WHAT IS TRUTH?

WHAT IS TRUTH?
 
Truth has a tranquility to it,
a kind of ease that no artifice
can equal. There is nothing frantic
about truth, nothing bombastic.
Complex now and then, but not
so hard to untangle, not so hard
to recollect. It doesn’t make
itself up for preservation.
As comprehension grows,
there is a duty to correct.
It listens for clarity.
It can look you in the eye.

IT IS A SEASON FOR STRANGE DREAMS

IT IS A SEASON FOR STRANGE DREAMS

It is a season for strange dreams:

The white elk who crashed through

the front window and stood staring

with pale blue eyes before dissolving

out the back door. The child

who offered to give me his tricycle

for my daily commute. The president-

elect as an audiologist who cleaned

the wax from my ears and loaned me

his denim coat because I said I was cold.

April prompt#28

april 28 prompt

You have been sent to apologize to a foreign power on behalf of our government.

Do it in a limerick.

Ray’s #4

(Except I cheated and wrote it nearly a week ago while walking in the woods and when I drew another one, I put it back because I wanted this one today  since I have to go to an all-day Tai Chi workshop again and call my mother’s old friend in Norway first.)

 

TO THE WORLD IN GENERAL:

SORRY.

AT LEAST WE’RE MODERATELY ENTERTAINING.

PROBABLY.

 

Here in this country called US

The system is all in a muss.

The rich guys control it,

Politicians extol it,

‘cept Bernie, who’s making a fuss.

NEW CLOTHES

NEW CLOTHES

 

Our fabric is woven so tight and fine,

garments stitched up with pride—

gunbelts and helmets and gold—

We have the combinations,

watches, buttons, colored shoes.

This hat will keep you safe.

This cloak will end your pain.

See us in parade, wearing

mirrors of our own devising.

 

But where is the little child?

Around the next corner

on the street of clowns?

Down by the river

where improbable ducks dive

below the ice to feed?

Beneath your coat,

under your itchy skin?

Somewhere in your throat

they’ve worked so hard to close?

How much it is like death

to hear your fear exposed.

BERNIE’S ALL-STAR KAZOO BAND

 

mail-44171.gmavt.net

BERNIE’S ALL-STAR KAZOO BAND

~July 4, 2015

 

Ask anyone who knows me–

I am not famous for waving the flag.

 

But this year, on the Fourth,

marching down Main St., USA

with a band of friends,

 

reflecting many cheers,

deflecting some silences,

absorbing a single obscenity,

 

passing under the big Old Glory

hanging above the street

as we played “This Land is Your Land”—

 

well, for once I thought,

maybe,

just maybe it is.

THE HOLY SEED

THE HOLY SEED

Isaiah 6: 9-13

 

I am listening over and over,

and looking. Still I do not comprehend.

How long? How long? I have no country here.

Vast the emptiness in the midst of the land.

Snow clings to everything. But for the wind

the forest could be a Christmas card.

Jays and chickadees crack sunflower seeds;

the cat in the window watches the birds.

Hew and burn and the stump remains standing.

What is required to open closed eyes?

Under the whiteness and wildness of winter,

garbage and excrement, treachery, lies.

 

Turn and be healed. Turn and be healed. Turn and

be healed. Turn and be healed. Turn and be healed.

 

December 10, 2014

KEEPING AWAKE

KEEPING AWAKE

. . . you, beloved, are not in darkness..

for you are all children of light and children of the day…

So then let us not fall asleep as others do, but let us keep awake… 

~I Thessalonians 5:4-6

 

Stories grow in the night

like flames reaching upward.

I am old and small and dry,

but the seanchaí says that

I shall bear a child.

The white flower bloomed

after the frost when every

other thing was dead. I could

smell its perfume in the dark.

Under my father’s hospital gown,

the work clothes he was wearing

all along. Where does the good

news begin? Why is every

one so afraid? I know of an orchard

overgrown with thorns. Yellow

birds nest in the broken trees

and deer come at twilight to feast

on fallen fruit. Once upon a time

my grandmothers flew

into my kitchen as I measured

cinnamon into the dough. My hands

are not my own. All those black

men shot are my sons; their mothers

cry my sisters’ tears. The raven I moved

to the side of the road arose

and circled my head three times.

 

Only some of these things are dreams.

 

December 8, 2014