Sweet and young and always

You know the song

“you’re still the one,”

the song that couples

time and love,

and begins a weaving

of memory and the particular

rhythm that framed the way

we walked and wandered?

 

It puts me in mind

of how much older I am

than we are,

how I can still see

those bright visions of you

whom I have loved so

and loved so all along.

 

You’re the one

are the lyrics, the sound,

the melody, I hear

and I shake my head in wonder

that you can see that I am, too.

 

Thank you for who you have been

and for who you are

and for who we’ve been

and how this forever

has become so sweet

and young and always.

It is us seasoning this land

A poem about the blood
that soaks our land

is not about who spilled the most—

though it should be clear

who spilled the least,

who took so much

and gave so little—

but it is about our mingled DNA,

delivered on rivers of blood

and rivers of tears

and the sweat of hard labor

and the joy of ecstatic dancing

and the wet and rapid breathing

that happens day

and happens night.

 

I leave behind a piece of me

wherever I might go

and on the way

I pick a piece

of you.

 

I never ask

whose blood is this,

whose tears seed the rain,

whose bare feet tamp the path,

because I know this,

all of it is us

and ours.

 

And if a postscript

must supplement

what we spread and share,

then we should act

together, like it all

belongs to us.

It is us.

 

 

Ever the feeling

ever the feeling
ever feeling no need

of any sort

no need for more

no need for some

no need at all

for any one thing

 

is this a blessed state?

or a sort of purgatory?

who decides?

who should be barred

from deciding?

 

this is no reason to go on

this is the reason to go on 

this, he wrote,

struggling to remember

the addendum intended

when he first

walked out into the sun –

 

the feeling

the lift that comes

from walking straight into the sun

when it floods the eye

flies almost all the way

to wherever

 

and, writing on,

sorting through

memories that brought me

to my knees,

and then submerged 

in moments

of great exultation,

and find myself

exulting once more

 

and in the moment

when I first saw you

and knew suddenly

you would be the difference

in my life

the moment in which we all

would see again

and would gather together

the feeling of enough

more than ever

enough enough

 

and still the locomotive

roaring by

and the dog

consumed by terror

running and running

and surviving the raging wind

that carried the deepest chill

came at last

into my arms

squatting there in the very dark

attaching and attaching

to us, to you, to me

 

ever the feeling

home and homeless

tame and wild

broken and unbroken

new and striving

ancient

seeking rest

and rebirth

ever and ever

The current that carries us (revised)

The sheer impact

of what we have done

cannot be undone.

 

We cannot take it apart.

We can bend it,

but not break it.

 

We can fix a piece,

try to fix a part

that we can reach.

 

But separately,

and together,

we will travel with it

wherever it flows.

 

We cannot get out.

Nor off.

There are no stops

ahead.

 

But this ebb and flow,

this sometimes power,

and sometimes no,

these rich and transient joys,

these assaults and frequent terrors,

travel with us.

 

We own it all.

A Single Star Will Show Itself

Rumored or written somewhere,

the way, the path,

to touching uncoerced,

to flowing swiftly,

through channels forking

and twisting and babbling on

and suddenly still,

 

involves the growling, guttural talk

of tigers,

or a passionate taste

of dark and chocolate,

or the silver leap of fish

 

or yes,

to lifting us

on swaying limbs of flowering trees,

full pink and showering

the bay below,

you wrapped in my arms,

me snuggled up in yours.

 

Rumored or written somewhere,

or handmade

to suit myself,

and sung to you,

the word to wait

for the new moon’s rising sliver,

when a single star

will show itself

and light our dreaming way.

The magic passes by

The poems always come

unbidden.

I could hunt
for them,
but don’t know
where to look.
 
But this one,
not merely unbidden,
but buried
in sequence
with unlike things.
 
