INDEX
A:
AFTER A
CRAZY SINGING WALK
A LETTER
OF ADVICE TO AN OLD FRIEND
A LONG
JOURNEY TO NATURAL THANKFULNESS
A lost Dutchman
is comforted by her Little Prince
AN OLD
MOULIN
B:
BY A
LITTLE STREAM IN THE FRENCH PYRENEESS
C:
CLO
D:
DEATH IN
THE MIDST OF BEAUTY
E:
EVERY
ESSENTIAL THING
F:
FOR THE
HIDDEN CHILD MY DEEP HEART KNOWS
I:
IMPRESSIONS
OF AN OLD WORLD COUNTRY
L:
LEARNING
FRENCH
M:
MARIENOELLE
N:
NEAR
THINES
P:
PIO AND
LILLYÕS HILL
S:
Shakespeare and Co. Paris
SIMPLE
OPENNESS
T:
THESE
COLORS OF GODÕS DREAM
THE HEART IS DESIGNED TO OPEN
THE
LITTLE FOX
THE
SPANISH BULL
THE STORY
OF BECOMING UNFOLDS
U:
ULYSESS
V:
VINCENT
W:
WE SPUN
BY THE SEA
Y:
YOUNG
BEAUTY
22 poems
LAST POEM
IN FILE: IMPRESSIONS OF AN OLD WORLD COUNTRY
THE POEMS
Shakespeare and Co. Paris
6/5/00
This is a
maze for mice,
a
labyrinth of literature,
a
flophouse for brilliant,
dreamers
who chase the moon:
readers,
writers, poets, adventurers.
Amazing
souls.
*
It is a
place of presence; a vortex of ideas encrusted
with old
books: the legacy of trees,
bodily
fluids, hot juice, tears.
I'm here to write; to gather my head
back to
my bones in the dust of old places,
to feel
again ancient souls
moving
through things--
mirrors
of magic
lit by
imaginative memory,
clear
glass undetected by
those
overly concerned with
reflections
of the preening self.
Notre
Dame, the sound of passing cars;
Paris
wearing gray like a pouting schoolgirl
not allowed to wear her lipstick:
dutiful,
dull, passing time
until
night comes--when she
makes her
own sunshine:
an
amusement park
made for
masked dancers;
a
costumed lady with a dark belly.
Shakespeare
and Co. proudly founded in 1951
and run
by a wizened man,
a
literary relique, a man who admires angels
dressed
as little girls.
I hear he
got Alan Ginsburg drunk once.
I don't see that as much of an accomplishment:
except it
was to overcome his shyness
so he
could howl his Howl. Just another night in Paris
becoming
history.
Famous
George of Paris has seen a lot of history
here. His
eyes clouded with countless memories.
Many
writers on the walls--
pictures
inscribed to him. Jacqueline Kennedy
slept here: well at least passed by. I doubt she used
the tub
or looked in the fridge,
(reliques
with the mold of history on them there as well).
But many
have looked, and laughed, and left their own marks:
poems and
pictures, hieroglyphics of the mind,
testaments
to an old man holding a child inside
who
dreams of being welcomed into heaven
by angels
he has housed here.
Pigeons
drift down from the rooftops of Paris
to peck
dirty food scraps into small pieces.
I've watched them do this,
mannequins
marching, strutting
like
intellectuals too full of their own thoughts
to feel their way into another person's ears.
Willy is
sleeping on the coach.
The day
too gray even for an Irishman.
(I didn't think such a thing was possible.)
He was
going to write a few thoughts down today
but lent
his pen and paper to a wayfaring woman from Canada.
May the
muse reward him. No bit of kindness is too small.
I've delayed my train ride to Italy for just three days more.
I want to
be here in Paris. The first week has been a delirium.
Now it's time for feasting. It's not a dream I pursue really,
a poet
hidden away, pouring gold from his pen
amidst a
fabulous hovel of books,
but
rather contacts with real people, mind touching mind,
heart
massages that only friends can give,
joy in
nuances. Those huge old French tapestries
were all
woven by patient people, one throw at a time.
So goes
the making of soul and the passing of time.
There are
pretty young women here.
I haven't outgrown that attraction yet:
the lime
green thrill of fresh womanhood.
God grant
me grace that I never do.
My eyes
follow soft lines, the smoothness.
Something
inside me feels without touch.
Food for
the young woman who lives
in my
heart, an immortal litheness springing.
I'm going to slow down now. I must.
