Lessons in the Wind

Snow again this morning and the wind...
Howling of the highway's heavy plows
pick up the sounds of blowers making clouds
for men who gave up smoking.
Only yesterday our sister's kids
were babes in mitten hood and coated.
And now their lives are busy as our own
with dreams of love and worries of a war.

Snowmen can't attack the minds
of several generations
moving south this morning
by the wind of our recall.
Did we forget the lessons of
the battle of the fall?
Now drifting in to settle
like wisdom first reported
by its only other call.
Snow again this morning
and the wind.

HU, Sweet One

A tragic death… caught in a door… In memory of a hamster that I loved. HU is also an ancient name for God and, in chant, a love song to that Divine Entity.

HU, sweet one
I call your name
Call HU from where you are
You are now soft in the Light and Sound
Kiss my hand with your soft touch
my heart, your name, and love.
Keep touch in the Light and Sound.
Touch the door and
Love the touch.
Love the Light and Sound.
Come in. Call me your name.

HU, sweet one.
Love in the Light and Sound
Bring the kitten
Sing for the birdsong within you
Fly with the eagles
Dance with the English poets
Call me your name
HU, sweet one.

I wrote this in 7/2000 in The Hague, Netherlands shortly after the tragedy. I was in a writers workshop, "Poetry and Writing the Dance of Life" by Ross Mabey and James Young of Great Britain.

Crisp with Winter

Sometimes the change of seasons gives a fresh look at old thought.

The pond made a solid step
         toward winter
         last night.
Froze over in the dog wind
         and growl.
Morning cattails still bend
         to the gnash of its teeth.

Inhabitants of this world—earth garden
         have no bent toward the shaded words
         of false dreaming demons.

The pond is crisp with winter.
         This day is true.

                   --ak 12/17/02

In The Morning

. . . life is rich with possibilities. I hear and see and write.

In the morning...
I hear the sounds of two worlds
        reuniting
dream characters of myself
        talking in birdsong
        to air ducts
        expanding my insight.
Refrigerator hums
        its HUUUing sound
        to cool air
        warming
        this day's new heart.

In the morning...
Clock starts its stop
        every second
nature takes time
standing on end
like a flash-shot
        of midnight's rocket
riding the sound wave
of master's muse
        calling this day's aces,
dealing and drawing light
        for the flight
        back home to God.

In the morning...
I see the hand of night's dream
        still dawning.
Light shows
        from sleeping clouds
        of feathered pillows.
The candle lit late
        flickers out,
but not before igniting
        its puff of down smoke
        rising, then falling
        when spent.

In the morning...
Earth sun of east heads south,
        as dancers of day
        dress in yesterday's memories
        and tomorrow's dream
filtered by the lens
        of last night's
        far flight
        in western sky.
Light shadows still cling
        to the wings
        of rotation.

In the morning...
Insight and mind-work
        converses with sunshine.
Traffic starts first in heart's hearth,
        extending its handle
        to road stone.
Dreaming hearts 'cross town,
        country land
        'scape to sea
        and sail
off this earth curve
        by plan of your lord
        or freedom's eternity.

In the morning...
        the gods talk to me.
                In the morning

                    --ak 1/13/01

Making Noodles

Memories from my life as a boy...

Morning kitchen. Poof the flour
in Mama’s mixing bowl.
Crackin’ eggs and stirring with a wooden spoon.
Too hot the oven. Close the draft
and open back porch door.
Roll the batter flat.
Cut and hang the noodles on a rack.
Mama’s kitchen in the morn
and Saturd’afternoon.

Is there room for me to run the rolling pin
if I pull a chair up next to you?
Lots of noodles yet to make
to keep the chicken pleased in pot.
I’m not tired for my nap.
Can I crack the eggs and stir ‘em yellow
with the spoon?
Is it too soon to taste the dough?
I get the one I dropped all on the floor.
I’ll wash my hands
and then I’ll make some more.

When it’s time for supper,
cabbage, ‘tatoes, peas,
and please pass the cookin’ pot.
Look-it. I helped Mama.
Making noodles for the soup.

--a 2/9/02

First Snow Revolution

Change of seasons always gets me going. Here is one of this year's first snow.

To say it snowed last night
is like a whisper in a bar brawl.
It's colder and white for sure,
but the howl of the north wind
is more a raucous caller reporting.

           Autumn is gone. In one night
           last leaves gave up
           and joined the flying club.

Used to be: Fall drop concluded in permission
for the next order of season--
soft and down. Not so.
North wind insighted an overnight revolution.

