Thursday, May 8, 2014

Our Golden Monkey

Present wind, forming a basis for confluence, in learned sparkle. Such sunlight evading shadow.

Evening dreams portray only a low burden, kindling next to next fire. Morning days return as new days. Night fractures each figure.

Dark as different concludes with a springtime sorting. Brusque buds then if oily the burst. Training in mentation on the way to the ballpark. Sudden comes suddenly.

Aperture frames often. These days resemble last year, into the sentence forming the next wave. A narrow passage controls us. Bull farts like new.

Monday, May 5, 2014

The Thing About Rivers Now (An Ode by Aaron Copland)

The Assabet and the Sudbury Rivers emerge from the earth near each other and determined. They pour downward on and thru the landscape, glad in gravity. Near Concord, great, they meet and enter the Concord River, that spans the time of saving. This is what the dream is, even in the wars. Concord too becomes tributary, in what we now call Lowell. The land did not always have names but we live in the words we make.

Lowell in its vigour and millwork needed Boston. The Middlesex Canal arrived by shovel, until a train could do the job. Your history produces environment and commerce. Tell your children. We have reached the end of clauses, only to discover more clauses.

Grandeur-rich Assabet grafts energy in water to the presumption that work is life. Doughty Sudbury rustles towards a feisty downhill splash, seemingly content that Allen Bramhall took birth in a hospital near its ramble. And then the mighty Concord, that deftly passes mansions and enjoys the sweet fertilizing taste of human improvement, almost roils with precision into the future of past ideals. Landed crud exists!

History, however, goes almost beyond the reliquary bounds of these rivers. Gentry meets gentry, and learns disappointment. Anti-semititic spring bulbs meet racist toads, in nationally-funded broadcast. Spring arrives by appointment only.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

In the Time it Takes to Stay Here

The sun shines on Erin's birthday. Numbers change and change again but grand sun overlays the vista. Trees become full of where we are, and time produces shadows. We live in the moments between other moments while all that spins with the wind. That wind makes a formal breath and a tone to open, inward, outward, always. In the vast singing that we call Universe, a bird compares with anything. Just now, house sparrows produce a pattern of embarkation, into the natural wind of being still. Call them rain clouds, porticos, ambassadors from translation. They survive the time they do not survive. As do we all, as gentle plants and animals. Clocks plant everywhere, with their entity of numbers. No advice can be given, just a charged moment and the native embrace. We all long to hear the songs that can be made. The sun shines because the sun shines because the sun can shine, in its loving explosion. We meet to meet again, in the rapid moments that time gives us. Erin, it's your birthday, time and time again. We will love in all that time.