Poetry- Boots

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

strong,

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

expect

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.

Poetry- Coyote

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.

Poetry- The Puddle

The Puddle

It’d been a while

since I came out.

On my own.

The others

had come and gone, and I felt that itch

to use my body for a time

and hear the bristles of grass crackle like fire beneath my feet. 

So I went on my own again.

I was thinking about being acted upon,

            by the heat,

            glare,

and other representations of grace,

when I came upon a broken pipe.

I’ve never seen a spring, though I’ve often thought

it might look something like this— unannounced,

wedging itself into world

without an apology.  The stream of water

burbled out

and waddled its way over to a puddle.  The birds were having a grand time.

They couldn’t care less

about definitions of nature and society. 

I scared them off

with my approach.  But that sounds more active than it was.  More

that I arrived, and they happened to depart

in a similar proximity. 

The butterfly didn’t seem to mind me too much though.

I decided to take off my flip flops,

and roll up my pants, and wade through. 

If it was good enough for the birds, and babies,

and blades of grass,

then it was probably good enough for me too.

It was soft, the soil, and gave itself to my weight

with a good-natured ease that surprised me.  Not a single complaint.

It’s a good thing

to hear water on a hot day!  I climbed the fence barefoot

and tread through the wet grass. I turned

and saw a sheet of sky

reflected in the grass.  Nice, to see those two

holding hands again.  The frogs, those oracles of blessed dissonance,

where the two seams meet they will be loud there tonight,

and I like the idea

that one of them might find some respite

in the puddle of my footprint.

The Pen Only Sai Add-on

I'm nearing completion for building this out.  This is what Sai looks like on my computer when I run.  A very clean interface, that I'm hoping to offer to others.  If you're interested, please comment or contact me.  :)

Watercolor- The Forest

I did this for the class I was doing back in July and wanted to share it.  I did this one entirely with natural media watercolors.  The idea was to paint a sort of landscape through which you would journey. I did this one.  The yellow objects at the bottom were meant to be ferns unfurling, but who knows?  I recognized after painting this that I knew trees very very well, and could paint them from mind, but that I really needed a reference image to study for the ferns.  Lesson learned!  :)

Poem- The World of Things

I’ll admit

I’ve never believed much in the human endeavor,

but have striven

to find my place

in the world of things.  Fleeting,

full of folly and joy,

our living evaporates like bird call,

            beautiful and unintelligible—

the mind breaks against the skull

            until the tide rises,

and we learn to touch each other with the reverence

we’ve kept hidden

for roses tilted forward to the nose

or furrows opened for planting.  So I’ve got nothing against

the joys of touching,

gentleness, or the urge to be fair,

but I can think of no better compliment

than to be kissed by a tree.

Poem- Prism

Prism

Light

pushes through

the thin veneer of pigment, granules, some

pulverized dirt

drifting on the river, it hits the canvas,

and returns to us

through the prism of the painting.  And so it is

that when we look upon it, we do so

not from above,

like God upon a river,

but like a fish

from inside.