Pickwell

 To his happiness 

and his silence

  the mystic lore 

of his own journey, 

 there was never an 

end of study.

   Both sound and elastic

were his constitution.

        So keen and so cold were the 

blue eyes of his master.

         The deep grained

wanderings, whether over concrete

   or mud

 took him to the freezing spell

           of dirty grass

and broken signs, 

 Always dearly and deeply held 

             were his convictions.

              But he fell in love with

her potter's hands and dark eyes

  He forgot about 

            the seaside and books,

for what is an ocean if 

        you cannot bring with you

               your world?

   Though meditation is a lukewarm hobby

 he traded at it anyway

         looking for the truth

like a dice player 

       calling out a number

         his inner Buddha

yawned and said,

  "most attachments are foolish,

              but some are deepest wisdom"

    this mind you have been training is just 

                 a monkey, a drunken, angry, 

                         monkey, bit by a scorpion.

           Follow the woman, eat well, teach goodness, and 

                               stop trying to BE good..

  and they all lived pretty well ok

 

   

 

Dayton

When did snow become

       something else,

like from when it makes the yard

          trash disappear 

into a wondrous wizard wall

              was it when we

 figured out the demon litany

      of snowballs soaked in water

 nestling eggs of pain in every snow fort

        Sometimes there were tiny piles of coal

            or rocks 

for the core

         and me and my brother 

          had to run and hide 

               and fight our dirty war

  snow would taste so salty

          our poor bloody lips

      or slush holes and road crystals

              slinging tears

     Then it slowly turned into a 

         heaving hunched animal

grey from the concrete factory

          yellow streaks

    abandoned toys poking through

           colorful bones on roadkill

 

But it changed

    and in Texas, snow stayed

magical and 

disappeared gracefully

       the snowballs kiss a 

cheek and the fancy flowers

         are lips and fire

the kids are 

   not 

      stones.

Walnut Creek

 

In the woods there are still, quiet places

where only wanderers chance to go

they leave behind no visible traces

not even in the  mothering glow

Can you hold a tree as sacred and simple?

a place to hide from  burning sun or blasting wind

a place to tell your secrets and make a little temple

and though  gone from view, a life that doesn't end

I am from....

 

I Am From…

 

I am from pendulum clocks,

from Kool-Aid and linoleum

I am from the finished basement,

deep, musty, a refuge on hot nights

I am from the Chinese Maple,

made of glass in ice storms,

that dripped like soup in sunlight

I’m from brown station wagons and bowling alley birthdays,

backyard orchards and cellar pantries

I’m from “God doesn’t see you, you’re not baptized”

to “I’ll find God on my own”

From Leon and Everett

I’m from addictive personalities and infidelity

From “we can do this the easy way or the hard way”

I’m from The Old Line state, Pennsylvania Dutch (Deutsch)

Sweet corn and Old Bay

From my jock father turned hippie,

from my babysitter since 2 weeks old

In the books under sheaths of plastic, sit paused memories

At once a comfort and a scar

-- Katee Myers

There's a Part of Me.

There's a part of me-

tugging at my hem and pushing at my knees; dragging down my fingers.

It looks up at me with desperate,

hurt(full) eyes.

It's hard to hear a word between tearful chokes and whimpering gasps.

Oh, little part of me!

Swallow down your sobs.

You cry of desire-

a demise you know little about.

You have the tongue of a child;

the pain of an illusion. 

"Desire my form! Desire my form!"

You plead for pacification.

Who taught you bottomless pits and sacrificial offerings?

The world is not your battleground. 

   -- Katee Myers

lesson plan

  The knot in the string
is easy to unravel
     but our eyes won't see

   our palaces rise
think they're better than flowers
   but they're dead inside

 turn my glance downward
       I see something that's not there
   pebbles look like worlds

      sometimes i forget that i
have the power to save and to teach
       surrounded by noise and
    small minded assholes
who mock a poet and praise
          a thief..

  the kids come to us as
  magnificent butterflies and tiny dragons
       the rulers want us to turn them all
 into ants and frightened mice

          I am starting to learn from
 the little ones
          and stand on my hind legs
                to grab what's ours.

travail, the mother

She brings cake
when everyone else brings plastic spoons
She has rain boots
all the others squish and track
She turns the light off
 when she leaves, she takes out the trash
       Where would we be
       without her?
The living incarnation of Parvati
    the goddess who rides a tiger
 holding a mirror and some kind of blissful tools
      looking to do some good.
Look around you
    you can catch a glimpse
 on the bus or in a classroom
        of her ordinary majesty
 perhaps you knew her
          as a child.