take notice please,
the Sun has no fear of embrace
read footnotes about this poem
you are but a whisper on the lips of God.
as a whisper, you pass on ever so soon,
like a line of poetry written on the waters of creation.
yet the greatness of a whisper is that it is passed on…
Charles P. Thorp.
wind breathes the whole world to your face
all of it, all
imagine, imagine how that is
because, because it is real, it is
all that is, a catspaw whisper on your ears
it is touching the skin of your face
it is tasting your mouth, the inside of you
it is breathing, you
Sahara blazing into space. that forest sea-breeze cove that
no one yet has found. that park down two blocks when you were
only this much tall. a field of unbound wheat visible after climbing
the low hills crest. the place where you first felt yourself alone.
stone and salt and gulls inside the wind.
your lovers kiss between the sheets. your lover twenty years ago.
that baby you touched inside its damp eager grasp.
your mothers breath
revised 2019.10.13 (inc. the former title, breathing)
being a twelve part study on the propagation
of waves in near vacuum realities, or
why is willingness important to rain.
touch. real thirst.
resist. learning loud.
open mouth. drink.
I am my own gravity.
night Moon is my kin.
stars nest in my palms. I know each by name.
same as water does.
morning Sun sees summer when it finds my face.
rivers tell me all they hear.
I drink their listening. following.
birds call out my real name.
wind carries breath farther than my arms.
you breathe me, even if you don’t know.
I breathe your sky across far broad seas.
trees, they don’t change my path.
rivers, I can wade them all.
landscape measures itself by my strides.
I lean into blue sky, trusting as you would
trust rivers to seek their grace in stone.
trails in wilderness follow my feet.
birds sing to me how they die. I carry
these hymns home to their nest.
here, boats sewn to the shore by threads.
I make waves that bring them fish.
of this realm what doing is most dear to me?
I’ll follow you.
follow till you see I am loving you.
no one is following.
where there’s no echo there’s no shoe.
footprints act circular as viewed from below.
here the bowl. here a spoon.
since when mother was the shadow of falling leaves.
I am that river too, inside myself.
empty never is. six walls, you see?
brush in hand. paint to begin.
the answer to joy is life
the answer to sadness is being
the answer to promise is spirit
the answer to pain is love
for Sadie, 2016 november
a Found poem, for his Holiness the fourteenth Dalai Lama
the same crow in the morning awakens us.
the same bowl of rice. tell me a story.
you never cried.
on the roof a pair of crows nested when
you were born. like before.
a door speaks before it opens. listening.
he says he wants to go where heaven begins.
you are here to love all living things.
mother mother why do you leave me here?
these shoes are mine. too big, but mine.
to look is to have confidence in one’s
own ability to end suffering. all beings
separation has an abundant face.
I don’t want you to go.
what can I do? I am only a boy.
I will take those sheep. all of them.
inside my care.
I write without writing. I write words inside thoughts.
I write air. I give my breath to you.
make no barrier where a face is meant to shine.
to l o v e it takes a long time.
how long holiness? I don’t yet know.
all things will become nothing. I will become nothing.
yet here I am, inside you. we say our names, continuous.
the moon is full.
these stones we pile for you, saying where we have been,
saying our way home again. change is this much high.
we give this sand back to you.
this home. these fingertips.
we pour ourselves into the seas.
I am a reflection of the moon on water.
why? to be a good man.
neil reid © 2015 november
I will be a child of the Dalai Lama.
I will be a man I don’t even begin to know or understand and will befriend a young boy, near broken in two, and be as father for the one who wasn’t. like I said, I don’t know how, only that it needs to be, and I will. sometimes I will be a man, else I might seem as wind or rain or rocks by the side of the road, but it will be me all the same. the child, he will know, what is, and what isn’t.
I will be a butterfly beside the creek who flies into the wind. or maybe I already did.
I will be husband, lover, your best friend. the horizon sky will be both dawn and dusk. we won’t say dream, we’ll say – this life. meaning you, meaning me. it is a vanity we will allow with gratitude. in god’s dream we are the breath, the poem that speaks like water does.
I will be an old red truck who holds two lovers kissing in the late night rain.
I will be a sail who rounds the Cape of Good Hope.
I will be a child who is lost in the woods and though they search and search, is never found, so instead becomes a bear, a mother who tells her cubs what it was to be a man and writes her tale into the bark of trees for all to see and read and understand until that winter’s snow when she lays down and passes from sight. her poems nest upon those trees for hundreds, hundreds of years, maybe even right now.
I will be a tree who lives a thousand lives.
I will be a star with limbs that reach to the first note of time. I will sing with light because God asked me to.
I will be a poem, the honest poem that has been wanting a pen, and says itself rightly, with only brightness for a mouth.
I will be a leaf first borne on the far far light of a star, then drink rain, drink earth, bloom like green, then in autumn become amber and fall with uncounting cousins where I am raked and rattled into a pile and am leapt upon by an excited child. good life, leaf thinks to itself.
I will walk with you and when the question is asked, yes.
I will be, again, the fallen faded leaf who befriends a spirit sitting on a bench and who notices me that one day even though wind would seem to scatter such relationship. I will be there the next day and the next and the man will find me again and again and understand love is always implied even in the smallest fragments, even when he thought love would look like someone else.
I will be a woman with her ordinary unknown life who, one day, right there on a street corner for all to witness, holds up a sign surely meant in some other way, yet when a man near lost of faith passes by and reads, it will restore him from despair. then she will in turn be passed by just the way most angels are, never knowing herself, that is who she is.
I will be the color red, an orphan of the China sea, a good fortune wedding dress, with stories to tell, but I won’t. instead a woman will write poems about my fingertips and the soft curve of her tongue.
I will be a man who writes a list of names, a list just like this, save for the one he is being now.