* * *
In the face of the full moon
the morning glory closes its door.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
* * *
no shadow is cast
then coming in from the sun
I find the house dark
* * *
Spring---
and the last white flower
fades from the blue stem of the mountain
* * *
I watch
for the sun
as fully
expectant
the earth
accepts
the rain
* * *
After sunset
I wonder what color
the birds' heads are
* * *
The tree said
stay.
I stayed.
The tree said
go.
I went.
The tree said
come.
I come.
The tree said
Part of the Flower of Gloucester
from the sunsets
to the rubbish on the Harbor bottom
fermenting so bubbles
of the gas formed from the putrefaction
keep coming up and you watch them break
on the surface and imagine the odor
which is true
at low-tide that you can't stand the smell
if you live with the Harbor Cove or the Inner
Harbor to your side
* * *
Wholly absorbed
into my own conduits to
an inner nature or subterranean lake
the depths or bounds of which I more and more
explore and know more
of, in that sense that other than that all else
closes out and I tend further to fall into
the Beloved Lake and I am blinder from
spending time as insistently in and on
this personal preserve from which
what I do do emerges more well-known than
other ways and other outside places which
don't give as much and distract me from
keeping my attentions as clear
Feb 3
there is GRASS on the PAMPA and there is OIL
in the CRANKCASE. Our CAT purrs under her FUR
as if the CALENDAR would NEVER cease. I have ACCESS
to the PERSONAL, it is the AIR I TAKE, through WHICH
my two ARMS WAVE. Farther AWAY, FACES, armies of WORDS,
DIM fact and fancy. Bacon, an OLD june,
MEMORY DISQUALIFIES itself. Though it may EMERGE
as a DROP of longing on my TONGUE. From this
LIVING AXIS, I am ABLE to SPEAK without DYING.
Zeroing In on Conversation
We all agree to miss the point,
at certain times
to start again
(We work so well together, friend
Ignore-ance
serves a purpose
none of us can mend
Today's Date
Pick up on grand torque-suitably an
abstract reference. Can-needs must-be
inclusive. Those latent charms, so hard to
get across. Easy-filling the day with
detachable items. Day begins in haze as
trucks begin to move. All around the edges
of the town. The monuments encased in fog.
A line of bicyclists streaming past the
deserted sports palace, the marsh slipping
back in over the faltering road. The contributions
of day-laborers towards colonial
bamboo tower. Each succeeding generation of
monumentality bears its own distinct relation
to air plane, street lights, noise in wind.
The generations crowd each other out, until
no sequence-nothing wiggles in the void.
* * *
If this were a method one stays
awake.
Ethics explain one's position.
I carry my head with me wherever
I go.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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