I wish I was William Stafford

The title of this poem makes me shudder, publicly. But if you were inside my heart, you’d understand. Truth lives inside something other than merely words. It begins, as a statement of gratitude.

I wish I was William Stafford

i.

I wish I was William Stafford. Poems

so kin to soil that at his feet, they became

a man. As tectonic steady as is earth

itself, an unbridled keen eye and hand.

Maybe I’m not ruffled enough, haven’t

layered into dusty roads. Don’t think

he resisted growing into age. He drank

from the cup.

Maybe I’m not peaceful enough.

I resist. Lots. Maybe I look calm and

steady, but I’m as good at illusion as

most of us.

Maybe I’m too clever when I should

just be honest. Honest words, wouldn’t

you listen? But what if my life isn’t real?

What if my life isn’t alive?

ii.

What if you made a world and

nobody came? What if people thought

fish were just something to eat? What

if no one left crumbs for crows?

What if dust was just dusted off?

What cuff would carry the seeds?

Coincident wouldn’t be. Rivers would

go unseen, only navigated away.

Like there was someplace else to be.

What if no one drove an old truck to

the beach? Took a child’s hand,

swam across the sea? Wasn’t lost.

What if you made a storm and

everyone flinched? What if no one

understood why scrub brush makes

wind whisper? Who listens close?

iii.

Son, be careful what you see.

Say even less, the world the life all

frighten me, worries me. Stand perfect

and still, don’t make words into waves.

Iron your clothes smooth, wrinkles

are dangerous, too loud. Be friendly

so they won’t get personal, ask what’s

inside your clothes.

And whatever you do, don’t ask

about Father, why he’s gone. It hurts

too much, Mother never said. But it

did. Consistently.

A farm is just a farm, nothing to keep.

Hunger will come later, let’s pretend.

Starvation was slow that way. No one

gave her much hand. Neither the child,

and no excuse.

iv.

I am a mountain inside. Outside

crumbling granite answers the rain,

slowly follows down. Who will notice,

understand what patience means?

Most days resemble memory and

mortar, a bowl long polished like silk.

Coyote lurks, rabbit holds very still.

The canyon road in rain, then dry.

Glide fingers through the canyons

of seasoned bark. Read the stories

that sat right here. Nothing hidden,

no chance when fire comes.

Are we here only to escape?

Let soil make grass, let grass make deer.

Somewhere the mountain cat’s stomach

aches. Only what is willing necessity.

v.

When all the forest was finally burned

pine stones finally sighed, became first light.

When my history finally paused, it was dark.

Then light, then just one word.

Are you Mr. William Stafford?

No, you wouldn’t see, wouldn’t know.

And of course we all know better

than that. Don’t we?

It is just a thought, weightless, huh?

Nothing much. But tell me how real

your reality is. Count the rings,

flood and drought.

Far down the valley, somewhere is home.

But I carry some of that right inside my

shoes. Like poems do. But poems

were never the point. Did you see?

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

When desire lands

When desire lands

A bowl. An apple I’ll probably not eat.

One more thing seeming likely more

at first.

Two flutes without any wind. Resolved,

the finer one given away to better lips.

A garden mostly growing well without my

hand. Bless the poppies and manzanita.

The grape arbor sags beneath its load.

Third season is not sweet, not yet.

But my oh my a stray cat in the yard

blooms my willing hand, my eager bowl.

As will you with but a few well chosen

words, like milk. Just try stopping me!

This is where a poem will rise up

off its page. Leap right up,

land into your willing lap.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Interview with a poet

A little play to do, even if I drop the bowl. A small step away from usual. Disclaimer. Any similarity between this poem and anyone real much less a poet is purely coincidentally amusing. Life is nothing if not associative.

Interview with a poet

Poets mend some words, but only fair
because others they’ve broken apart.

To begin an evening, my feet hurt.
In or out of shoes. Standing for eight
hours a day isn’t very kind.

Labor is not for the timid of feet.

Poets stare sideways. Unnerving,
some have said of them.

It’s like a bowl of fruit after
it’s eaten. Second meanings have
already escaped first glance.

