ripple

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near, as it were your own?

It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air .

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again
Let it be known there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of man

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go, no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall, you fall alone
If you should stand, then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way, I would take you home

           -jerry garcia and robert hunter  ( as far as i know )

THE PLACE OF REST

          Unto the deep the deep heart goes,
           It lays its sadness nigh the breast:
         Only the Mighty Mother knows
           The wounds that quiver unconfessed.

          It seeks a deeper silence still;
           It folds itself around with peace,
          Where thoughts alike of good or ill
           In quietness unfostered cease.

             It feels in the unwounding vast
             For comfort for its hopes and fears:
                The Mighty Mother bows at last;
                  She listens to her children's tears.

                 Where the last anguish deepens -- there
                      The fire of beauty smites through pain:
                                 A glory moves amid despair,
                                        The Mother takes her child again.


                                                            A.  E.

a poem

I bear equally with you
the black permanent seperation.
Why are you crying?  Rather give me your hand
promise to come again in a dream.
You and I are a mountain of grief
You and I will never meet on this earth.
If only you could send me at midnight
a greeting through the stars.

                            by

Anna Akhmatova    (via John Berger)

love: stratified and strained ii, a poem

               ..








                
                               


                               Is it the necessity
                                  of a more precise definition
                                   or
                                    is it the possibility
                                 of a more precise definition??

                                 Thinkers bend
                               all their powers
                                 to the task of expressing
                              a half-intuitive dichotomy.
                           Yet I knew you loved me from the beginning;
                               all the knots you tied yourself up in
                          were merely a means
                                  of telling yourself
                               otherwise.
                                  Perception starts
                               with imagination
                              but what you saw in me
                                 was real
                             before you lost it
                               to the ghost.





                                        -matt shadow iris


they say that breakin' up is hard to do











.....

haiku

                                                                     





                                                                




                                                                This cold winter night,
                                                        that old wooden-head Buddha
                                                               would make a nice fire






 

                                                                                           Buson   (1716-1784)

                                                                                           trans.   Sam Hamill









.

inscribed on an egyptian statue, 1500 BC

 

O  my beloved

how sweet it is

to go down

and bathe in the pool

before your eyes

letting you see how

my drenched linen dress

marries

the beauty of my body.
 

Come,  look at me.

.

czerwonemaki na monte cassino

D'you see those ruins on the hill top?
There your foe hides like a rat!
You must, you must, you must
Grab his neck and cast him from the clouds!
And they went, heedless of danger
And they went, to kill and avenge
And they went stubborn as ever,
As always - for honour - to fight.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood.
As the soldier crushed them in falling,
For the anger was more potent than death.
Years will pass and ages will roll,
But traces of bygone days will stay,
And the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.

They charged through fire like madmen,
Countless were hit and fell,
Like the cavalry at Samosierra,
Like the men at Rokitno years ago.
They attacked with fury and fire,
And they got there. They climbed to the top,
And their white and scarlet standard
They placed on the ruins 'midst clouds.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood.
As the soldier crushed them in falling,
For the anger was more potent than death.
Years will pass and ages will roll,
But traces of bygone days will stay,
And the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.

D'you see this row of white crosses?
Polish soldiers did honour there wed.
The further you go, the higher,
The more of such crosses you'll meet.
This soil was won for Poland,
Though Poland is far away,
For Freedom is measured in crosses
When history from justice does stray.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood.
As the soldier crushed them in falling,
For the anger was more potent than death.
Years will pass and ages will roll,
But traces of bygone days will stay,
And the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.

   - translation of {feliks konarski} lyrics

coyotes

      by Jason Bolles
(montana poet    +1943)




A flake of moon in a speckle of fire,
      Lighting a barren lea:
And out of the shadows a goblin choir
     Singing a ghostly glee:
           rrrrooooo

Now a single voice in a mellow yell;
   Hark to the flirt and fleer!
Now hark to the ravening chorus swell
   The wild cadenza of fear:
    rr rk rr
rooeeeyihyihyihrrr

'Rroyo and rimrock,  bench and butte,
   Pale in a whey of light,
While the voice of a mad, insouciant brute
   Sings in the sage-sweet night:
         eee







ed.  jdh

a song to nobody

A yellow flower
(Light and spirit)
Sings by itself
For nobody.

A golden spirit
(Light and emptiness)
Sings without a word
By itself.

Let no one touch this gentle sun
In whose dark eye
Someone is awake.

(No light, no gold, no name, no color
And no thought:
O, wide awake!)

A golden heaven
Sings by itself
A song to nobody.

  - thomas merton  (disciple of benedict)

untitled declaration

The milk of zero
        and the meat of wind.

I set my table with the sauce of the sun,
       the bowl of prayers,
     and the rice wine of fairie stories.

I ride with seven marvels;
      I sit among the stitches of the sea.
            I listen to sand arriving.

I have food to eat
     of which I know nothing.


JR Caines

the smile

this poem has been floating around on my desk for a few years
it hides away then i find it lodged in a book or a paper file
it pops up out of piles of papers
and reasserts itself into my consciousness i don't know why
it's like a reminder of something
so i try to take heed
there is no name on the page
thus i present it here as a poem from the great ageless poet
Anon  ( i should hope Anon accepts the few editorial gestures)



with jangling strings
and a scent of holiness
you crept in
through one of those cracks
in the hardened, sun-baked ground

you brought rains
softened the soil
stretched forth your roots
into the newly fertile ground

an unnamed longing
disturbing the stasis
deep below

erupting
into a boundless smile
growing from the dark recess

my face,  of its own accord,
betrays to me
its joy
at seeing yours








anon

trail song

Tear down the tent and the shelter
stars pale for the breaking of day
far over the hills lies canada
let us be on our way

THE FLOWER

One short flight below i hear you and our daughter
passionately pouring yourselves into each other
like two oceans collaborating on a flower.

- Michael Fried  (The Next Bend in the Road)

untitled love poem by samantha lioi

I open my lips

dripping tears, place kisses

on the feet of Jesus.

Pouring out

perfume like pent-up regrets,

filling the room,

cleansing him.

Hoping he'll return the favor.

I don't know why I've come why I

had to come.

Now gathering up

my hair, unable

to wipe away,

to clean up,

to stop weeping.

See me:

wet cheeks,

red nose;

now hear

the one with perfumed feet,

the one you were afraid

to love this much:

It's all right to touch me.

Friend, you are clean.

in this new format my one intention is to steal poems from anyone and anywhere i will show no prudence no taste no aesthetic predilection whatsoever and i will respect no one's intellectual property
i will publish poems which appear to me which flit across my consciousness like leaves of trees in autumn if anyone anyone whosoever should wish to publish a poem send me an email jhanson@csbsju.edu  otherwise prepare yourself for the biggest epistemological heist ever known to the world