Archive for the 'Poems' Category

Lift it back into the world.

May 24, 2018


Mary Ponsot – “Strike deep, divide us from cheap-got doubt;”

November 14, 2017

BOMB magazine review of:


Private and Profane

From loss of  the old and lack of  the new
From failure to make the right thing do
Save us, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.
     From words not the word, from a feckless voice
     From poetic distress and from careless choice
     Exclude our intellects,  James Joyce.
From genteel angels and apostles unappalled
From Hollywood visions as virgins shawled
Guard our seeing, Grünewald.
     From calling a kettle an existential pot,
     From bodying the ghost of  whatever is not,
     John save us, O most subtle Scot.
From pace without cadence, from pleasures slip-shod
From eating the pease and rejecting the pod
Wolfgang keep us, lover of God.
      Couperin come with your duple measure
      Alter our minds against banal pleasure.
Dürer direct with strictness our vision;
Steady this flesh toward your made precision.
     Mistress of accurate minor pain,
     Lend wit for forbearance, prideless Jane.
From pretending to own what we secretly seek,
From (untimely, discourteous) the turned other cheek,
Protect our honor, Demetrius the Greek.
     From ignorance of structural line and bone
     From passion not pointed on truth alone
     Attract us, painters on Egyptian stone.
     From despair keep us, Aquin’s dumb son;
     From despair keep us, Saint Welcome One;
     From lack of despair keep us, Djuna and John Donne.
That zeal for free will get us in deep,
That the chance to choose be the one we keep
That free will steel self  in us against self-defense
That free will repeal in us our last pretense
That free will heal us
      Jeanne d’Arc, Job,  Johnnie Skelton,
      Jehan de Beauce, composer  Johann,
      Dark  John Milton, Charter Oak  John,
Strike deep, divide us from cheap-got doubt;
Leap, leap between us and the easy out;
Teach us to seize, to use, to sleep well, to let go;
Let our loves, freed in us, gaudy and graceful, grow.
Originally appeared in the June 1957 issue of Poetry magazine.

Investigative Poetry – Eclipse

October 4, 2017

35mm film Minolta – Peaks Island, ME

Moon’s orbit moves between the Sun and the Earth – Eclipse – August 21, 2017

Investigative Poetry – Braveheart + Worker Man [ Bridge] –

August 15, 2017

35mm film Minolta – Peaks Island, ME – March – April 2017

About ready / Ready About

Ground Level Framing.


Man vs. Nature – Investigative Poetry

April 18, 2017


Recollection 2016 – September-October

B&W 35mm film – Nikon

with great thanks to Niki Taylor for chemistry, time + know how and Travers Tuttle for the kind lending of fuel receptacles to keep digging with.


No. 01 RE-INITIATION (prompts to form complete verse)

March 17, 2017

MUTE EXPRESSION WILL NOT PROTECT.  story    u n f o l d s   i n   s  p a  c  e   a n d   t  i  m  e

Man vs. Nature – Investigative Poetry

March 7, 2017

2016 Re-collection  WINTER – SPRING – SUMMER – FALL

Peaks Island

35mm film Canon / Nikon


Wendell Berry – of the essence of this time, Thank you , Jeanne.

February 24, 2017

It is hard to have hope. It is harder as you grow old,

For hope must not depend on feeling good
And there is the dream of loneliness at absolute midnight.
You also have withdrawn belief in the present reality
Of the future, which surely will surprise us,
…And hope is harder when it cannot come by prediction
Any more than by wishing. But stop dithering.
The young ask the old to hope. What will you tell them?
Tell them at least what you say to yourself.

Because we have not made our lives to fit
Our places, the forests are ruined, the fields eroded,
The streams polluted, the mountains overturned. Hope
Then to belong to your place by your own knowledge
Of what it is that no other place is, and by
Your caring for it as you care for no other place, this
Place that you belong to though it is not yours,
For it was from the beginning and will be to the end

Belong to your place by knowledge of the others who are
Your neighbors in it: the old man, sick and poor,
Who comes like a heron to fish in the creek,
And the fish in the creek, and the heron who manlike
Fishes for the fish in the creek, and the birds who sing
In the trees in the silence of the fisherman
And the heron, and the trees that keep the land
They stand upon as we too must keep it, or die.

This knowledge cannot be taken from you by power
Or by wealth. It will stop your ears to the powerful
when they ask for your faith, and to the wealthy
when they ask for your land and your work.
Answer with knowledge of the others who are here
And how to be here with them. By this knowledge
Make the sense you need to make. By it stand
In the dignity of good sense, whatever may follow.
Speak to your fellow humans as your place
Has taught you to speak, as it has spoken to you.
Speak its dialect as your old compatriots spoke it
Before they had heard a radio. Speak
Publicly what cannot be taught or learned in public.

Listen privately, silently to the voices that rise up
From the pages of books and from your own heart.
Be still and listen to the voices that belong
To the streambanks and the trees and the open fields.
There are songs and sayings that belong to this place,
By which it speaks for itself and no other.

Found your hope, then, on the ground under your feet.
Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground
Underfoot. Be it lighted by the light that falls
Freely upon it after the darkness of the nights
And the darkness of our ignorance and madness.
Let it be lighted also by the light that is within you,
Which is the light of imagination. By it you see
The likeness of people in other places to yourself
In your place. It lights invariably the need for care
Toward other people, other creatures, in other places
As you would ask them for care toward your place and you.