Like socks you wear until
your toe becomes visible.

Like the pear you peal, maybe
that only happens once in a life.
Perfect I mean, till a peach arrives.

All of this is underneath the words.
Like fish contain the lubricant
that makes water flow.

Seven bucks to cross on the ferry.
Nothing to come back except
your shoes. That part you’re
responsible for yourself.

Dad, he gambled away what he
won from the war. Including me.
But what really irked, was
the sister lost.

Just when she might have saved
a life. She had copper skin.

Mom, she just wanted what she
wouldn’t say. Not till two days before
she passed away. That’s why.

Two in the afternoon and all
I have are crumbs. Shouldn’t
I be confident yet? Shouldn’t
love be shouting loud?

Toast with butter would be better.

A bicycle is probably a better
way to write poems that don’t
stand still.

Expression does trust to score
away the stone of life less lived.
And a last breath is only a comma
we seldom perceive.

Holding hands is essential
for getting it right.

That big yellow school bus
and all the kids singing, smiling,
where have all the flowers gone.
I wasn’t pleased.

Not that I wanna be sad.
It was years before I found what
roots have been saying all along.

Faultless is more than starch.

Foreign soils are only an inch
away. Depends where or when
you wanna go. Like when
mother was young.

Would my life have been greener
if the fence was over there instead?
Mother said my diapers froze solid
on the laundry line. Polynesian
tattoos would have been nice.

So poems are like archaeology,
like the best peach, like colors,
like ants in the soil. Just when
a mole comes along.

Everything is more and less
than it has always been.

And broken things are just the
first step toward a mosaic bowl.

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

What a window does

read write prompt #107, lighting the way
by Andre Tan

Write a poem based upon your own response to a photograph.

(Read the prompt for full details and the complete photograph.)
(Read other participants responses to this prompt.)

Shotgun Blast by Shane Gorski (here, reduced and cropped)

What a window does

Light makes no sense looking

like yellow now. Maybe because

it’s crashing on the shore, turbulent

because it matters here.

Five-fingered. How primal, how

human I suppose, but believing is

akin to a hot frying pan. Just right

is rather brief.

Disrobed of neglect brilliant

waves confirm a pulse submerged,

someone’s slumber interrupted

with uncertainty. A rose withered

is, yes, still a rose.

Inside this shell they rested,

wrestled remembering by chalk

outlines. Painted dust onto brick.

Stood on limbs once coniferous.

How many destinations here

contained, fallow now?

Let lightning plow, none shy

of sun. Fertile as a river is.

As it is here in a single breath.

Hand me some chalk.

Here’s my life and bright.

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

Finding freedom brothers

Finding freedom brothers

Marineros en el mar, hay una regla
usted viene ayudar alguien.
Pero ese día ellos no vinieron.

Until that day I jumped into the water

and left my home. Left my best friend.

Left everything.

Everything, sadness was one drop

of my heart, and I walked into the sea.

One could hardly believe.

One could barely breath.

It was crowded in the sea, lots of fish.

We crowded into a boat, hardly dry.

Thirst came with me onto the sea.

But it wasn’t about water, you must

understand. How to quench a heart!

Why I was on the boat on the sea,

why I was myself become another

face. Does horizon see me yet?

Will you come? Sit table with me.

Break this bread upon our lips,

taste salt and tears and a brother’s

love. Dare surrender stones?

The sea is not wider than this.

Here, leap with me!

neil reid © december 2009  revised & amended july 2011

translation:
Sailors at sea, there is a rule
someone comes to help you.
But they did not come that day.

Commentary:
This poem was written in response to a documentary on the lives of two brothers, two Cuban brothers.  Each loved family. One who found right home where he was.  Another who felt his best right expression could only bloom in another land.  Yet neither respective nations really allowed this difference to be easily addressed.  For the one it meant leaving brother, leaving family, and risking all on a short but perilous travel across the sea.  He did ultimately safely arrive, however a price of distance was indeed paid by both.

Eventually the brother who remained in Cuba did find the opportunity to come and briefly visit his brother in the United States; and well evident despite all distances, brotherhood did remain intact.  But such a price (why do we do this to ourselves?) both brothers had to endure.

