Poem taken from the book : There Are No Limits To How Far The Traveller Can Go
Why Am I Writing Poetry In The Middle Of The Night
There is a certain freedom in cool winter months, a joy in dark shadows and in pale light reflected from the snow.
I balance a camera on the mirror of my truck taking pictures of the moon white and rough with the movement of sailors working the oars of a boat.
Today I took my jacket off for the second time since my father’s death, the chainsaw sending chips of wood like spent pieces of flesh to the ground.
From the book: THE GUEST TOUCHES ONLY THOSE WHO PREPARE
PLAYING THE TYPEWRITER
Gabriel grips my shirt with his small hands, balancing on my knee. He talks in broken sentences, playing the typewriter, grunting as a long narrow bar moves the carriage with the regular beat of a small heart. “Half, three-quarter, m,” he repeats after me, pointing to each key, unlocking the mystery of the sounds inside.
Now he opens the cover, watching the hammers strike the paper on the ends of long robot arms. “See door,” he says, showing me how it works, while I keep his fingers away from the dark ink on the ribbon.
He moves the long connecting arms that rest side by side in a deep circular pit, as if conducting a large orchestra, turning his head toward me for approval.
Sometimes he clashes the keys together, laughing as the metal hammers bind, with none of the letters striking the page. Other times, he lifts a finger high into the air, hitting each key softly, as if searching for the forgotten notes of a song.
Members of the orchestra move only their fingers and eyes while the conductor dances and smiles, waving his hands over what they think is important and right. The music has the joy of a Bach concerto, the order of the leaves of a thousand trees in the wind. The audience listens and wonders from their seats in the balcony above.
From: Seeing The World With One Eye
XXIV
on the edge of the field the roots stretch the leaves into blossom
rain falls like the patter of the feet of small animals
there is time to absorb the stillness to reach through the dark
suddenly it’s summer the harvest returns
I think of full moons and laughter with you folding chairs under the tree by the pond
From: Heart’s Cupboard
XX
the moon slows the creek on its path to the sea
stay close
in a few years
the grain will deepen and shed rain
the heart near the well of dreams
flowers grow through the crack in my kitchen door
from all these lines I will draw something
From poems in progress:
XXXIV
summer
leafs light
not word for word the
door too quickly opened
the harvest rotting
on the ground
but the middle ages
still the minds cathedral
I was knighted and killed
three people in a game
now there is less to
name and define