Skip to main content

Like Fresh-cut Grass

I climbed a mountain without a line
To rest in the hand of the Buddha
And grieve with him;
To bemoan the multitudes

Curving their bodies in obeisance,
Trailing smoke from sticks-
Watery-eyed wanderers,
Wonderers in anguish,

Who missed the mark,
Who miss the answers

That litter their path,
Printed in manuscript that reads
Like the simplest verse,
But crumbles under their feet
As they walk on

With sun-burned faces, in denial
Of the plainness of it, bound
To the notion that truth is elusive,
That it is for the collared and the robed,

The emaciated, squatting on mountaintops;
While revelation drifts

Like snow banks.
Like fallen leaves,

It tickles their ankles;
Stains their cuffs
Like fresh-cut grass.

Comments

writerwoman said…
Great word choices. I felt like I was pulled into the pain of those people and made to feel as they feel. You took a bog concept and brought it down to a human and personal level.

Popular posts from this blog

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.

The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
Staring out the window,
Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
They could not believe it.
I don't know what I saw,
If I’m lying to myself.
The day my brother flew,
I sat down on a stairstep,
Fingers in my hair,
Asking why I breathe.
He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
That was '91;
The answer never came.

This Is How They Talk

There's another part, always,
that doesn't want to go,
a shape more practiced
than my humble sincerities,
my tilted resolutions.

I forget to relax my knees,
That I should soften my jaw,
take lessons from the glass,
from the sidelong blurs,
and oblong silhouettes;

take in the everyday words
That clatter around my body.
I should brush against these threads,
learn their girth and texture.

This is how they move,
in great thrusts, driven
by asteroids and thunder.

This is how they talk,
in echos and gasps,
looking right at you.