And yes, for this poem I did take the sea crossing as allegory for something more about relationship and our “environment of nations” that do or do not support who we are at root as family.

At heart they took no sides, and neither do I, except for compassion and care and freedom to be as we honestly are.

technical note:
If you have not used it as yet, Google does provide a very useable language translation facility (as used here to write the leading poetic phrases).

Read Full Post »

I am here

read write prompt #106, repeat after me
by community member Rethabile Masilo

Write a poem using repetition for poetic effect is the prompt for this week.

(Read the prompt for full details and examples.)
(Read other participants responses to this prompt.)

I am here

I am here.

Ferry boat moves, water slides away.

Ocean current moves, boat goes too.

What rock holds this space?

A salad map, round red dots.

Pointing me. I am here. Here.

Nor will hands on the clock

stay this place. I am here. Here.

Time changes nothing, but nothing

changes everything.

Lest one hand be lost. Follow then.

Given chance, a rock will move.

Obviously or mysteriously, it will move.

At the end of this unbreaking chain,

here reposed. I am here.

So far as my stride will bend. Daily mend

where sheets may tack, wind received.

Follow your gaze to horizon’s brim.

The edge of a world approaches close.

Trace my course upon your open palm.

Where a wave becomes a rock.

A steadfast wind upon your sea-salt lips.

And I am here. I am.

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

When you love me like rain

When you love me like rain

When you love me like rain,

winter comes. Running before

the wind is an easy stance.

That shadow cast turns warm

beneath the sheets.

Then turn on an old elbow,

an aching arm, rotate that

slumbered breath clear around,

full face into unspoken storm.

How far will this gale score

its trace across a linen sea?

I can but say, I am this needle

and thread by thread.

Splintered rain says most

to me, where I roost.

Walk with me.

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

Season’s greetings

My version of a season’s greetings for all and each of you, dear readers, dear friends, the community and family that we make. I’ll keep this simple, simply said my most sincere thanks and appreciation. I have learned here through this weblog that strangers can become friends. It is all a matter of willing willingness. As we say it is, each to the other, so it is.

And now just a few season “sights” to share with you. You might think of them, season lights that are here for us every day, every night.

The Milky Way

Lagoon Nebula

A full view of the Southern Sky (and dedicated to Sean)

Some might look and feel how small they are. I look and wonder delight that creation includes all of this, including us, and I smile with the thought. (Click each page for the full expansion as you wish to reveal the glory in whole.)

May Peace and Love fill your heart. Every day. Every night. Love, Neil
May this begin your purpose in life.

Read Full Post »

Winter pebbles

read write prompt #105, borrowed words
by Deb Scott

Says Deb, This week brings a different kind of Read Write (Word) Prompt. These words are from the first stanza of one of my favorite poet’s work. I’ll tell you who it is, and give you a link to the poem these words are derived from next week, in the Get Your Poem On post. (I know. I’m a tease. It’s from writing sexy poems this week, so don’t blame me. OK?)

To write to this prompt, pick as many (or few) of these words as you want and write a poem using them. (Here’s the some I selected to use.)
(Read the prompt and see the list of words here.)
(Read other participants response to this prompt.)

Winter pebbles

Moon might not see me

rise this morn. Clouds

are a shell in between.

Stars blush a tempest cloak.

Trees undress the lowland fog.

Take this broth and bright.

Curled upon my lap

a homeless wind, abiding

curves no night will keep.

It wasn’t a poem then.

It isn’t one now.

It was just a road

that moved inside of me.

Away from you.

Meteors that will not land

till pierced, reflect in you.

Precious moon.

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

Dance hall dimes

I think this is a poem that wants to be something more. But I don’t have the words as yet to allow itself to be revealed. Maybe I’ll come back this way again, however for now, it doesn’t want to wait.

Dance hall dimes.
Where tarnished thoughts
are best left inside pockets.
Let them sleep.

Dare some words. Leave
free to swim. Even rhymes
borne of your own lips,
listen first.