Read
poems in a bar and talked to a young man
who has
walked the pilgrim trails of France.
A
feasible dream for next year, if my legs hold up.
Perhaps a
horse goes slow enough.
Perhaps I'll acquire an animal friend
to nose
around back roads,
medieval
highways, the dust-choked expressways
of
beetles and birds.
*
I'm delaying that train ride to Italy again.
Can't get enough. It only gets richer.
Paris:
its bells ringing; sirens in the streets.
Flower
stalls, subdued paintings on old walls.
Fluid
chatter over coffee; languid looks
over
wine. A magician with
the
masterful slight of hand.
I laugh
at my good fortune
in this
cascade of sensations
awakening
thankfulness and thought.
Rainbow
festival, Italy
Late July
to early August, 2000
VINCENT
Confused,
clear,
passionate
as fire,
walking
through forests
dreaming
he can talk with God,
the man
is a child
who needs
to be held
for
weeks, for months,
for years,
in the warmth of some woman's lullabies
until his
heart knows
he can
never be rejected,
never be
lost and unknown again
for he
sleeps in a starry sea
and
amidst the rolling white clouds
that
spill over black mountains
after a
rain.
One day,
this man
Vincent
will sing
a song,
with such
innocent passion of heart,
with such
honesty of intent
that
birds will circle him as he sings
and bears
hidden in deep brush
will lick
their paws with anticipative joy
knowing
that such songs
are the
beginning
of a
dream so beautiful
as to
awaken even
the
slumbering souls
of men.
ULYSESS
The man
is a bear
in the
hairy, brown skin
of a
seal. A barrel-chested man,
he is
half wild with loneliness
of soul
and happiness of mind.
He sings
as effortlessly as birds,
and howls
his hidden pain
in the
joyful cry of a crazy wolf.
He
specializes in massaging
young,
naked women,
a service
of sacrificial love--
and in
passing the magic hat
so food
can be multiplied,
japaties
patted and cooked.
His gray
beard is made
of wood
smoke,
his blue
shorts
were torn
from the sky,
his hair was stolen from a wild horse's tail,
his face
was forged
in a
furnace of dirty brick.
Life
moves through
this
small mountain of a man
with the
same thrill
that
trees feel in the wind
or that
river stones feel
as cold
water passes.
If
Ulysses should love a woman
with all
the intensity
of his
crazy soul
she would
melt
into
liquid metal
and
quivering, reflect
with her
fire
his
shining face
to the
sky.
A lost Dutchman
is comforted by her Little Prince
We noticed
him sitting on the stone wall below the ancient Etruscan city.
He
reminded me of my lost self so close to me, so precariously
shielded
by this company. She stepped beyond patterns
people
teach each other and asked him questions
about his
life. He was so happy. And Love had her.
She
wouldnÕt back down. Soon she was telling him
of her
favorite story, the one held in the small book
she
carried, the treasure, her one possession.
He responded: the lost child touching the face of God's child
without
fingers, but with the luminous chords
unraveling
from his heart. She gave him her book.
Rioz,
France
SIMPLE
OPENNESS
Simple
openness:
the whole
world fights it:
this most
natural state,
this
foundational being.
Silence.
Sky
shining
through
the eyes
from open
windows in the heart.
The belly
spills out bright water:
and
laughs.
Everything
is a gift
to those
who welcome everything:
Who has
bought the sun?
Who owns
the sky?
Who pays
the grass to grow?
There is
an apple tree
with red
apples shining in the morning light.
It is a
miracle!
Rainbows
play through dew in the grass.
Heaven is in an old man's back yard.
The old
man sleeps
in a dark
as deep
as a blackbird's wing.
In his neighbor's yard
I am
breathing in
and
breathing out
every
essential thingÉ
Love
pours.
EVERY
ESSENTIAL THING
Forgiveness
is freedom.
Letting
go: the shadows burn away,
flying
upwards into the sun.
Colors
break through some gray in the mind.
Welcoming
every essential thing
flowing
from the still point
of nothing at all—
my
opening heart sings.
THE HEART IS DESIGNED TO OPEN
REWRITE:
October 28, 2000 Davis, CA
Someone
with an open heart
is
wealthier then all Corporations combined.
The
treasure of Life itself
pours
through. Awareness opens
and
expands outward, inward:
the
natural rhythm of existence.
Happiness
radiates from each bodily cell.
The hands
shine; eyes shine;
naked
feet caress the earth.
