poetry

poetry

Opening Papua

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opening Papua

her reefs were hidden by azure skirts
bowerbirds dozed in the kinks of her hair
cuscus and cassowaries peeked out
from the folds of her emerald skin
her deep beauty concealed
from a stranger’s passing glance

until a sharp man
conversant with birds
traced a pig’s path
with his machete
learned a language
copying letters onto leaves
put down his bow for binoculars
and welcomed everyone:
neighbor stranger Java-man
alike saying
come to the Arfak
visit our village
meet our wonders
then please go home

poetry

Arfak economics

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Arfak economics

mountain people
stay in the mountains
eat from the forest
climb steep tracks
as a matter of course

the cool air and mist
slip down the sheer green slopes
refresh and energize
and, not stifled by midday swelter
not prostrated by unending sun
the busy people shake their heads:
in the lowlands a man grows only bananas
trades this food for money
takes the money to the store
trades it for food –
why doesn’t he just
grow a garden instead?

this mountain man goes on:
in 1990
someone gave me money
I didn’t know what it was
so I brought it to the church
asked do you know what to do with this?
yes they said
yes, we do

poetry

priorities

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priorities

sadly no superhero
tonight I carve out hours
in the blue-black dark
searching for a living reef
with nesting birds
a responsible skipper
adequate shade
and a tiny pricetag

and tomorrow I still won’t have
six-pack abs

poetry

not hearing the sea

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not hearing the sea

after only four days
the waves have receded
the sound only registers
when I train my attention
on the pleasing steady unevenness
they’ve kept up below
ever since we arrived

so soon we become
senseless of wonder
even when it whispers
in our ears all day

poetry

blank calendar

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blank calendar

a wheel of dolphins
corkscrews through
hammered tin wave

later

we take in
a submerged sunset
watery fire paints
even our limbs

good days happen
when nothing’s
on the books

poetry

disasters that didn’t happen

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disasters that didn’t happen

so close to the goal
he dreams it all goes wrong
every way at once

yes, you might drop
your book in the drink
keel over, tumble straight off the dock
forget your name and what you’re here for –
things do happen
plans do change
but as Bryson likes to say
most days nothing erupts
you don’t drift out into space
lightning doesn’t crisp your brow

the pit in your stomach
won’t better your odds
no matter how much of your day
it consumes

welcome to the unknowable,
& the relief of trusting
you’ll see your way through
each lovely disaster that unfolds

poetry

mass migration

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Owen took these photos.

mass migration

a river of frigatebirds
overhead
all afternoon

we crane our necks
barely believing
such abundance still exists
in this beat-up old world

their angular bodies
hardly beat a wing
merely stream like
living contrails

on target
on task
their every gesture says
certain

poetry

haunted

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haunted

wraiths drift
cats arch
bats blink
graves creak
spiders spin
leaves crunch
ghouls moan
children grin
mouths sticky
hugging fear
making dread
familiar

poetry

knobbed hornbills overhead

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Owen took these photos.

knobbed hornbills overhead

like the thick whoosh
of hot air balloon flame
they lift off

you don’t need to
let your eyes leave the trail
to know they’re overlooking you –
you feel it in the helicopter pulse
their wings make

if you’re lucky you might catch
a long black cross sailing away
and be satisfied

imagine then
seeing the pair clearly
flying down the open valley
level with the canopy
black bodies bookended by
yellow red & blue noble heads
and trailing white tails

and the most amazing part is
there’s still a forest big enough
for their grand presence

poetry

rash behavior

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rash behavior

seabather’s eruption
or scrub mites
either way
something gets under your skin
the welts come
and you’re not the same