN 2. O Adonai (reversed) Lord of Might. O my, how we crave one. Somebody to fix it all up. Do It Yourself is awful hard work. Giver of Law. So much simpler to follow along. Obey the rules. Do what we’re told. Lord of Might? Jesus. Consider the trees around here: every year they burn and are not consumed.
O Again 1. O Sapienta (Fifty Years later) Holy Wisdom sets things in order. If there is an order to set. If there are indeed things. Moreover, what does it mean to be wise? Premise: Holy Wisdom might show us the path of knowledge. Why would that be a path and how, precisely, might it be revealed? Furthermore, what can be known? O Sapienta: Holy Wisdom. A good night to conceive a philosopher on an unheated waterbed in a cold bedroom. We didn’t have a clue.
ON MY HONOR
I will try.
Stand on the moon
and show me a country.
Falling rain is real.
Down by the rivers
it is killing people.
Fire is real.
Show me a country.
Death is real.
All over the landscapes
and the loneliness is real.
Duty has an unpleasant sound,
not something I would choose.
Stand on the moon.
With a frisk of rambunctiousness,
a Pomeranian energy,
the March wind like a red-rubber ball
is bouncing away the long cold dark.
OPEN STUDIO POEM #18
Under snow, under solid ground,
earth knits a fabric of mycelium,
bulb, the roots of chrysanthemum
and rose. The February landscape
shapes a shifting collage
of branch and cloud,
a splash of of jay-blue.
We stay secluded, painting
our lives with aplomb.
Open Studio Poem #17
Fairies shelter behind the disco ball
hung in the portal to the kingdom of odd.
After sunset, they emerge lickety-split,
and all night they dance through the city,
their magenta wings flashing splendid
in the lights of streets, and traffic, and stars.
The other occupants of the Open Studio are out to get me, as you can see. But I know where that disco ball hangs, and I know the fairies, too.
OPEN STUDIO POEM #15
When the days lengthen,
the cold strengthens
but the light too grows strong—
apricity on a frozen day.
Last fall the young oak kept
its leaves. It stood, susurrating
in the shadow of its mother,
collected light feeding the roots.
We live these days
in a haven of possibility.
MATTER: A Pantoum
What gods do is make and let the pieces fall.
Billions of clocks on billions of beaches
turning as our hands move however they
move or our four legs or six or eight.
Billions of eyes in billions of deserts
move through their times or none and
we move our two legs or four or six or eight and
our hearts and chloroplasts, mycelium,
our many eyes or none.
Our structures crystalize, the plates
and hearts and chloroplasts and mycelium
subduct and bump as we rise and fall.
The structure of our crystals, how the plates
and all we do is an echo of clapping hands as we
subduct and bump and rise and fall.
With voices, silences, wavings of branches
we echo with our hands
and twigs and whatever anemones use
for voices: silences? wavings of branches?
We’re all made of one matter.
Twigs and anemones
turn while our hands move however they
move because we’re all the matter
and making matter and falling is what we do.
OPEN STUDIO POEM #13
POEM FOR THE LAST DAY OF 2020
With smiles and nods, thumbs up
and applauses, with bright baubles
of technologies—our new necessities—
we’ve bobbled through this hardest time.
We have more courage than we knew,
our loves are stronger than we thought.
Now, let us begin a celebration, now,
as we tiptoe toward the clarity of light
at the far side of this dark passageway.
We are beginning to know
how tender we are; beginning
to know how gentle we can be.
With thanks to Wanda, Kathy H, David and Kathy C for their words.