one of a Loose Park medley

the Dylans in my life

i gorge myself on the blowin'
wind and the milkwood;
i rejoice and feel my heart
lurching to be more than
i am, to be a poet,
a musician, a player of chords
unheard and words unwritten,
undiscovered combinations, or
unlawful ones. but i can only admire
and pray as i throw my words
on paper and watch a pale
chocolate dog run with joy
on the Loose Park grass, and this is
enough, enough to open in me
the rejoicing, the rejoicing life
demands, if i will only embrace
each moment as an unknown
lover and thank wine for open eyes
and see how the wind fucks
blades of grass and realize
i am the grass.
i am the grass.

Taking Attendance

2^nd hour.

Forget the literal role:

there is a sense

in the soul

sounding out absences,

each like a missing spirit,

a ghost

silent for a day,

tomorrow returning

full of body and noise,

blessed with movement,

graced with laughter.

the mirror

now, I see my fingers

tapping at keys, adding

letters, words, curved hands

reflected in the laptop screen,

light like cupid’s arrow

shot from the window behind me.

before, I’ve stood intentionally

watching my hands in the mirror,

fingers moving on guitar frets,

hurried hand, up, down, strumming;

I am impressed to see

my own movement

is something to be admired—

more beautiful than expected.

Woman Tree

Woman Tree

Down the hill from me
is a tree like a woman
on her back with her legs
spread out; the tree opens
into two as it emerges
from the earth, and i wonder
as i jump through its legs

did we just do it? and
if i could go down, if i
could enter between
those two trunks,
so strong
so thick,
so open,
would i grow?
would i be torn
or made whole? would i
become the working earth
and all that lies beneath?
would i put roots down?
would i see other roots
beneath ground with
my phallic eye and
fight or welcome
with community,
eternity and water,
mud and day? would i say,

you, oh woman tree are greater
and equal to me. you, oh woman
tree, entrance me
with your mystery.