Language has its own desire.
Leave yourself uncrowned,
hear layered voice, lest fall
from improbable and
dear chance.

So would you like this dance?
They do invite, invoke, bestow.
Brave by shadows, by
necessity.

Prayer, a word
few might employ.
A willing heart
will suffice.

There is a tree, arms unfurled.
Like any of us. They want
this dance. What secret
is that?

As easy as the leaves
will fall. Answer as might
a spoon.

Her arms, open wide.

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

Simple fruit

 

read write prompt #104, The Sex Poem
by Nick Carbo

Well, you can read for yourself, the intent or desire of this prompt. Try not to be too mundane or too obvious, is part my take on the challenge here (right or wrong). So this response – an old old poem, here rewritten to a major extent. Perhaps more what might be “foreplay” than literal sex in that literal way, and taken as but in a moment or two, a particular sort of “greeting”, if you will (or won’t).  But, so be it, as it is.

Read the responses of others here. Enjoy!

Simple fruit

Simple fruit hangs from the tree, yearning
along with gravity toward surrender’s palm.

In the kitchen warm summer dims
as evening chimes the day; I come
barefoot behind you there.

Last heat softens, glistens on your bare arms,
pale brown as you lean into shaping the meal.
Shallow lime scent arrives sweet, mixes
with the flavor your hands caress.

Cheek then lips find the moist back of your
neck, gossamer hairs receive the breeze,
your barest breath receives an autumn blush.

That aroma, yours alone, climbs on cat paw
feet above lime and orange, lingers to be found
among the leaves. Waits for a basket
in which to slowly fall.

Symmetry takes my shape as I fall into yours.
The bowl on the counter fills wordlessly.
Wet fruit skins lay drying on the counter top.
A cup with sugar and a spoon rests nearby.

Our curve becomes a single weight.
You move hands diligent to your task,
yet move where movement cannot be,
closer by mutual intent.

My hands find the fabric weave of cloth,
reach forward into limbs. More fruit yet
remains to pluck, to fall, to ripen in one
simple touch.

You turn, arms swaying within this current,
making lips cousin close. Breath passes by.
I whisper your name, beneath that breath.

Neil Reid © (December 2009)

Read Full Post »

Sleight of hand

Sometimes all there is to write upon is a napkin.
Somehow these oft seem to become more fond.
Fine nonsense.

 

Sleight of hand

 

It’s in the way silver wings swim beneath a shouldered sky

and a mighty tall ship flies on white at oceans heights.

 

It’s all very reasonable I know, about displacement and

lift, about desire, or maybe what the cook had for dinner

last night.

 

But I say feel the touch on your fingertips,

how sky tries to hide inside your ears, how

the deck throbs like rocks are underfoot.

 

It is declared, an alchemy!

Unearthed, unabashed, inherent communal attributes

of mattered matter to wanna do these improbable things.

 

Lest we forget where we are, who we are,

and just how what’s implied can be expressed

first-hand. Close as a breath.

 

 

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

Through this doubt

To borrow a little prompt (“Through this word“) from Pamela Villars.

Through this doubt

Common stuff, in my pockets every day.

A random hurtful word, everyone understands

reasons why. However consider, allow,

right-handedness.

When rain gives way to star blue eyes.

When an uncertain glance surrenders

what it should never have kept. When

the root corners of a smile

let chance shyness abate.

Where is doubt when first thoughts

stretch languorous beneath sidelong

intended sight? Should I grant

better angels an open door?

The lines will go slack, the heart

to open word by word.

Neil Reid © December 2009

Read Full Post »

Weeds they do

(Just one response to doubt.)

Weeds they do

Weeds know how to write poetry!

They do it every day. Count the leaves.

Just try to discourage their seeds!

Words pour forth abundance.

Identify which is bloom, which is rain.

You can fool yourself so easily.

What is reinforced, persists.

What does not, fades. Early spring

has answers for every seed.

Sow what you will. Breeze will do

the same. Two hands that may

plow in unison. Unity, one word.

When the weed becomes the garden,

just as it always has been.

Weeds know how to stitch.

How to sew, needle

and thread. Soil and sky,

the loom that weaves.

