how to live in a house
arriving at
Soaring Gardens
a thanks to
Ora Lerman
little windows of the sun for first
in leafbright
then a squirrel runup
here’s the trick – it’s day
though not so on the other side where
even when gone
a kitchen meadow
sighted, lit
a road runs by
more often not
which people
kind safe
for their why
and other us
how come?
in one I wish
and sit for fall
I mean for the turning
for beyond of breeze
concession not yet come
it’s endless the bright guess begins
and in this spirit
close sprawl of ideas
what are the times we have?
all called to conversation
the gone with us here
enable
out of a country of conquest, gun
misery also brought
think of it compulsion
violence ever about to begin
and need to paint it
from the inside out
green as tree beside
knowing nothing yet
must make minds blanks
there’s a yonder where the mowing begins
each of us under the aegis
brings just a little shine
love falls for us again
again
and so I make these thanks
3.ix.24
I make a presence of
this self
from among
sleep’s annotations
it gathers me
from glint to blinding
like bright from where
the summer mow
a window mist glassiness
deer first thing framed
the old apple fall
it’s now
and far
remembering
4.ix.24
processional
Susquehanna
County dreaming
in lattice light
lie very still
as creature
arms in each
day’s paddock is a rail down
that’s by beast
is more than breeze
and side by side
in leaflight
touch
our own sun
pointedly
as paper takes
and further down
by aisle by alibi
where I’ve not been
but you’ll see
round corners
where the barn cats still
in cupboards further
things long left
latch and twine
a clamber branch
squirrel face
the wire that was
in dreams afoot
choose who’s to
here as far as eye’s concerned
from under pile and pill
there’s always tin of white paint
to a corner
by glue
stuck solid now
sometimes it’s all the day has left
they work the fabric backwards here
they drive on the wrong side
and pizza
in the rolling hills
all meadow next
because we broke the clock
set straight
afoot, did I
along the way?
here’s a Trump sign – mind’s outlier
a happy haunting
print through
we make our own fun here
in the jungle of just
where we happen
vale my great
friend, Gina Ghioni
in the music of rain
a bright patch
where we saw the whales
it was all the world outside
world indoors as well
with little leaping hound at home
we were a couple of pups once
not long
but both building persistent
knocked about
kicked around
in conversation
in print and by gestetner
I blind to much and you knew
were picturing
piano too
and I guitar
quick quipped Byronic
(on the Bucketing Downs)
and the sea was yours
is
we were in China
in Markwell, in Christchurch
on the train, afoot
there’d always be when and next
years nothing away
till now
you’d love the light here
a flutter
squirrel up
first shadows
forest thereof
hills rolling away
moments like this
I go into a poem
where
you are the roof and the walls
and the style
you know
this is what I do
you live in
a wry purple
not mine
you are always making
dear friend you’re with me
here now
almost autumn
the leaves though still
all green as far as the eye
now the sun comes up
without itself
the rest of us left bereft
go on with the ache of you gone
5.ix.24
two poems
morning meadow stroll
midst hat
with wings
and might be eagle
the dew till noon
where the deer departed
birchfall
and burrow stone
go for a slide
by moss
by fabulous fungus
all colour given by our star
where lightning
not the axe fell
and all the tricks of light
with someone is climbing
someone’s away
other eyes lit here
waft of honey yet to be
hear the forest shadows shift
wildflowers standing nameless to me
strange trees
uneven ground
trip hazards
comes then our house to top the hill
where all the ways are lost
out in this breath of fresh of air
a woodsthick deep
Tewksbury Hollow Road (T351)
imagine snow
Frost’s miles to go
a birch in the blue today
a blue up
and a pasture roll
needle too
summer yet
a settling of truck dust
at one point someone’s chickens follow
trudge on
and that’s the rhythm
lines of power soldier through
a sunfall tumble
at gallop the deer
a breeze leaf twirl lit
all these on our way
the day keeps giving along
6.ix.24
a flag flies over it
all
in the dung hills
green as far
fences, goldenrod for glory
letterbox flag stiff set
as on the moon
and I grew up with
thornfallen
mudstuck
a bale roll for the open air
the sunflower fields
a fifty first state
little insects loud at the bells
climb
all of us so
people won’t agree
there’s a well in the yard to remember
and sometimes the stars wear out
machinery!
proclaiming
a set of provocations
they’re fracking away
so there’ll be no tomorrow
not much traffic in the mind here
stand in the middle of the road
where the century pokes out
a gun will make you nicer
there’s all of this as if unending
when it’s just for today
a flag flies over them all
the wars that were here
and the wars away
7.ix.24
fresh falling
Ricketts Glen
State Park, PA
by the all roar creek
tumble strung through suntricks
in shadows and to bright
damp, moss shone
trail for the brain
uphill till
all along the cliff drip slip
military
courtesy met on the track
everything written down here
as by touch
for the risk we’re forgotten
reminds me of
somewhere I’ve not been before
such trees come crevassing up
leaf pointed
must imagine soil
indications of heaven
for those
self-othering, full frocked, demure
hair netted up
in buns, time honoured
they come to
marvel at the work of no one
so fix the
sense of who they are
whereas
I, myself, an insect landing
staircase too
a travelling doubt
here’s the day like a tune turned out
the water falls all ways at once
who’ll say it’s without thinking?
