* * *
At the end, abundance
of distinction. Like human
hands, no duplication.
Every loss a loss.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
THE SHELL OF BELIEFS
The chambered nautilus expands,
seals off each outgrown space,
and yet the empty rooms remain
as spiraled witness to the change.
The growing shell is not a burden
to the wanderer inside
who uses it to stay afloat,
and when it’s time, to dive.
And thus may we use all we’ve known
and all that we’ve believed
to navigate the sea we’re in
as long as we’re alive.
NEWS FROM THE FRONT
Meanwhile, the wrens who nest
in the wooden pole that holds up
the clothesline are feeding their hatchlings.
All day long, they come and go,
poke bugs into the dark hole
where the babies eat, and grow.
The dog barks on the porch.
A great-crested flycatcher rests
for a minute on a blooming branch
of dogwood. I sit on an overturned
flowerpot in the garage, watching
through a dirty window. A chipmunk
squeals and runs away. A breeze
flashes through the grass. A red-eyed
vireo sings on and on.
CLOSETS
Some closets are full
of sentimental things that mattered once:
toys and photographs, letters, old poems.
The ghosts tiptoe around the dusty boxes;
their bony toes rattle on the floor.
The ghosts moon over a ragged doll,
caress a tattered book.
Other closets are stuffed with
things of the mind, things of the heart:
things I might have done,
things I might have made,
people I might have loved.
The ghosts shake their powdery heads.
Ah, they whisper, your precious past.,
so sad, so sweet, so—passing.
The ghosts are not so easy to evict.
END OF THE HARVEST
You don’t sing any more, or chatter.
Weather doesn’t matter.
It is important to keep the apple bag straps flat,
most important to lift with your thighs.
What does pain matter?
Hands the color of uncured ham,
ass cold in the wet jeans,
feet cold with water from frosted grass
seeping through cheap cracked boots.
You keep trying to think about war
and Wall Street, troubles of your friends.
You keep trying to pray.
All you can pray is apple, apple, apple;
all you can think is one at a time, one more.
Twiggy remains of goldfinch nests
are bound with trellis twine.
KEEPING
One autumn day many years ago I stole
an antique book with a tan leather cover
embossed in gold. The thin pages smelt of mice.
It was in a pile of many heaped
in a corner in a muddled room
on the condemned third floor of a gothic
sandstone castle awaiting remodeling
including–and this is important–new wiring.
It was a building I loved.
When spring came, it all burned up.
Nothing remained but a stone shell and they
bulldozed that into the foundation hole
and built a garage on the spot. I wish
I had taken all the books.
Henry Sheldon would have–
and a juice glass from the dining room and
CLEVELAND, 1930: ON THE STREETCAR
Look at his hands and tell me what is his job.
Yes, rough like your pa’s hands, so hard work.
That lady has been crying, has red eyes.
See— gold ring on her thumb.
I think her husband is maybe dead.
There is accent behind; no, don’t look.
You know is not German, not Russian.
Czech. Is enough like Polish to make me laugh.
Someday you teach your children
always there is something new to see.
Why is that man wearing slippers?
Is he stupid, or did he forget?
Oh maybe no shoes,
but look at his clothes.
He is not poor.
Remember story: I thought my papa
ORDINARY BIRDS
Go early, our friends told us,
just before sunrise, when the light
above the mountains is a pink line
that slowly turns yellow, then gold,
and the sun sends up a long pale pillar.
Then the geese will rise, calling,
against the sky.
You can hear the whisper of their wings.
We went to see the geese,
early, Orion and the waning sickle moon
still in the deep blue sky. We heard
very far away, the geese muttering
in a low wet place, waiting for dawn.
The sky turned pink, and the sun
sent up its shaft of light, and the gray
clouds thickened and the light
SAGE CREEK
Soft grassed hills, sage brush and cedar,
cottonwood in the gullies by the slick green creek.
The kind of land we came from
when we descended from the trees:
watered, rooted, peopled with game,
the long look with no surprises.
Places to watch and places to hide.
Stars to tell the way.
NOVA SCOTIA VESPERS
Five days.
Already I’ve forgotten
how to pray.
Nose full of dust and salt,
ears full of silence,
boats, birds.
The sea is grey crayon lines on the sky.
Yesterday when I was looking, a right whale
leapt all out of the water,
a plume of foam
with dolphins dancing high around.
I have eaten too many fish
drunk too much wine
watched too many hours in the sun
no words
DOING OUR JOBS
The baby is working hard at his tasks.
Each kettle, each bowl has its surfaces,
each hollow reflects a special sound.
Will his legs hold him up today?
Will the food on his tray be strange?
Each time he yells, his people respond.
Is this the day his sounds will be words?
His grandmother is working, too.
Her kettle is full of white beans and herbs.
There are harmonies she is trying to remember.
Where will her feet take her?
When she cries, who will hear her?
Laughter is her practice now.
What silence must she hold in her heart?
NEW CLOTHES
Our fabric is woven so tight and fine,
garments stitched up with pride—
gunbelts and helmets and gold—
We have the combinations,
watches, buttons, colored shoes.
This hat will keep you safe.
This cloak will end your pain.
See us in parade, wearing
mirrors of our own devising.
But where is the little child?
Around the next corner
on the street of clowns?
Down by the river
where improbable ducks dive
below the ice to feed?
Beneath your coat,
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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