And this is how you write.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Pocket guide

P o c k e t g u i d e

i.

Small steps. You know,

those at both ends of the coin.

She stands waving a few steps outside

her kitchen door. Vigilant. Woven into

that basket named grandmother.

Some voice of me these decades

later still resists saying the perfect words,

lest in fair expression they evaporate.

I keep her life in my pocket,

close at hand.

I am jealous at even the hint of

a passing far thought, leaving without

my open palms.

In the doubt dark of some nights

me and the cats miss you still.

ii.

Small steps. You know,

those at both ends of the coin.

A daughter and parents. Three chimes

through the door. She chews her food

carefully. Father leans in.

How high is a paper wall?

Across the room another page turns.

More like a window opens perhaps?

Small yellow-jacketed, he smiles

at me. I move my thought filled

hand from in front of my face.

I smile back.

Crow pleads the rain on the roof

outside. Please, one more feast!

Father holds the door, they all depart.

I still stir the wonder, what her

letter meant the other night.

And how to reply?

I leave with work undone.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Bookmark

B o o k m a r k

Listening stills us.

Holding it in your hand

brings a refrain.

The wave of your voice grows

roots from my feet. The ink

of this pen turns bright blue.

A child would know. Under three?

You get in free! Doors are for

when you grow up.

Laughter will open any door.

But we all gotta agree!

Leaves too, they don’t hesitate.

Abandon your keys to jingly

places. Keep your ears.

Keep your fingers, your toes.

They know how to turn the pages.

And I’m right here,

page twenty-two.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

May I get that door for you?

May I get that door for you?

This is a poem meant to be meaningful.

Did I say profound? Meant to heal

your hurts, mend your fences, be the apple

a day, brighten your eyes.

Make glossy your coat.

Keep that nose nice and wet!

That’s all good they say.

Will great beauty heal you?

How about a big fat roll of cash?

The perfect cup of morning coffee?

And what will mend a pair of jeans?

A needle and thread and

a willing thumb.

Glad I could be of help.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Conversation around the pond

Conversation around the pond

A hand in the air, casting repeatedly.

Gesturing upward, You know, you know!

Looking for just that right shadow in the creek.

Is that where you’re from?

Yet soon turns to his right, smiles past

someone else’s question asked. Then.

Clears his eyes, looks across the pond.

What I’m afraid of…

As grey hairs listen intently. Neither

of them really looking afraid.

An origami smile floats upon the water

nearby. Here, here, this is a better chair.

Some lips open like lillies into high sun.

Eager bright. Some like stone, yet all glad

for the holdfast anchorage they provide.

You’ve got something hanging down here…

Just what an old bullrush would say!

Cream and sugar? Certainly!

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Sister lost

Sister lost

You called my name before

my voice broke from dawn, entered day.

Your nile dark braid of hair, a sister’s

rope to pull me from the river flood.

Tall yet near. Your hand a cradled nest.

That photograph.

My eyes found yours. I’m sure they did.

No milky sky could confuse. No olive

moon had your scent.

I’ve grown into years, decades now.

All that you gave, all that we lost, are

rendered in one old box.

Even so dire as white and black, that old

photograph paints your Mediterranean skin.

I carry it now. A pocket keeps.

Sister, do you hear me now?

I am the one with olive groves

upon my cheeks.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Morning cup

Morning cup

I would not be sugar.

I would not be soap.

I would be the star inside a moon.

Unexpectedly I’d be there inside

your early dawn. While sheets are

yet jumbled in storm. I’d be the eye

nobody said was coming your way.

Should have missed by miles, they said.

But didn’t.

And landed plumb here, while you

paint my heart. And I find the tatoo

you never showed to anyone.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Dunne Avenue incomplete

 read write prompt #100

 turning dreams into poetry by bruce covey

 

Dunne Avenue incomplete

 
The house arrived about noon.  Just down the street.
South, then West where the sun would pinhole horizon’s thread.

 

Roses and green, space enough in between for a child to scramble.

Flitting.  Hiding.  Other children almost there, but not yet.

 

We approach like strangers don’t.  Already inside before first face.