anonymous work
who’s to bring breeze?
a sycamore
sunset trod
we polish the roots that tangle the way
where all
these feet have fallen
passed
so you won’t
see them now
two poems in honour of
Ora Lerman
in the house of the
bunny and the brush
Soaring Gardens
the hills sunned outward
tractor wrapped
we are under black walnut
all here to be far
timber in paint
in the life that was
wooden whiskers
poise to pounce
a loyal stance still now
we are here to witness
flat stone walls
what’s there what’s not
someone like a kangaroo
someone like a tiger
the world green gold around
at the sign of the hallowed allée
door flung
we’re pharaohonic
eyes all amaze ablaze
a rooster, too, live at times
we’re the odd collection
have to do the trick
it brights the sky to ambulate
over the hills hear money run
but here the bunny of the bobbin sits
at the sign of the timber hopper, grass
page driven each on to the next
that’s time and we’re in it still
glyphside, cat over map
a fold in the geometry
the egg secreted and the egg attained
a rabbit all attention
life still, open mawed
and there’s parody of it
I make into words, let’s guess
some resigned, nor quite comedic
each serious, grim, to its own scale
at the work of being merely
least whence, this is place to be mossed
then are we trusted from a form?
quite still, calm, not about to leap
but there – it’s said
is this plane dimension?
the animal our own eyes in
place we see past, diagonals absolute
where birth is always about to be given
with what we call a soul
because we do not know at all
bright of
elsewhere in the brush
a painting of
the carving
of the
creature in mind
by way of
story far forgotten
it’s in the spirit of the place
we must remember
here
aura
in a boat
with a bridge
here and gone
another of
flowers
a slightest
sky
the picture
nothing to the place
here we are
a room’s
reflected
the head dress
meaning
one must guess
so elven
present
quirky calm
she – wraithlike,
slight, ethereal
and hear the
day outdoors
as if it were
we
now here
prepared for
all this
squirreling away
trees at their
pitch of season
those eyes
always looking
out
never where
I’m from
in a boat
with a bridge
here and gone
9.ix.24
under black walnut
an elevensy at
Soaring Gardens, Susquehanna County, PA
the tree’s song
is these arms wide
reaching, ready
to catch whatever falls
the house peels paint behind me
under black walnut
sky’s to leaf, a still blue
as if apprehended
come quiet, told
on from these last
forgotten rains
The elevensy
is a form invented a few years back by Kerri Shying and Kit Kelen… the title is
in the middle of the poem, with five lines either side … so we come to, and
away from, the centre of the poem
there is time in the stone
and harsh
the tree too down
leaves preceding
like a flower in the dark
through to day
in the dim down
still lit with
and all of this is just to say
go vastly in the roar
10.ix.24
start with where you
are
King Rd Walk,
Susquehanna County, PA
wishing to picture
make a list
make meadows
of grazing
leaf fall
look where
and the grass over
up to machine
barnscape
woods by
old tyres in a paddock ripe
sunflower city
bale henge
field of corn
silage beside
top the hill
they’re pumping out to be smoke later
a cloud’s eclipse
oat? is it?
fluff tufted
trill thereof
roadside sumac
shadows of fences fall
tiny and tart
apples left from time
to tell the tree
from stillness
and over the hill’s horizon
mud track
the barking away off
to angle
walking backwards up a hill
hips thank
years to fall
not a thing runs by
so many manage a standing death
accompanied
by vine, by deep
wasp, fungus, bee
this little fellow
goes into the tree
11.ix.24
it’s personal, this world
the aches and
turns
grip whiff
this pressure
too
all of it an
imperfection
time having
worn the ways
a narrow
window
sleep taking
where and will
grab this
a guess to get
going
nothing
given
a guess to go
on
one’s name on
it
in stars down
world’s fine,
a private place
once knew of
us all
sticks to my
feet
its spins
drags down
and to the nth
degree
and in
conclusion
a kind of
epitaph for each
a dedication
the leaf of
just one flight still ours
there’s no one
keeps up with this world
12.ix.24
a squirrel inward of idea
what’s known’s
day chatter
fall flower
heads up
under text
the country
takes its
turns
passes through
us
lines
slope so
variously treed
with all the
season stages
mullein,
ragweed, goldenrod
the eye
brights all
leaves a long
way to go
keep thinking
of a picture
you’re there
13.ix.24
a window is less than
the eye
we are here because of
sun, too, turning – that’s unseen
and the tree fills – leaf and light
breezes upon us
dayshine
a heart is in the blood goes on
once few and now
clock hum in meadow drift
the outdoors hungry till
come scratch then a door
it’s all there’s to remember gone
a window is less than the eye
the head flies off first inkling
we’re led
once few
and now
all first naked
from skin to be so
some thought flightless will adorn
good glimpse you’ll know
it’s where today along of yonder
as much as is to say
even open eyes are more
14.ix.24
upwards of a hammock
leaf and blue
finding level
almost tipping
a deerleap fencewise
edge of eye
the honeyed air
the apple wilds
they’re falling too
through open time
we turn a page
the season told
come as far
as day gone by
and here’s a cast of shadows
last
by moonlight
bitten
so sleep
so
sunbegun again
in a window pictured
stars on a shed
most pointed
imagine a pipe
and drum
dirt track
then
colours travel
of course there
is hill to up
the cloud at
the top of the road
they are turning
it’s an education
slowly but still
the colour comes
as day declines
things burnt
a bone misplaced
in deer skitter traipse
leafslid, trackless
shelves shale dull
with thus far time
it’s where afternoon
is decomposing
twig fingers
bare to reach
see the meadow upslope
know the house must be beyond
wonder under rock
is someone safe?