After a hard talk
with a man
I love,

and a while spent
with the compost pile,
and a gathering of tools
and a piling of lumber,
and a power outage,
to divert me
from one work to another,
timed by whoever
times such things,

and a brownie
with special powers,
and a trip
to the store,
for a bottle of cream
to make the week-old oatmeal
coming out
of the darkened fridge
a meal
moderately more palatable
than it might otherwise be,
 
and more brownie,
a bit more brownie,
and a passing tease
with a virile neighbor
about his virility,
and a beer on a warm slow day,
 
the power
came on,
and the poem
came, too,
loaded with prizes
(except no gift
of invented words
to share),
 
came with memories
of Noble Causes
and Bruising Battles
(as Marrianne’s book
has it),
 
came with memories
of love and adventure,
came with hints
of life left to live,
 
and, suddenly,
the unbidden poem,
having arrived,
having said
whatever it had to say,
departed,
leaving me to return
to tools and timber.

A Hammering of Earth

Deep in the grave,

blind in the gloom,

a spasm of wishes,

an eruption of dreams,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth.

 

Clawing the dirt

in tumult and temper,

a hint of desire,

a longing for more,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth.

 

Through the green fragrant places

he floated

as though he might fade

in a moment.

Resting, then waxing,

drifting, then winging,

seeking the meaning

of symbols and dreams.

 

Shadows gliding in,

like leopards at night,

she briefly stops by,

a succor of seasons,

a peak and a whisper.

Just so is he rescued,

and then, sped away.

 

A new cycle begun,

a grandeur of wishing,

a flexing of feelings,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth. 

The current that carries us

 

The sheer impact

of what we have done

cannot be undone.

 

We cannot take it apart.

We can bend it, maybe,

but not break it.

 

We can fix a piece,

or try to fix a part

that we can reach.

 

But separately,

and together,

we will travel with it

wherever it flows.

 

We cannot get out.

Nor off. There are no stops

ahead.

 

But this ebb and flow,

this sometimes power,

and sometimes no,

these rich and transient joys,

these assaults and frequent terrors,

travel with us.

 

We own it all.

Waiting for Isabel

Waiting for Izzy to wake,

my baby grand,

my Izzy Bizzy Bell.

I should head to Chicago,

move on to next things.

There’s stuff to do,

and I, my reputation

as dithering guy who never,

never gets to the end,

notwithstanding,

am still the only guy to get it done.

 

But I’m waiting for Isabel to wake—

me, Isabel’s Jeff,

here,

waiting for Isabel,

who, just before she slept,

spent a long, full, bunch

of uncountable minutes

in loud, overwrought,

and well-acted screaming;

in epic distress,

mommy-mommying her way

between long, sobbing, hiccups,

until she decided that mommy-mommying

wasn’t working,

and switched to daddy-daddying,

which also did not work,

falling finally asleep, exhausted,

when Mommy did show herself.

 

That’s the person,

Isabell Lozen,

my grand baby,

for whose next waking moment

I wait.

 

Because love,

I guess.

And knowing that

what I might otherwise

do is no longer the point. 

The Edge of Silence

The edge of silence

haunts me,

listening here,

where there is still

song and rhythm

and echoes and noise,

sounding and resounding.

 

It would do

no good

to put my ear

to the edge of silence.

There would be no news,

no hints, no vibes, no clues,

coming here from there,

from beyond the edge,

from no place.

 

I cannot speak

across the edge,

but neither have I crossed to there,

and I still have this voice.

And so much left to say

about who I loved

and how I loved

and what I did decent

and did well and what I did

that did not help

and what I should have left undone.

 

But all songs have accent points,

pianissimo, harmony, crescendo,

and debatable notes,

and so shall mine.

The best that I have done

was arguably the work of others

with whom I played, and loved,

and labored, and chased after

gossamer-winged fancies.

 

Can you hear

the smile in my voice,

when I say, here,

at the edge of silence,

that we were sometimes great

together,

and sometimes awed

at what we discovered

in and out of each other.

To have simply lived as we have,

and as we do,

and as we went and go,

was and is, perhaps,

too careless or, maybe,

too careful, but was and is

courage all the while.

 

And so,

I am moved here

at the edge of silence

to say that I am certain

that you will step forward

and forward again,

and be just as brave

as you can be,

and full of song,

and full of look and listen,

and full of touch and love,

and building dreams

that will last and last

as long as you are willing.

 

All of you.

My dear ones, my babies,

my comrades, my heroes.

Hidden away from the whole

The voice,

her voice, repeating,

I have to hang up.

