Sunday, May 14th, 2006

This poem is about The Last Unicorn, a classic fantasy story by Peter S. Beagle.

Haggard's Shore

Running wild upon the tides,

The mist exclaims, the current hides

The swimmers riding out upon the fray.

Shadows missing from the sand,

The trembling call the bull demands--

Join your kin standing in the spray.

Open to the rush and pull.

Kick and buck against the bull.

Red as fire he cools your white to gray.

Haggard watching on the hill,

The next to last gives up his will,

A dream gone cold and still he fades away.

Ocean surging with the moon,

He'll have them all so very soon,

Their immortal tune granting him his stay.

Red bull searching in the night,

The king ignores his sorry plight:

His loveless might devoid of sorrow's sway.

And when the last wish comes to him,

Lost and changed by fate or whim,

She imperiled shows them all the way.

A dream naïve to mortal heart,

She takes the fall, she learns the part

And frees all to the art their fates convey:

Bull and castle cast to sea,

Immortal dreams, wild and free,

But for she who feels the tide of love each day.

Monday, May 15th

Right Out of the Box

The new me arrives

One piece at a time,

My layaway life

In an open box

I cannot wait to explore:

A slash of trees, a park,

Right in front;

And a tiny deli tucked

Into a cozy corner

Where I will soon

Be known by name,

And welcome there I'll sit,

Well past nursing

Some expensive iced concoction,

And I will write,

And where if I was prone to habit,

I might be sold my sandwich

Without mentioning more than the news;

And deeper in, past the hotel,

The gallery where I'll window shop,

The bench from where I'll people watch,

And the posts where I will memorize

The numbers of the buses

And everywhere they go.

But this new life

Comes without instructions,

Unassembled,

Just like my prior life

Where I last built myself as solitary,

Windows closed against the groan,

Blinds drawn down against

Both the glare and gloom,

A stranger to every shopkeep

I never visited

When my old life still was new.

Tuesday, May 16th

This is moving day for me, full of stress, exhaustion, and property damage. Also, this was set with a popular song in mind.

Give Me Trials

As I am struggling to catch up,

The work is flooding through my cup.

I drink and try to keep it down.

Give me a breath before I drown.

As the hours stretch to pass

And I am lost in the tall grass,

Give me recall of better days

And let their compass show the ways.

Give me the sight to see ahead

A path where I may come to stead.

Give me a vision though my fears

And I will break the wall of tears.

Give me the strength to understand

This trial's brutalizing hand

Will loose its grip around my soul

And lift me higher than just whole.

Wednesday, May 17th

This poem is about a group of very talented San Francisco street performers, Bay City Luv, an a cappella gospel group.

B-A-Y C-I-T-Y L-U-V

The song doesn't need any walls,

A place to wash up, lay down,

Or come back in where it went out,

Over and over, until it sounds

More like cracked vinyl

In need of a nickel to keep it straight.

In fact, it does better without.

When freed from the hymnal,

Its roof finally open to they eye,

The words glad to wander off

And to play as they please,

Stirred by the breeze of a breath.

And when the tone is right--

The tenor breathy and smooth,

Rushing lithe and liquid to fill the street,

Its gospel washing up the city skyline

It can be at home anywhere,

Flowing like history

And gathering family from strangers,

Sending its hum off everywhere

Making even the birds and bees quiet

As a new denizen comes to roost,

Roaring full in the elemental cathedral,

Praise ringing out to the one

Not even that limitless vault can contain.

Thursday, May 18th

The Sparrow Waits

I see his house,

A small Victorian

Painted proud,

Barely bigger than quant,

And then only from outside.

Just enough for the three of them:

The poet, his wife, and the muse,

But only because the muse

Is incorporeal,

Sitting quietly on his chosen shoulder

Or singing from a sparrow's brown breath

Out on the morning lawn,

Throat a flicker of red in the new sun,

Drawing his attention

From the cozy walls,

From the groan of cold hardwood,

And even from the sinewy smell

Of grease and eggs,

And a slab of bread turning brown,

But every morning foiled

By the voice of the chef,

Her whisper of annoyance

Over the stubborn can,

Whose scent, newly open,

Fills the house with its morning cliché,

Drawing him to the kitchen

With a poem that can wait

Till after breakfast.

Friday, May 19th

Left, Right, and Turn

Though the road is worn,

There's an elegance to familiarity,

An essence to the known

Which though unsurprising

Is welcomed, perfect,

Not a rut but a groove,

Smooth and agile

Dipping into your trust

And swinging into your faith,

A dance of nuance

Within a dance of expectation,

Every step a celebration

Of fate so certain

That when you leap

Tumbling headlong from the path

You land on painted prints,

Right and obvious,

As if you ever needed to look.

Saturday, May 20th

The Reef of Drums

Before the dream,

The reconciliation of hope and fear,

As busy as eclectic,

As buoyant as eccentric,

As belligerent as ecstatic,

There is sleep,

Which is barely anything

But a bold and trusting absence,

A melding with the dark,

Still and faint and sailing silent

Toward the shore of dreams

Where some nights,

Throwing to ground

You start fires

Whose embers blot out the stars

And the anxious eyes of natives

Clenching their teeth

At the sound of laughter

On their sacred stand.

And other nights,

You miss the shore completely,

Death's son slipped down from the helm

To nap in the boat's cool prow,

And even the oarsmen sagging at their mark,

So great is your peace,

So light your hold upon the line

That tethers you to the earth,

That you could almost miss

The distant drums

Keeping time with your heart,

Could almost dream them still,

As you pass the great, black cliffs

Of you soul,

Could almost dream of tapping back

To the beat of breakers

On their beckoning reef.