It was usual for me to open the door, usual to walk inside.

 

Inside the living room it was grandmother’s house.  Two stories and brown.

The windows looked inside.  Bedroom to the left, Janet’s room.

 

Rosemary Clooney sang on the phonograph.  Past lunch,

a back screened porch and a door with stairs inside.

 

Uncle and I hauled up tools on a skid.  But that was when I was awake.

And when the rooms were eaten up, pastels took their place.

 

Expectations were ten times what we thought, except ten times more.

Rooms became double meanings in eclipse.

 

Lost in a way no one could find me there.  Even evening lights

turned on, no one could see inside or find.

 

Atop wooden stairs you climbed into sky.  Sky like dusted roof

rafters holding the space inside.  Clouds like hewn timbers are.

 

Childish memory knows every path.  No one could see through

empty space.  Hands are essential compass for walking about.

 

Then one door changed its mind.  Changed everything.

Kindling fire wondered out loud.  No arms to reach.

 

And blinking was something else all together.

No ending here, only step away.  Awake.

 

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Lost boys

Lost boys

 

Lost boys gathered like grapes on the vine.

Waiting, fidgeting. When will Peter arrive?

 

Patience is a premium too expensive sometimes.

Peter has little for me I think. Over-grown by some?

 

But Tiger Lily has my eye. I’m here for the duration

either way. Just don’t wanna become a pirate is all.

 

Rustle is in the limbs. Shaking leaves. Waiting

for Autumn just won’t do. Boys pile the leaves.

 

Leap. Only natural to wanna fly. We have

big eyes. Horizon is only a belt we discard.

 

See her eyes. Wandering colors like sea

like sky like wings like falling far and far.

 

Dust off happy thoughts.

I trust to that wildness.

 

 

Neil Reid © November 2009

Read Full Post »

Painted ground

read write prompt #98, whee!
by Dana Guthrie Martin

This week an image inspired prompt.  A crowded fair, movement and lights all about.  What might you think of here?  I’m sure the answers will be diverse!  I looked, I felt mostly blank, then something clever came to mind.  I called it, “The Martians Are Coming!”  Clever enough?  I thought so – well, the title anyway.  Yet it did not satisfy.  I’d like to receive more than mere cleverness.  Simply a matter of what feeds me here.  So I paused, placed my young feet back on that sawdust again, allowed for something that was, if not by words just then.  A place I’d wait to be.  (Read other’s poems here.)

Fair Fireworks, by auburnnewyork

Painted ground

There is every excuse in the world for not meeting you.  Look about, see their colors, how they fly and entangle you.  Sometimes even painted in exuberant voices.

Why wouldn’t I want to join?  Why wouldn’t I want to march in that parade?Yet measured, near or close, just where do they land in your landscaped thought?

Maybe I’d say, don’t forget to look down.  Your two good feet, one for each stride of your balanced tightrope life.  Not a harsh razor edge, but a purpose drawn this side of slack.

And you’re one end of that rope.  That part you grasp in hand, that sisal palm, that’s you you’re feeling there.  Notice the pebbles, ants, debris, the small close world living right there, the soles of your feet.

Feel the weight, notice that earth never resists receiving your every foot and fall.  Friends like these.  Twice right and twice left, yours and mine, our stride.

When the carnival’s packed, left only dust and what was, who remains in this vacant field?  Here, take my hand.

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

 

Read Full Post »

Gastroliths, Random Conversations

New page section posted today.  Gastroliths, Random Conversations.  Just playing around, words and sentences – just a few.  We’ll see what comes or came, or went!

Read Full Post »

Letter home

Letter home

 

Dearest

 

Middle of the night, dark all about.  My light on the desk.  

This singular moving thought of you.  Here’s my company.

 

Life is so big and I am only this much right here.

One arms handwidth wide.

 

Middle of the night is an awfully big what if.

 

Small movements are all I have.  Thoughts seem bigger,

but invisible like a rabbit friend.

 

Peace in life is so elusive.  But we try.  Or at least, desire.

 

Missing your warm thoughts close to me.

 

Like a china cup.

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

Read Full Post »