Saturday, September 29, 2012

Poetry- Boots


I wanted to wear the boots,
but I did not want them to be
a fashion statement.  I wanted to earn them, to be the kind of person
that wore those boots.

So I tried them on.  To see how they felt.
My mother liked men who wore boots like that.
And I liked my mother.  I felt
useful—  I thought
“A person who wears boots like these ought
to feel at ease with a hammer.”
So I got the boots.  And I got a hammer.
I wanted to be the kind of useful person
who would need a hammer.

I wore the boots
to do
true things—  clean gardens,
and plant seedlings,
and water young shrubs.  To build things.  I remembered my father
with his new boots.  He polished them.  Gave them oil.
He was very proud of those boots!
And I wanted to be proud of my boots too.
I wore those boots
until there were holes in them.
There was a kind of pride in wearing used up boots. 
I was given
the blessing of nature, of necessity,
of use
to buy new ones.

Now, I know I’m going to work
when I pull my boots out. 
And those who pay me
a certain kind of shoe to be worn.  I told my wife,
“It’s like a uniform you have to wear.”
Then I recognized
that I did not want to where these boots every day.  I wanted to be free
from having to wear boots.  That there was a pleasure
in air
playing with your feet.  But, by then it felt strange
not to wear them.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Poetry- Coyote


This table likes to wobble, and so
does the chair.  Hard to keep a sense
of focus
or balance.  I stop thinking about typing
and start paying attention
to gravity,
what an axis is, to the flute crying
of a coyote
slivering over these moonlight slopes.  I keep trying to fix it,
looking underneath, wiggling things— I want a good footing, but it’s a no go,
and the coyote, I didn’t know,
they make this sound,
a hollowing out that requires a moon.  It’s some sort
of deformed magic, or perhaps it is the floor,
or me…
for it does not shake
until I sit in it.  I decide to write after all— the birth
of dance rambles
up from the floor.  I ride it
as the heaving leads to words.