--Frank O'Hara 
Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth 
it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners 
the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water 
I wouldn't want to be faster or greener
than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days


[Creation of the World; Mikalojus Ciurlionis (1906)]......


From the Hilltop
--Tomas Tranströmer (trans. Robin Fulton) 
I stand on the hill and look across the bay.
The boats rest on the surface of summer.
"We are sleepwalkers. Moons adrift."
So say the white sails. 
"We slip through a sleeping house.
We gently open the doors.
We lean toward freedom."
So say the white sails. 
One I saw the wills of the world sailing.
They held the same course-- one single fleet.
"We are dispersed now. No one's escort."
So say the white sails.


[ Leelanau Co/Old Mission Peninsula/Traverse City, MI ]...


[ King Tubby Meets the Rockers Uptown ; Monty Alexander]


--Jeff Hardin 
I can't keep track
of existence.
One day it's a cuckoo,
the next day moldy bread. 
Someone reading Dickinson
looks up,
takes a sip,
lives again in Circumference. 
Nero, I grant permission
to burn down
my neighborhood,
its yacking nightingales. 
Someone steals past
with a psalm in his heart,
its grit so certain
jackals back away.

[via verse daily


That Which Nothing Greater Can Be Thought Of
--Jeff Hardin 
Rain ticking through the window screen,
sky vast on the other side
....................................of the vaster other side— 
I bow here to imagine myself small, smaller,
no more than a leaf tipped,
........................................letting it all slip and be gone.

[via Still: The Journal]


The Beard is the Grass of the Bald-Headed Man  Friedensreich Hundertwasser (1961) 


Tropic of Erasure 
Viscous air, wood grain
ferment, curdled plaster,
a humidity deepened
by an undone narrative
thought in conversion,
the cup of a worn self
from folded stasis
to evaporate passage 
Out the window that is eve,
residual induced algae,
sump rallied hours alive
on chlorophyll gestures
mussed with skunk paths
afloat through spiderwort
plumes beside a fern burrow
siphoning vestal silence, 
Oh how ground coils
with liquid atmosphere
as fulminous prescience
triggers off horizons
rife with lightning,
the earthen quake,
verboten thunder,
offensively charged 
Prying planetary time,
pneumatic and phasic
surge expanse that is
this furtive doom,
where reaction slides
in melanistic steps
beyond the thin option
known as memory- 
That personal ritual
comprised and contorted
in its own image,
a name, an abundance,
an old trap sprung
empty when it falls
upon itself in solvent
dilutions of squishy
moss and rain


I know where the half-dead hug their last secrets: the fungi-focus, inertia's children; how they stay there-- limp as drenched insects-- so happy with themselves. 
You're a living example that the mystics were right: we must escape the ego. 
In spite of all the paraphernalia for keeping things together, how haphazard  life is, and the judgements of time. 
The spiritual growth's an oscillatory thing: we move by shivers in the world's tumultuous spine. 
I have begun, again, my long training as an enemy of contemporary custom. 
Alas, he's degenerated into a civilized man. 
He hasn't got time in his life for a dog or a cat. All he's got room for is improvement. 
To be less than you are is so easy: even a child needs no lesson in this. 
Civilization is over rated: but there isn't anything much else. 
To each his own labyrinth. 
Self-knowledge: the supreme, perhaps the only, good? 
I'm here, where time stares. 
I can't fly, except into the wind. 
I'd live among the fish if I could. 
I live in a half-night, outside a dream, yet not within life. My dreams don't understand me. 
Both inner and outer reality the same: the final secret... 
May your feet imitate heaven. 
Dust shall be, shall see. 
I believe, even in sleep. 
--from 'The Right to Say Maybe'; Theodore Roethke (assembled by David Wagoner)


The Waking
--Theodore Roethke 
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.  
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.  
I learn by going where I have to go.  
We think by feeling. What is there to know?  
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.  
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.  
Of those so close beside me, which are you?  
God bless the Ground!   I shall walk softly there,  
And learn by going where I have to go.  
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?  
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;  
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.  
Great Nature has another thing to do  
To you and me; so take the lively air,  
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.  
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.  
What falls away is always. And is near.  
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.  
I learn by going where I have to go.