in the death of a tree
these beginnings
here to leave little
take less
just these woods
of a high up song
a squirrel in my
window
and tree’s the highway
twigwidth
a fence ridden tail toss
feat of balance strung
these are the antics of the swift
here’s the scrawny one
a little runup
paw by paw
camera shy
tops the canopy
great leap for the human eye
or it would be
give up waiting
and the squirrel comes
mouth full of needles
hunt always on
drop this
grab
that nut in claw and tooth too held
round as the whole wide world
19.ix.24
under our imagined
stars
hammock lyric
the land was
ours before we were the land’s
– Frost
and daybright while
the paling lasts
least daisies show through nicely
where it’s every motion spirits
thing to next and on
hammock for a question mark
persisting light
imagined stars
all this was someone’s so still is
in the few names left we have
and though there’s always
no forever
yet they, the
ungone
dwell hearts
and ours
for here is
the attending calm
in a window
not so
the apple
under deer
leaf midst
grass high
perch
precarious
the squirrel
runup
tipping out
falls as it
stands
in all the
voices of the tree
the bringing
of beyond
to bear
as we
from day to
next
and next
murmur in the
making yet
a song of how
we came
and now
a song of how
we’re here
18.ix.24
the way of the bug is
whimsy
probosc
on six legs
some spare
sleep brings
a kind of underthought
sky touch
pile
often floral
once up by leaf
take a line leastwise
imagine the gallop
guess on
it’s sometimes
nose to arse we must
naked
and the bones all out
it’s how we’ve come
from the other world
such trust!
the highest hill my home
we’re all efficient till
put out these few feelers
catch for colour
go bug eyed
hear this
there’s no unswoon
20.ix.24
sundown down
ekphrastic for
Justin McCarthy’s 1965 ‘Mauch Chunk’
(now Jim
Thorpe, PA)
the colour goes
or as long as it lasts
high orchard
ore under
town and a river
night coming
safe
till the trees go in
roofs still bright
you’ll half imagine
the train along
the river runs
you can see where they were once
now down
the grass comes over
they bury a coloured man just for his name
a statue too of the athlete Indian
sheds and green beside
see power transmitted
Coalville?
Mauch Chunk?
Mawsch Unk in Uanmi?
is it ‘Bear Mountain’? Place of the Bears?
Is it ‘Sleeping Bear’?
and the Molly Maguires are buried there
a lynching for the agitation
scenic place
bridge and bright leaning
that’s the town built
some hilltop last to graze
it’s as in the 1914 postcard
eagle drone over
no coal though now
the valley rings birdsong
lights flicker on
see the dinner beginning
that’s coal
lights up all the bones broken
three dollars a week
lights the table of poor fare
it’s all King Coal and the sixteen tons
dust in the folds of the bones of the heart
the lynching’s all a long time since
the crosses
you can hike from here
it’s a pretty town
catch a train there like in the olden days
that whistle’s all you can hear
2.x.24
it’s the ragweed not
the goldenrod
notes towards
a villanelle
for Jordan and
Sue
this season
chokes you up
one’s bright
the other hides its head
too heavy to fly
the goldenrod pollen
so it’s not the flashman after all
it’s the one who hides under
there is conspiracy of herbs
there’s spittle bug
black birch
tastes sarsaparilla
there’s a treaty between the root and the fungus
the body prisoner of illusion
it’s the old soul inversion
not what seems
like the shouting sun
the undermelt
it’s the little guy, the unassuming
chokes you up
as if there were heart in a mystery
found out
a dogsbane lookalike
easy to blame
or else
you think it’s money is the thing that lacks
money’s our least wise
here’s the upside down
the inside out
there’s bee balm
and the locust lumber
sheep sorrel shines
all of this must mean somehow
leaves of three say let it be
but that’s not how we fly
watch out for the little guy
as if thorns to defend
red cedar hawthorn
as if Velcro
or where I’m from
the farmer’s friend
here’s motherwort for the heart
bitter tincture under tongue
when woddsorrel
whistle wetter
snake root comes in the fall
it’s just there
the deer won’t touch it either
it’s almost as if nature knew
as if it had a sense of colour
hills fracked
white ash dying around
blame a borer
where’s the borer from?
how can these names matter?
it’s not the goldenrod
it’s the ragweed
chokes you up
all but the grasses lay down their heads
and are we not all that way headed?
all but the grasses are known
with Dr Carol Archer, in darkest Pennsylvania
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