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.
read footnotes about this poem
vision gets intimate with only a half-evenings blush.
standing on the porch looking south. there. you see? half a block
over, what you could easy do in bare feet. round past the white wood
trim shed in back, an open yard, no fence, just imaginary lines.
there. the pocket market and gas. Bill’s.
neon brights in the half-dusk-dark. a yellow billboard with red ink
letters. the door a shadow indent. behind, silhouette trees make
the horizon seem high above the conjured water line.
there’s a rocket in my backyard sky.
tonight we’re going to the moon. count my toes. leap that far.
tonight we’ve a thin white feather and red tail shaped like wind.
we are leaning into sky.
moon & me will be in the same sentence soon.
breathless life. was it the same before?
moving. moving fast. here we go.
hold my hand.
one from a gathering of personal snapshots, taken by residents, of shuttle-craft launches. I am immersed within by their ordinary intimacy of a shared exceptional experience.
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.
do you hear? one wall plus more than three and a roof within.
that’s how it arrives. inside first.
many voices offer names. none are taken home. instead,
willow cloud petal thirst. bright and bright.
meaning less. more free.
these received are your face in all the shades of light and sleep.
oh stillness beside. here, these hands.
two palms will rend the drought. and you, you within.
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.
taller people are not necessarily smarter. (although they may feel it’s true) the yogurt in your bowl don’t see any difference, tall from not. all it sees is your spoon.
some might wager taller is closer to heaven, or at least closer to the stars. but that just depends whether you’re looking up or looking down. who’s closer then! so, no.
a mountain may be very tall, but mostly what they see to appreciate is looking at their feet. feet are important to mountains. it’s where they came from and where they’re headed next. gravity is the smile they contain. my daddy was once a Southern mountain, but then he was gone.
mother’s family, they were rocks, big ones. but there was nobody to tend their opened fields, so they left. they moved to a land that harvested fewer hard stones than before. grandmother fed the cats, no matter their size. it was exactly the way she spoke goodbye to me.
words are shells where someone else used to live. now we put them in pockets, toss them far as our arms willingly reach on the Water’s face, or, collect them sorted by Color and Shape as if they still belong to someone else other than us. sometimes we eat them. but only rarely.
when eaten we become another life. another life. another star. but we’re still the same. the same as the first thought we thought. like stars will do. thoughts shimmer, do you see?
other eyes see us from far far away. more than ten toes, more than my nose. I am the I who is looking from here, and this is the sea and where we swim.