Already we feel the pain and long for
Spring's new administration.
Would that earth turning was as black and white
and simple truth not held captive by storm troops.

Red Truck Brown

These were the real men of my boyhood dreams. At the light one night.

Red truck brown mud
and dented, dirt and rock
seat hammered box, happy man
pulls up to run down flying
sun-brown and whiskered
twelve yard inch minus
hauling rock, check the lines
load on Pine Ridge
spread on Eighth
hoist still grinding, trip the gate
half foot little late
stopping only for the light
red truck brown driver
of dreams for a boy
just passing by.

-a 9/4/02

Positions

It’s not what you think, but just as good. And gets better all the time, after fifty. Cuddle when you can. It heals me.

Soft locks lapel my shoulder’s face,
her scent is wove in this embrace.
Calf and thighs, like laid-by meat,
beneath a tent of knees tepeed;
and spent, yet fresh, fall off to sleep.

Timed-turn to breathe each other’s breath,
arms draped on hips and over head.
Legs bent in angle, breast meets chest.
Or back-to-back, face east and west.
Love the heat, these curves of flesh,
two mated souls, as feet are pressed.

Roll now right to true spoon-form,
the drift in sleep of dreams we’re borne.
Tuck tush to tummy, soft and plump,
to leave the mind and prime the pump.
Then stretched full-length and fingers fixed,
limbs dropped like cordwood in woodbin.
Moon chills the air, but gold the glow
in these positions good mornings grow.

My Friend

I have a friend
who says he knows
it’ll be a dark day
when he puts his hooded
sweatshirt on backwards.
“It’s dark in here!”

Plays the moment,
hide-n-seek with light.
“Where’s the window?”
It’s a long way through
the darkness of now.
My friend writes it down.

Finds the lesson at last.
Repeated. Not that I ever
put my glasses in the freezer
and wondered blind, and warm.
But not close enough
to find ‘em. And finally.

Recorded now, I see.
We read each other’s notes.
Who gives me sight?
Delight, my friend.
You are a lot like me.
We have our moments.

Cuddle

Mind resists the call from pre-dawn cold mornings.

Cold room,
Soft bed.
Warm bodies
Cuddle.

Beep, beep.
Hit snooze.
Roll over.
Repeat.

--11/18/93 (and most every cold night since :) -a

Translation

He may see a dawning
of subtle colors
in pink and gray and gold
rolling ‘cross this morning sky.
With eyes – touch its texture
of ostrich-feathered quilt.

She may recall the moment
of first recognition, the touch
of a new hand and the kiss
that called her, Lover,
from another novel
not so rich as this.

It may be heard in the brook
from the bank by the oak
and the murmur of summer leaves.
Soon wind hurls snow
as its inner echo still howls
from October before.

May take an easel, notepad or piccolo,
paint with words or water-color copies
of the moment, memory or scene.
Sing by woodwind,
stringed chord or vocal.
May even buy tickets to the zoo.

The light always shines
and the chime rings true.
The poet only ponders its meaning.
The artist transcribes its charm.
Every expression is the Word in a new way,
each a translation of love.

What Is A Poet?

Not a writer of textbooks
or calculated treatises of reason where
words hold intent of well rationed thought.

The discipline less production
than happenstance in the issue of ether.

To merely transcribe what is heard
by the way of the heart as it heals every instant.
Not that recording is a talent suburb,
but the words are more song than symbol.

More to claim as a poet my good fortune for the gifts I receive.
And I thank you. For I am a child of God.
I listen, I capture.
And I share too.

The Conch of God

It is said that poetry is the language of the gods.

The Conch of God

A secret language
comes from the silence
of a sunlit chamber. Still.
It lives in the whisper
of a South Sea breeze.
A thought, an image,
an ambient suggestion
obliquely applied
calls in the first word
and highlights the next,
then rises in waves of the tide
to cover the shore of reason.
Cleansing, it recedes
and leaves a blanched seashell
in the silence.
Listen.

Of Late October

I looked out and saw the leaves falling fast in a gray morning start. Good day to stay inside. Someday I’ll have a wood stove again.

Of Late October

Heavy breath, and wet this Sunday morning.
Leaves drop without pause to test
for temp or light. It’s cold
across the acre of late October.
Every cat knows its place in the order
and asks for more.
Persistence – the cost.
Morning hours, muted colors
collecting to cover earth before snow
drives fast the lesson.
We watch this change of character.
Landscape turns in its sleep
to find its comfort late
in life as Soul.