3 Haikus || An Oblation of Things

Beneath the red eaves
a spider’s-web sail unfurls
leeward, boughs bending

Moss shimmers silver
old Sol sets in the branches’
autumn silhouette

I lie under leaves
the sanctuary above
earthen priest below

Haiku II

roam the twilit road
lined with juniper halos
ever-gold porchlight

Haiku I

the sun rises thrice
through the rhododendron tree
city of windows

It is Always Late Here

And so we dodge the rain-soaked
leaves as they fall – or we don’t;
regardless we approach the wallpaper-houses
plastered with autumn’s gore. We shed

the decay only to don this thin
skin naked to the stale heated air.
Here we sing the refrain “Amen, come
Thou long expected Jesus, come.”

December, you are the clothesline of souls
strung above the hearth. Above the fire
we drip with rain until we are clean,
dry and we with our voices are thin.

Silent night. We have no say in the matter.

Two Tables

We slide into our places around the table
swift and silent as brush strokes
and the paint sighs as we
conform to the image.

The year is done. We lay out its contents
on the table – a keepsake cornucopia:
drink deep the honeycomb
of the name we share.

Oh, holy night! What joy, what rich honey
swells from the tongues of unbound hands
and unfurled lips. Wreathed in holly
and spruce, the orange and red hues
of the Blessed Virgin and Son stoop down
to share our bread and wine.

How odd that Grandfather’s stories
of the War to End All Wars
seem so bright, tonight.
How right though, too.

Earthen Vessel

The port is still. The rain lays down
the restless remains of ship-wakes.
Not a thick rain; vague, like the dust
from grade-school chalkboards.

I run from east to west along Jericho Beach
toward the Pacific, which I’ve never seen.
Not really.

The clouds unfurl, sweeping across the masts –
the harbor is a shadowbox. The bow lights
shimmer in halos through the rain
and reflect from cloud-bottom to sea
and back again. Our shadowbox world
is small.

May we find peace in the periphery.

Perhaps we have looked up too often.
Perhaps the clouds teach us aspirations
more befitting to our human nature
than flight. If we are dust after all, how can we
return once we’ve left the dust behind?
We are nothing!

We are nothing
if not married to the ground.

A couple stands on the beach, pointing
to the prows anchored to the seabed,
content to keep their feet dry.

Fourth Sunday of Epiphany

I am told to breathe

to the rhythm of a hammer and anvil

like a clock clanging not quite

in waking nor wholly in dreams.

 

Kneeling. Prayerful hands pleading

too loudly, the second hand resounding

            in the silence. Kneeling

 

here on a thinly carpeted, unforgiving floor,

past and future, ancient and unborn

impugn upon the present, disrupting

the tempo of the march of saints.

            I almost miss it.

 

I crumple the epiphany and

thrust it into a pocket

            and pretend

 

that truth is in the silence,

rather than creased and wrinkled,

desecrated in the lining of my jeans.

 

But if I continue striving to remain static,

in the end I’ll enter glory an unfinished statue.

Forever giving, never added to;

a textureless face with insufficient features painted

            on like wood-grain linoleum.

 

We sense it in the clanging and cringe.

“Seek quietude,” the billboards bray.

We follow, until on a quiet Sunday afternoon

we empty our pockets in the wash

to find a pallid epiphany washed out

            with the loose change.

December 18, 2012 // Snapshots

Nine-year-old princesses’ feet cascading downstairs to wake me;

two pairs of blue eyes amid clementine curls smiling, “good morning.”

 

Flashing lights in a rearview mirror syncopated with blood pressure;

I am imperfect; a file with my name on it is hidden in some dark room.

 

Silence broken by unpracticed fingers on piano, but I am home,

and my hands are at rest between the occidentals stumbling through Canon.

 

Barren branches crest the hill, glowing rust in the winter sunset.

I am alone viewing this looking-glass of a highway, lined in oak.

 

It gets dark so early here, with the lights in the tree possessing the

window frames – reflection or reality, does it matter so long as there’s beauty?

 

It’s cold but the windows are down because winter has crept into the air;

and I can smell hints of long months to come laden with ice and fireplaces.

 

The constellations shiver, but they are all the more clear for it;

They look in envy as my key slides into the lock and I am home.

Damaged Cell

a membrane between worlds

impenetrable yet viscous

like a spider creeps across the water

I’ve barely touched the film

 

barely touching I’m trapped right-side-up

unable to sink unable to see beneath

the mirror surface of the water

 

I crawl on all fours

while the water scrapes my hands

and knees and the cell wall dividing

is breaking and cracking with

a sound not unlike a child’s whimper

 

you know the kind of cry you gave

when you woke up alone in the dark

 

as a child I sat at the lakeshore on grey mornings

throwing stones disturbing turbid waters

my feet only half submerged in doubt

So, I said

I fall asleep on the worn leather sofa

the previous renters left behind

after they found the kitchen leaks.

We don’t mind the waves and currents.

 

We brought flowering plants in

from outside, in hopes to make the

air between us more breathable.

I learned today that orchids are parasites

living in the elbows of tropical trees.

 

I begin my sentences with pronouns

followed by verbs, while you stick to

the conjunction “so”. So, the kitchen

 

floor needs bailing again.

I suggest we install a drain and let the floods

come and go as they please.

 

2:03, pm. When I fall asleep on the leather sofa,

I rest my head on the copy of Neruda’s

“Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair”

that you gave me, hoping the words bleed through

and we’ll have something in common.