Airing out
the east winds of spring
hard at work on my books
my musty collection of philosophy
nearer to being plain
with a bit of cold moon
shining in
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Fashions
Three months after their October debut,
the spring fashions have arrived,
as mysterious as ever.
A store-window mannequin
clutches the hem of her cocktail dress,
an expression of frightened vulnerability
painted on her bone-white face.
Out here, it’s hard to tell women
from men in January’s unisex garb:
dark parkas, hats covering half
their heads. They walk briskly,
no time for window-shopping.
I pull my fingers out of
the finger-holes in my gloves
& ball them into fists for warmth.
I think of my gardener friends
Perigee
alone like the moon
I had cold meat
at twelve at night
I could not sing ordinary songs
with so serious an angel
by the door
Management
all the lost time
in an office
where we even out the dust
that one durst not breathe
Heatstroke
in hot weather lying
with only a sheet upon me
like a ghost
there is a strangeness
between hand and head
and I miss the body’s city
when I at last die
will I be friends with it
Snow Supper
While we sat inside eating supper,
the snow came down & filled in all the tracks.
Vole & sparrow tracks on the back steps,
squirrel & feral cat on the lawn,
the wingprints of a hawk. Even
my own tracks from an hour before:
the snow’s feet grew to fit them all.
After supper, I switched on the spotlight
under the gable, went out into the storm
& stood looking up.
Here in between these seeming absolutes —
black above, white below — the mix
is anything but gray.
Black pepper from the islands.
Salt from the encircling sea.
Field work
the field set on fire by children
lives again
the field called us
gather in a ring
have children
one field burning
while they quench another
engine of straw
mistress of loss
this morning field
which I thought had been killed
with so much hot weather
Recharge
morning comes with no batteries
but the wren and the wren
while we hope to have more
they live in the present
which is like the sea
safe and green
January Rain
First cousin to mud, soft-shouldered,
I turn to quagmire. Ou sont les neiges?
God’s rain on the roof. The house vibrates
from the washing machine’s dervish waltz.
Standing on the porch, I hear a winter wren’s
summertime song: thin boneless notes.
Trunks of locust trees at the edge of the field
have turned green from all the rain.
Green columns glowing in the dim light.
The gray-brown ruin of a woods beyond.
Haircutting
without a barber I cut
my hair every day a little
by some kind of compulsion
but see how hair is as it ages
so quiet a weather
Corvus corax
over the cliff a raven
its great laugh
I gaze after it
going into prayer
like burying daylight in the garden
where many eyes sleep
Distancing
that sad hat
at the other end of the coach
night train
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