No place at last is better than the world. The world
Is no better than its places. Its places at last
Are no better than their people while their people
Continue in them. When the people make
Dark the light within them, the world darkens.

-Wendell Berry


June 15, 2016

Investigative Poetry, nature vs. man

February 18, 2016

35mm color film
raspberry buds, hub, Jesse, blue flag blanket.
recollection: 07.15


November 8, 2015

image image

Saga – Mary Ruefle

February 19, 2015

Everything that ever happened to me
is just hanging—crushed
and sparkling—in the air,
waiting to happen to you.
Everything that ever happened to me
happened to somebody else first.
I would give you an example
but they are all invisible.
Or off gallivanting around the globe.
Not here when I need them
now that I need them
if I ever did which I doubt.
Being particular has its problems.
In particular there is a rift through everything.
There is a rift running the length of Iceland
and so a rift runs through every family
and between families a feud.
It’s called a saga. Rifts and sagas
fill the air, and beautiful old women
sing of them, so the air is filled with
music and the smell of berries and apples
and shouting when a gun goes off
and crying in closed rooms.
Faces, who needs them?
Eating the blood of oranges
I in my alcove could use one.
Abbas and ammas!
come out of your huts, travel
halfway around the world,
inspect my secret bank account of joy!
My face is a jar of honey
you can look through,
you can see everything
is muted, so terribly muted,
who could ever speak of it,
sealed and held up for all?

“Saga” Mary Ruefle


April 12, 2013

I read the prompts having made decisions with my heart
accounting intellect
that the analogies in this context are all too exotically common.
mangos, retreats, straw hats, promo posters,
chihuahuas, lack of education, disbelief, belief.

Here I am still prompted by others searching over a huge distance.
My language has not changed that much.
It is rehearsed,and new characters slowly slide their way
into a record of personal symbology.
and I am still prompted by those
who know how to speak my original tongue,
who speak up over a huge distance.
It will never be spelled out in front of me, in front of you.
Mirages are everywhere.
It is in the heart (haaaaaaaaaah)
the truth, that can be known when the voice,
the words, source from there
with sadness and longing.
They are the guides because their immeasurable shapes start inside.

Writing returns to the same topics,
drawings keep
being made to show new things.
The things our mothers and grandmothers
and fathers and brothers never spoke of.
Die before they dare tell us.
Before they even know ancestry doesn’t need a story
is that your make up sweating off?
It is what is carried through the tropics,
the desert, the meadows, the mountains –
For us on the same disparate mission –
we are the ones now responsible.
The curious, bold, silent actors
responding to meetings with those who say :
” You are not a predator, no, you are not prey.
You live how you breathe and you breathe how you live.
You are a teacher. ”

And you put aside those who are kept imprisoned
by the bad teachings of others black hearts.
Toxifying your own to see what its all about.
That place others speaks from
to the so many that think they must bother to give them heed.
You must not.
You already laid a trail.  You must follow that.
The breadcrumbs, the quench of stones.
The gems of light you, every so often, will be blinded by in your rear view mirror.
The colored rocks you see through the settling dust ahead in your windshield.

Don’t mis-identify those pieces that get hacked off, are left for dead on the ground.
You could found them as yours, pick up, take care.
They will purify the black of the heart,
the blocks
in in-operative elements so vital for a continuous high functioning example.

It is all not to forget.
We already have been the cat on too high an edge
misplacing the memory of a broken spine.
The women recommending, drink your own urine to reduce swelling
and raise immunity.
The musician beating a lullabye.
and the child who got lost because someone who can
chooses not to.

If you can remember, the green will feed you, the water will hold you and you will know what is good, sad and long.

I do not know the answers, there is nothing to believe. i just lay in the sun, shedding slowly, ignoring taboos to learn more discipline.

Define: Control

Compare: Mirage to Illusion

Explain: How to build and maintain health.

Make a Map : Of what you know by heart.

Bonus* In your own terms write an elaborate description (without too many frilly adjectives) on how one’s health relates to one’s home.


March 5, 2013
It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living. Because we are alone with the unfamiliar presence that has entered us; because everything we trust and are used to is for a moment taken away from us; because we stand in the midst of a transition where we may not remain standing. – R. M. Rilke
Photo 2343

If you don’t mind, go through the dark (and other old directives)

February 27, 2013

(write Bronwen)

(Parker is a teenager)

(Fish out of water)


(Paste + Mend)

(Old to new)

(now i get it)

(backing away, turn to leave)

(get a new job – find a good job)

home, home on the range

(obstacles decrease)

(abstinence, patch it up)

(Heta, Cam, spiritually connected)

(Beware the crooks)

Speakerphone on the street
everyone can hear,
the whole world is watching
traffic covers it up
distance is necessary to cover

(start a new project)

(Fridah Kahlo, life jackets)

(let it out, put it down)

(Remedies, find allies)

(give and take, be gentle with yourself and others)

(give more light)

(Open your heart, let out whats in there, hang on)

(be diligent + disciplined)

(know what you see when its dark)