poetry

Rite-in-the-Rain

Rite-in-the-Rain

it’s the kind with the lines
even though I didn’t want it to be
last time I called up
and bought them out of unlined ones –
yes, I had that much adventure already planned
or at least expected –
but this time there were no more unlined ones left to buy

always the bright yellow cover
to stand out against moss, mud, pine duff, sand, snow
what else is that yellow?
maybe the ray flowers of sunflowers
the feathers of warblers
avalanche lilies
yellow stoplights (well, go cautiously lights)
the spots of tiger salamanders
some certain lichens
maybe the sun itself
(though you can’t be sure
from the sideways glances we’re limited to)

the pages are a little thicker stiffer rougher
than ordinary notebooks
to hold pen or pencil even underwater
to make your words as near permanent
as a thing easily left for years
on a dusty shelf can make them

it’s a little too big for a pocket
so you must either carry it like a prayer book
or a primer held by a barefoot schoolchild
from a one-room schoolhouse
or plan ahead and bring a satchel
but it’s best for that bag to stay open –
no zippers or clasps or catches
so there’s nothing to resist you
when you have the urge to open

it smells of must
of labs and field stations
and people with the word “Forester” after their names
it connotes the seriousness and objectivity of data
of a universal reality that will be recorded
by someone with training in perception
who knows how to take the measure of an experience
and make it replicable for someone else

except for the lines, there’s nothing I would change about it
except that yesterday I finished filling it
and have no need for more

poetry

isolation/grief

isolation/grief

so many small sadnesses
including putting away
this last filled fieldbook
closing our adventurous chapter
staring down rows and rows
of weeks of going nowhere
feeling like we failed
to do what we said we would
so many plans scattered
in the flurry of leaving

if only I believed in the kind of god
who wanted me to submit
and trust his plan
having most options wrenched away
would be easier to accept

but beyond all these petty disappointments
we’re alive
and grateful
and past caring for little else

poetry

triggers

triggers

the triggering subject:
the proximal cause
setting your pencil moving
putting words in your mouth
and a bee in your bonnet

the generated subject:
the image that emerges from the ache
the harm that won’t be undone
the pain that makes it all personal
the meaning to your being here now
with something to say
and a need to be heard

let me be brave enough
to line up all these daily triggers
sharp and dangerous as daggers
all the goings-on that pierce my consciousness
and follow each one a step further
uncovering the wound each tears wider
until my fingers can probe it
pack it with a poultice of runes
then hold my warm hand over it
til it heals well

poetry

museless

museless

I don’t have a muse
someone outside this realm
who whispers words to me

even so
sometimes my antennae go up
and quiver saying
right now the universe
is ready to reveal something
if only I stop
and leave myself at least as open

sometimes I feel a little lonesome
with no otherworldly guide
only this exceedingly wonderful
boatload of beings
each pointing a way
in fallible tones
not possibly conflated
with the certainty of madness