Monday, October 23, 2017

WORK DAY ~








( sun
  rise )






she raises

her eyes



to mine






Suddenly,






spring

like



and

so



are

we






Work Day






I like

her 

sweater



it used

to be

mine






Love Her






At the sawbuck —

A little sweaty

Loosening blond hair

Rugged black shorts

A rolling blouse






Work Gloves






On the garden gate

Left here with me —

Shape of her hands






Woodcutter’s Memo






It will fit into the firebox

If — when she measures it —

Its height doesn’t reach


Above her knee




————————————

BOB ARNOLD
I'm In Love With You
Who Is In Love With Me
Longhouse 2012










Sunday, October 22, 2017

Saturday, October 21, 2017

FINN WILCOX ~








Women




I'm doing the dishes.

It's summer.

My wife and my mother

are outside

sitting by the fire

laughing so hard

I have to set the pans aside

and watch.



It's important to

pay attention to joy.

To love that is serious.



Now they are showing

each other earrings,

mom's silver bracelet,

Pat's jade teardrops

looped around her neck.

The night sky

bringing its own

slow jewelry to bear.



It hasn't always been like this.

I wasn't an easy son.



To those who say

redemption

dwells only in the house

of the Lord:

I say

you haven't met these women.







Outdoor Work




The one time

I experienced what my Buddhist friends

call enlightenment,

that recognition, sharp and clear

as a shot of cheap whiskey,

was packing my tree bag

on a landing pooled in drained skidder oil

in a clear-cut

big as the town I lived in,

understanding

finally and fully,

the rotting extravagance of greed.







Hard To Believe




Hard to believe only

yesterday

we stood on the cliffs

of Cold Mountain



watching swallows

    sweep and skip

across a drifting

cloudless

sky.



Sat in the mouth

of old Han Shan's cave —

smoked our last sticky ball

of Hong Kong hash —



and watched in silence

    the billowing dust

rise behind farmers

in the valley below.



Tonight though —

from the roof of

the Friendship Hotel —

the wet streets of Ningpo

shine with city lights

and are filed with Russian sailors

so drunk

they couldn't hit the ground

with their hats.



Sure, it's not Cold Mountain.

But from here —

above the fray

and narrow lanes —

you see

where this harbor town ends



and the East China Sea

begins.





——————————————

FINN WILCOX
Too Late To Turn Back Now
EMPTY BOWL, 2018















Wednesday, October 18, 2017

BASIL KING ~




Marsh Hawk Press





This is one of my favorite books for 2017
and I'm reading all the time.

The book has all the patience and spontaneity I find lacking
in too many books of poems published in the United States —
King's more resembling an era when Ted Berrigan's The Sonnets and
Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems snapped crackled and popped.

King is as brave and honest as another marvel, Muriel Rukeyser.

His overlapping text structure and flow of thoughts
make for extra fine mingling — he is indeed a
jewel thief or perhaps the Prime Minister.

I started to well up on page 138-139
but then I'm a Leo.

Don't hesitate.

[ BA ]