We’re about to take off.

They want me to hang up.

We’ll talk tomorrow.

Okay?

 

I imagined she was speaking

to her mother that way,

or to the parts of her mother

dementia has left untouched for now,

not the parts

that have been buried away

from the whole of the world.

 

But another voice,

speaking more forcefully,

cited the pilot, saying,

you must stop now

and end your call,

and said it again,

end your call.

 

The oil and water chorus

continued, and the voice

said goodbye before,

one voice to another,

explaining,

that was my brother.

He’s in prison.

 

And my next thought was

that must be worse than dementia.

 

March 1: From Caracol to La Ronda Parakata

In an epoch of nightmares,

the walk to the lake,

transformed by mood and by moment,

planned as a journey with Jetta,

to proceed from Caracol

to La Ronda Parakata,

from Black Lives Matter,

the name and the point

of resistance and vision,

this time around,

to the fresh flow

of Ukrainian blood,

and the tears for democracies,

forever imperfect.

 

The redwing blackbirds are back

and begun to build their numbers,

though not yet reached

the this-is-ours claim

that will soon fully invest

blackbird central

in advance warning

of dive-bombing birds

headed this way.

 

On the way, the gray planter totems—

massive, ornamental contraptions,

bizarrely conceived as artful décor

for the concrete expanses

of breakwaters and piers—

have somehow been heaved,

grinding and fractured,

by the great lake in winter.

The pulverized fragments lay on the path,

like bits of Kyiv littering the world.

 

The caracol, Spanish for snail,

an escalera de caracol,

a spiral staircase pressed flat,

its broad painted surface,

splashed with color of cultures

and feelings gathered on borders

of habits badly in need of fresh vigor.

 

The phoenix of hope

for a future at risk,

depends largely on those

who can juggle their fear

and plan radical ways

for healing all wounds.

 

A barge makes its way

through ice jamming boat slips.

The watermen whisper to water

with words not meant for my ears,

but I do hear their murmurs

and do have the tools

to shape meanings that drive me

to where I and all this

are harnessed to go.

 

In the tufted tall grass

of the cold weather prairie

Jetta digs from the ice

the shredded remains

left behind by a hawk,

and swallows rotted morsels

before just a mile further on,

vomiting a bit back

to the field to share

with whomever will next eat

off this ground.

 

Over the rise

in the trail ahead

comes the form of La Ronda 

where the butterflies pray

to slow our ill-fated rush.

The view this day is still water,

and the weather

waits to be called

to deliver trouble in surges

resembling the way

the dark ages looked

to those who could see

the future unfolding.

 

And justice continues denied.

And the blood keeps on spilling.

And pooling and drying and staining the world.

Isabel Increscent

Isabel,

hey, Isabel,

I am Jeff.

 

Been that way

for the longest time,

but now,

of a sudden,

I am Isabel’s Jeff.

 

Not brand new, at all,

but remade, somehow,

by your becoming,

in a similar,

but less suddenly sudden

appearance in the doorway

of a future that I

will never see,

but into which I will be carried,

in my bits and in my pieces,

in the swirling current

that is you flowing forward.

 

Think now of all the other

everybodys and everythings

lifted and carried

in the flood of you,

in the cresting wave of you,

in the torrent of you,

cutting a new channel.

 

I am Isabel’s Jeff

and you, Isabel,

will carry on without me,

neatly deposited in your wake,

my good-bye smile at you flowing forward,

the last and best of me.

 

You are Isabel

and I am Isabel’s Jeff,

a man of your invention,

who knew you,

and loved you.

Memory ... and longing

The reality

of what once was

competes

with what now is

at least

in terms of how memory

can be experienced

by those

who long for that

with great intensity.

Longing is not

a backwards thing

but is sometimes

a way back.

Newer words, newer dreams

A covid poem

Waking the days

of the months

lining our lives,

counting rhythms

of lungs and of heart,

suddenly glimpsing

the count gone awry,

the code gone astray,

the message amuck.

 

In the beginning of all this

Perry had died,

and his dying

meant changes

to the meaning of living

and the practice of mourning

in part of this world.