Such
foolishness, such poverty:
the
luminous pearl shines in dark shadows
of dense
things.
Everyone
is scurrying around,
lost in
desires that lead nowhere.
Ah, the
joy of desiring
the
sublime and luminous source
of
everything!
A soul,
weaving itself with treads of light,
with
smears of rich color,
appears
in the garden of invisible beings.
Someone
is singing with the tongues of angels
amidst a
world asleep in rock-and-roll:
some
naked person is clothed in luxurious light
amidst a
world ridiculous in designer jeans.
The sun,
the moon, the stars
pour out
the gift:
the earth
sings God
and time
rolls onÑ
the
inescapable reality
spilling
souls out into eternity.
What
laughter, what weeping:
this
divine joke, this cruel delusion:
Death
teaches us what is essential in Life;
Life
teaches us there is no death.
Up in the
towers of Corporations
everything
essential has been forgotten
for
essentialities are free
and lead
to freedom.
In a land
where every unessential thing
comes
with a price
who can
pay the price
of
forgetting to become real?
How
tragic it is to forget
that your
heart is designed to open.
THE STORY
OF BECOMING UNFOLDS
The story
of becoming unfolds:
written
on the leaves of trees;
written
with the ink of clouds
on
weathered stones.
Life
flows through to touch Life:
Love
flows through to awaken Love:
Like
seeking like. Angels blow trumpets,
peeking
out around castle walls.
Love
dismantles walls, stone by stone,
to reveal
a city of sunshine.
A LONG
JOURNEY TO NATURAL THANKFULNESS
What a
long journey it is
to this
joy:
simple,
natural thankfulness.
DEATH IN
THE MIDST OF BEAUTY
A pearl
is shining
in the
morning sun.
Rose
petals glisten
with night
dew.
Earth is
fragrant;
sky is
fresh.
An apple
tree
drops its
fruit on the ground.
A worm
has eaten
an
endless hole.
Shriveled,
this apple,
reveals
death
in the
midst of beauty.
Mystical, essential apple...
LEARNING
FRENCH
Rioz,
France
A new
language,
new
meanings:
Sounds I
do not know.
Worlds to
enter;
souls to
meet.
A woman
speaks
this
language like bird song,
singing
sound
into my
heart.
Her eyes
are full
of young
light.
I love
her.
August
28, 2000
Rioz,
France
AN OLD
MOULIN
Cheese,
wine,
an old
moulin
where
many Germans died.
Sleepy
wandering,
the river
and I.
We pick
berries
to make a
necklace
under a
lacy sky.
Childhood
memories:
a dead
rat floats;
a stolen
boat;
above the
earth
a
human-headed eagle
flies.
August
31, 2000
Rioz,
France
NEAR
THINES
Little
pools:
a perfect
place to be silent,
to open
the heart,
to run
naked,
half-wild,
to come
clear.
Above us
an 800
year old church,
Romanesque,
like a
foursquare stone,
meek in
Catholic graces.
The wind
whispers instructions
about
transparencies.
By night,
faint light of stars,
ancient,
eternally young,
singing,
enwraps us.
Love is a
young lightÉ
I've learned
that the
soul who understands death
and the meaning of life's graces
is
ageless.
Here, in
the slow flow
of
unhurried time
I've talked to Love.
She told
me I am loved.
Now life
is about throwing open
my arms,
about
saying the absolute Yes
my body
was created
in its
beginnings to speak.
The
little river spills
light and
laughter
from pool
to pool.
Life was
made
to share.
September
1, 2000
Rioz,
France
THESE
COLORS OF GODÕS DREAM
The dream
of love
comes
from clouds,
from the
wild eyes of horses,
from the
laughter of water falling.
It lives
in simple houses,
in stone
sinks,
in wooden
tables and chairs,
in loaves
of bread,
in
dustpans and brooms,
in a bed
of love
where
sunlight
shines in
the sheets.
Love is
poetry,
a poetry
that asks of us
all the
heart:
to drink
the brew of heaven,
to pour
out simple
shifting
fragrances in words,
or
colors, or the forms of things.
How rare
is the soul
who knows
how precious is the gift
being
offered.
The Great
Love
is
everywhere,
enveloping
us
as oceans
enwrap
fish,
as sky holds birds and clouds...
yet how
rare the soul
who can
drink it in
and wake
up,
with
passion to share
this
poetry of life,
these
colors of GodÕs dream.