Seven In The Woods
~ Jim Harrison

Am I as old as I am?

Maybe not. Time is a mystery

that can tip us upside down.

Yesterday I was seven in the woods,

a bandage covering my blind eye,

in a bedroll Mother made me

so I could sleep out in the woods

far from people. A garter snake glided by

without noticing me. A chickadee

landed on my bare toe, so light

she wasn't believable. The night

had been long and the treetops

thick with a trillion stars. Who

was I, half-blind on the forest floor

who was I at age seven? Sixty-eight

years later I can still inhabit that boy's

body without thinking of the time between.

It is the burden of life to be many ages

without seeing the end of time.

Quite Frankly

by Mark Halliday

They got old, they got old and died. But first—
okay but first they composed plangent depictions
of how much they lost and how much cared about losing.
Meantime their hair got thin and more thin
as their shoulders went slumpy. Okay but

not before the photo albums got arranged by them,
arranged with a niftiness, not just two or three
but eighteen photo albums, yes eighteen eventually,
eighteen albums proving the beauty of them (and not someone else),
them and their relations and friends, incontrovertible

playing croquet in that Bloomington yard,
floating on those comic inflatables at Dow Lake,
giggling at the Dairy Queen, waltzing at the wedding,
building a Lego palace on the porch,
holding the baby beside the rental truck,
leaning on the Hemingway statue at Pamplona,
discussing the eternity of art in that Sardinian restaurant.

Yes! And so, quite frankly—at the end of the day—
they got old and died okay sure but quite frankly
how much does that matter in view of
the eighteen photo albums, big ones
thirteen inches by twelve inches each
full of such undeniable beauty?

 ScottFromWyoming wrote:

 ScottFromWyoming wrote: 
  been there

Easter

If this were a man
if this man were poisoned
if phosgene invades
the man inhales
the phonograph issues
broken
sanded
washed
if this were a man
and his photogravure
his image
etched
scratched
came to my life
representing life
coloured
measuring light
walked and spoke
eyes shining and alive
I was convinced
if a man came buckling
up from the hide
seasoned
cured
had rotted in his blanket
at night
if my man had steamed
like Jesus
in a cave
delivered
a man a philosophy
a phobia
a blue knuckling voice
sang and cried
warbling
bloody

if this man died
in 1914
in a war he inhaled
and he curdled
down into himself
resurrected his death
flocked
his tall tall tree
his reverse breath
dimpled his reverse breath
his cheeks collapsed
livid
purple
as his eight day rock
and his sap let loose
if this man had sap
he was then wrapped loosely
and tied whitely
if this were a man
his burning watermark remains
his bearded water stamp
remains

- Rob Diebold

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there; I did not die.

author is somewhat disputed

sunlight pixellating my face like a kaleidoscope.

WORM WOODSTOCK

The worms have been up all night writing long lines
of crazy, unintelligible poetry in the street.
Drunk on spring, they dry out in the sun.

Mike Hazard

Shadow and Light

By Rumi

How does

a part of the world

leave the world?

How does wetness

leave water?

Dont' try to put out fire

by throwing on more fire!

Don't wash a wound

with blood.

No matter how fast you run,

your shadow keeps up.

Sometimes it's in front!

Only full overhead sun

diminishes your shadow.

But that shadow

has been serving you.

What hurts you,

blesses you.

Darkness

is your candle.

Your boundaries

are your quest.

I could explain this,

but it will break

the glass cover

on your heart,

and there's no fixing that.

You must have

shadow and light source

both.

Listen,

and lay your head

under the tree of awe.

When from that tree

feathers and wings

sprout on you,

be quieter than a dove.

Don't even open your mouth

for even a coo.

photo by rob diebold

Crow's Theology

Crow realized God loved him-
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.
So that was proved.
Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat.

And he realized that God spoke Crow-
Just existing was His revelation.

But what Loved the stones and spoke stone?
They seemed to exist too.
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded?

And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows?
What spoke the silence of lead?

Crow realized there were two Gods-

One of them much bigger than the other
Loving his enemies
And having all the weapons.

Ted Hughes

YES
by William Stafford

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out — no guarantees
in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.

 oldviolin wrote:
Breathtaking. Thank you.

Fred Chappell

Poem within a poem

 oldviolin wrote:

Epitaph- The Poet

I never truckled.
I never pandered.
I was born
To be remaindered.

Fred Chappell