I attributed hot feelings

to you, I had said,

before one of us

suddenly flamed and unloosed

from the margins

that were formerly home

and always before 

to where we returned.

 

But it was me, alone,

walking face first

into challenging sleet wind,

overhearing the words

of lovers making light

for folks whom they love.

Some stranger above

throwing stones in our way,

he observed in comic lament,

adding a theatrical shrug,

and she laughed,

a sweet sound

fading to echoes

overtaken by oracular

proclamations

of the stinging wild wind,

sardonically offering

to set us all free

in a world of neglect

that mocks

the speakers of dreams,

and puts us to work

pounding on rocks.

 

Yes, confronting the winds

that do not forgive

requires moving ahead,

because going can get

to the peace we will build

with new song

and new dance.

 

Accepting the threats

that plague all the paths

revealed ahead,

I take the longish stride

and stride again,

and stride again,

toward the route

on which peace

is path and peace

is way

and not the goal I cannot reach.

 

***

If we were still

talk to ear to lips to talk,

then you would share,

maps and mantras—

the ones that moved you so far—

but you, arrived so long ago,

are gone away again,

leaving only remnants

and clues to joint discoveries

about the pain

that spots all paths,

and all the peace

that grows from pain

and grows from prayer

and grows from

never giving in.

 

So, yes, a reverent thanks

before a sweet whisper rises

above the bellowing wind

asking, in the brief and quiet,

on which iteration

of all our plans

are we working now?

And what in between

might we find there?

Inventing the many answers 

we will need

falls to each of us.

 

The outcome

may be better,

but maybe not,

said still another voice,

escaping the wind into which

we have been walking

all this while.

The voice came not

to tell a joke,

not to leave a laugh

or two behind, it said,

confidentially adding,

up to you, entirely,

to rise again

or fall at last

when and as you will.

 

And in that brief

and in that quiet

I did briefly, barely cry

for all the everyones

counting all the losses,

and all the everyones

not bothering to count,

and all the losses

left to lose.

And in that grief

and in that quiet,

it was resolved

to spread the news

of songs and glories

anyway,

and when the store of all

is lost and empty,

and entropy threatens

a joyless reign,

it remains forever resolved

to reach beyond

the end of now.

 

***

Courage is not

the word to use to say

that you did what you had

no choice about the doing.

And though I do not say

or write what that word

might be, it spells itself

obstinance-rebellion-

distraction-trembling-

grace-accidental-

if-at-all.

 

But whatever that loaded word

or words may be,

it takes great gangs

of fevered poets

grinding at the front

and grinding at the rear,

reloading words

to fire anew,

to set our hearts

our lungs our upraised fists

to rhythm

roaring fast and fresh.

 

So, summon all poets

with shouting and welcome.

Call them to council.

Write urgent letters

to gather the pack,

speaking the sharps

and speaking the blunts,

singing the streets,

soaring the skies,

scratching for pennies,

escaping the jails,

emphatically signifying

here on the way,

sketching and spelling

time after time,

always forever,

upright and hopeful,

here at the ready.

 

The hall of poets full,

the graveyard fuller still,

we linger to read the stone

marking William A. Thigpen Jr.

born 1948

died Detroit streets 1971,

upright and ready

and full of unspent hope.

Further along,

a restorative visit

to write-it-well John,

urging the poets

to wing on the breath,

to roll off the tongue

to land here,

in the ear.

 

So, yeah, the breaktime

namechecking done,

there is sometimes

giving of ground

that belongs to the earth,

sometimes ground

firming up

under feet

launching for stars,

claiming, reclaiming, declaiming

the dreams of forever

and all the beloved.

 

Send me only replies

conceding no ground,

but affirming the prayer

that floats in the air

and remains to be written.

Hear every voice,

every sobbing and wild,

every cringing and proud,

every full in the mouth,

rich on the tongue,

roaring and grieving,

weaving and soaring,

pleading and cursing,

voice after voice

landing here in the ear.

Count all the lives

we ought to have loved;

make infinitely more

of the lives

we have wasted.

Open doorways

for leaders 

grown tired of waiting;

expect and applaud

new words,

and new dreams,

ahead of the launch

of the last of our poems

shouting blessings and praises

to you, to sky,

and beyond.