What sleeps below in November?

NeilWaldmanontheHudson

painting by Neil Waldman

.

spotlight stars, moon, clouds

hills, mountains, coast, trees, sea, spires

energy’s reflections

E-Boxes

Jeanne's Watercolor Box

Jeanne’s Watercolor Box


Surface Watercolor Pattern

Surface Watercolor Pattern

Used to be
I had one
in-box
on the
dining room table.

It was
housed
between
the salt
and figs,
pansies
and african violets.

Now
some fifteen
in-boxes
beep
blink
and
boss me
at home
and abroad.

While I
discern
“right of way”
in car
or crosswalk.

Their icons blink
and jostle
for space
on tiny screens…
thumbnail size.

They
claim to
reach the clouds.
While,
really,
need to be plugged
into a wall
each night,
lest screens
go dark…
incognito.

They sing
and gyrate
and pull
my pockets down
’til dress
comes off
shoulder
and drags its hem
in dust.

Some won’t work
unless my ears
are helmeted
and I look
astronaut,
antenna swinging
in the air.

Most of all,
these in-boxes
take me out of balance.
They act so
all-important
as to knock me
Off my feet,
scatterbrained,
heart bleeding!

I’m turning
inside out!
Taking fifteen
in-boxes
in, to turn
to one.
I’ll send
them out
together
in a song
of grace.

A song of praise.
Out to you.
Hear the music!
Surround sound.
Take calm.
Be at ease!

Breath in the Breath

clouds
Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat.
My shoulder is against yours.
You will not find me in stupas, not in the Indian shrine rooms,
nor in the synagogues, nor in cathedrals:
not in masses, nor in kirtans,
not in legs winding around your own neck,
nor in eating nothing but vegetables.
When you really look for me, you will see me instantly—
You will find me in the tiniest house of time.
Kabir says: Student, tell me, what is God?
He is the breath inside the breath.

Kabir
Translated by Robert Bly

If well written, every line of a poem can be a title:

images

“Early Spring in the Field” by Tom Hennen from Darkness Sticks to Everything. © Copper Canyon Press, 2013.
Tom Hennen’s poem, reformatted, to show every line as a title.

The crow’s voice filtered through the walls of the farmhouse

sounds of a rusty car engine turning over

clouds on a north wind that whistles softly and cold

spruce trees planted in a line on the south side of the house weave and scrape at the air

I’ve walked to a far field to a fence line of rocks where I am surprised to see soft mud this raw day

no new tracks in the mud

desiccated grass among the rocks

a bare grove of trees in the distance

a blue sky thin as an eggshell with a crack of dark geese running through it

their voices faint and almost troubled as they disappear in a wedge that has opened at last the cold heart of winter.

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