In a country crying for gods the stones give tongue,
While the slashed logs lie still
In the fat shade, thick as moss,
The silver sides sliding with snails,
The sly birds close:
Come to me, towhee,
Close-hopper, pecker of seeds,
A face floats out of the sharp ferns,
All this shuttling in the sun,
Motion profound as song.
Come, come, you summer sounds, a leaf away,
Who billow up my sleeve like a small breeze,
How am I here? 
That question cries again--
What is the least we know?
I call the slug my kin,
And move with those born slow.
--from 'I Sing Other Wonders'; Theodore Roethke


He was a wise man who invented beer. ~Plato.........
[ Soul Style ; Green Flash, San Diego, CA ]................


Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light. 
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?" 
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."  
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."  
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years. 
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!  
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.  
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.  
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less. 
--from 'The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám' (trans. Edward FitzGerald)


I know it’s summer even if I can’t decipher the call.
I believe in the birds haunting me. I held on.
I’m full of bluster but also full of vision.
I’m not ready to put the book down.
To stop singing bright spots thrilling the quicksilver
.....over my torrent.
I make sounds, forget to die. I call it living,
.....this inhuman conch in the ear.
A pewter sensation and wind.  

The sun remains a yellow sail tacked to the sky.
I am climbing air here. I am here
.....in the open.
The kestrel swerves.
Its silent kerning.
A stunning calibration of nothing.
I’m left to see. 
--from 'A Winding Sheet for Summer'; Peter Gizzi

I wasn't planning on a solstice related post, but, here it is! The poem in its entirety available at POETRY, June 2016.


Caught Summer is always an imagined time.
Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind.
There must be prime
In the heart to beget that season, to reach past
.....rain and find
Riding the palest days
Its perfect blaze. 
--from 'My Father Paints the Summer'; Richard Wilbur


[ Roberto Burle Marx (1958) ]........

Design for the Minister's Rooftop Garden, Ministry of Education and Health, Rio de Janeiro.


--William Carlos Williams 
As the cat
climbed over
the top of 
the jamcloset
first the right
then the hind
stepped down 
into the pit of
the empty
flower pot


....Any way you walk
....Any way you turn
....Any way you stand
....Any way you lie
You have pissed your life 

From an ineffectual fool
butting his head blindly
against obstacles, become
brilliant — focusing,
performing accurately to
a given end —  
....Any way you walk
....Any way you turn
....Any way you stand
....Any way you lie
You have pissed your life 
--William Carlos Williams


Perfection, Perfection
--Kilian McDonnell 
..........................(“I will walk the way of perfection.” Psalm 101:2) 
I have had it with perfection.
I have packed my bags,
I am out of here.
As certain as rain
will make you wet,
perfection will do you
It droppeth not as dew
upon the summer grass
to give liberty and green
Perfection straineth out
the quality of mercy,
withers rapture at its
Before the battle is half begun,
cold probity thinks
it can’t be won, concedes the
I’ve handed in my notice,
given back my keys,
signed my severance check, I
Hints I could have taken:
Even the perfect chiseled form of
Michelangelo’s radiant David
the Venus de Milo
has no arms,
the Liberty Bell is

[via except in dreams]


Observations on True Voluptuousness
--Lauri Otonkoski (trans. Anselm Hollo) 
Mornings he ends up
putting on his clothes. 
In his profession
he works. 
On his way to work he sees an incident
and decides to tell his nearest about it that night,
employing a few colloquial expressions. 
He has a mood
but the weather's outside. 
From the lunch menu he does select
some food and a little drink. 
In his free time he loves
works made by artists
and compositions composed by composers. 
In the bus, he directs his gaze at a person (female).
'Subject, predicate, object!'
he admits. 
'Expletive, giggle!'
She turns to look
at the view through the window. 
But when saw-souled sun and contemplative moon
changed places
and day swooned into the weave of night
...............the world's engine
...........it, it just went on purring.



Almost makes me want to change the title of this blog to Two Light Lamp Post!

[via louxo's enjoyables]


Haiku- Spring 2016

more cold wind,
lonely colors of hyacinths 

green shoots piercing
the gray mat of litterfall-
again, myself

after the rain
enigmatic evening
slides on a dream

magnolia blooms
canvass the yard
for lost moonlight

growing optimism
is forgiveness 

cherry blossoms-
each petal falls
to its memory

pieces of sky
in buildings mirroring
our half truth life

plexi rush
scratch hour

Infinite Jest
cradled in her arm
against her chest

a branch of lilacs
whispers fragrant amnesia
in a slow sunset

blossoms and sun,
afternoon curlicues
upon the lazy

lax dog leashes 
tied outside the diner,
sunny side up