Thistle

you were born to twist

a crown of thorns

to cut bending heads

to expose yourself

like liberty standing

above a windy harbor

in open verdigris

a tall fibrous stalk

of hard-wired celery

full of nasty pricks

unfazed by the

arching blackberry canes

the perennials circling the slope

around the old pond floating

with water lilies and geese

you spread

your roots both

wide and deep

choosing arbitrarily

your spot on which

to drink the rain

my wife

would have you gone

but you won’t leave

or be dug out without

a pernicious fight

wares to wares

in june you start

the whole affair

by filling the air

with the power

of your bouquet

of pink flowers

naturally inviting me

from a distance

to take a chance

and come in

to breathe

a closer look

your heaven for bees

your blessing for butterflies

your prayer for all that’s wild

your teasing preludes

to seeds that lift and float

eventually settling down

for another year

despite all i hack

with my machete or

anything else i've tucked

within my pack

i’m fucked and 

you’re as certain

as the sun

to perk me up

each time i come back

branching as

you’re inclined to do

into a kind

of toxic femininity

a spiky bush

of untouchable desire

few can resist

making me abandon

in summer’s heat

my remarkable vision

for the garden

and say why not

to a plant that like

a certain kind of love

is so painfully ancient

so inconveniently exceptional

Autumn Movement

a flippant leaf

of autumn

slips beneath

the lying surface

of a shivering pond

its image suspends there

(geese fly

the pale sky

rolls a cold gray

if there is a single will

or omniscient thought

once meant to govern creation

it is no longer of this world)

for a moment

as to inquire who

who is here to view

and then before

the solid rule

of winter’s solitude

departs by angle

and dimension

beyond the ken

on the quest eternal

to another universe

and is gone

Celebrating Holy Week at the Ranch

jesus the posted

private property

no hunting no

fishing no

trespassing signs

are nailed

right into

the trunks

of the

young trees

Hermit Crabs

it is not surprising

with the seemingly endless catastrophe

of hollow half-broken shells littering the shore

that nature

animated by the spirit

of natural selection

would spit out

a creature who prefers to rent

rather than own

big claw small claw

dots for eyes

sideways gait

all this yes

but not renters really

nor a mogul like you

scooping up the condemned properties

of detroit and baltimore and las vegas

for gain

more like squatters

taking for their own

what others have built

and then abandoned

with only a claim

if not of right

of cold necessity

the ocean churns

and polishes the worthless stones

visible at the ebb

for a moment

glistening and then gone

as far as your eye can see

the wind and the waves

shape the water’s edge

into a mirror

of imperfection

the barnacled pools

fill and drain with the tide

and in the story

you tell

later over drinks

only the shells are left

deeded to the sand

like shattered monuments

to the snails who made them

not gravestones

to the soft crabs

who

for a moment

or two

found

them

home

Hymnal

great is the gift to all

now you’ve stopped praying

in the square houses built by men

ceased measuring your feminine reach in men-sticks

ended thinking in the aphorisms of your father

and the fantastical fathers before him

your victory here is our victory here

though we may yet refuse to accept it

ancient is the wisdom

dancing in the forest

now that you’ve refused to sing

the hymns from our books

with the words you speak

and those you will not utter

about what to skirt

deep is the healing

now that you've abandoned the old instructions

for ripping up and standing down

halted the futile efforts at deciphering

the unintelligible carvings

on the doors of failing churches

where your sisters were told to hide

traded the raw pain

of the carpenter’s tools

that bled your hand

for the sudden prick from thorns

of the wild blue-flowering bush

that you understand

sacred is the blessing to the earth

now that you no longer deny

the desire to be your own

to set about without conviction

over these threats and objections

on the winding task

of deciding for yourself

what is worth achieving

now and forever

laughing at the punch line

of god’s eternal joke

who cares what comes

new is the beginning

now that you believe again

in the green mettle of nettles

the cool comfort of moss

the meddlesome cough

of your uncomfortable truth

for you are

the knot never undone

nourished by the sound

and silence of the one voice

that is your voice

what matters

what we think will fill you up

when you no longer cede

us power to judge

when that for which

we would indict you

is nothing but

what we have become

your victory here is our victory here

though in doubt and confusion

we may yet not live to see it

there is no lost needle

no haystack no imperative

to count grains of sand

washed clean by waves

no reason to tally

green leaves

tough grass

where a dress

stained at

the hem

once swept

the lawn

at the bottom

is the hope of all

who came before

that you might

just might

give name

to the lie

in all our telling

Even in Death the Male Ego Can Grate the Soul of a Woman

feisty and fresh

tattooed and meshed

in the flesh

and the mysteries

of her body

after a short illness

she went out in

a ceremonial fire

no eulogy

her ashes

as she planned

wafted from

death’s pyre

all yellow flames

orange sparks

gray smoke through

forever forests falling

on rivers meandering

through valleys

out to sea

her spirit

her soul

her ghost

or whatever

the freethinkers of

our age now call it

appeared

then alone

in death

but immensely

awake

at the gates

of some

vast place

and the new

mansplaining god

of that great space

spoke to her thus

in a decidedly

condescending tone

you may enter here

only when you

have gathered

together again

all your ashes

all the ashes

now scattered

and she

distraught

by this eternal madness

without hesitation

shot back

but you know

damn well

i no longer

have arms

with which to gather

nor legs

on which to walk

nor eyes

from which to see

the winds

blew asunder

my ashes

my dying embers

drifted on the waters

those who

remember me

are the ones

who lit the fires

and the dust of all

that remains of me

is spread now

to the world’s

far distant corners

and god

laughed

at her reply

as if it was

no matter

then winds

must be your hands

and waves

must carry you forth

and you must

call to those who

remember you

to undertake

the chore

of collecting all

you were

bring your

grains and specks

to a final

incarnation

by holy water

at my designated

time and shore

and after

a pause

but before

she had a chance

to utter

god in an

afterthought 

muttered

or you might

do nothing

wait for the law

of repetition to roll

allow vastness to align in

some distant tomorrow

for it is

written

by me

that whatever

is once configured

must be permitted

to reconfigure

for without

this rule

infinity

is nothing

in my view

and all hopes

are mere illusions

then god ended

with his mocking

admonition

but bring something

to sustain yourself

in that long bending limbo

if you can afford it

for if you refuse

to do as i say

and gather

what is past

tedious worries

about space and time

a battle between

the will you thought

and the fates you fought

will yield for you

one hell of an incubation

we know from the dead

who whisper always

to the living

that even in death’s hold

in the glare of

god’s penetrating gaze

hate is enough

to break the spell

cast upon those

never predisposed

to do only

as they’re told

to arouse a woman

bent on more

than just survival

and so she turned

from god’s

unshaven face

to images appearing

upon ripples

rolling through the void

ripples not unlike the folds

of an unfurling canvas

images of her

hiking boots her

running shoes her

crisp gray blazer

thimbles and needles

with which she stitched

utensils and pots

with which she cooked

hoes and shovels with which

she turned and tilled

and beyond

the implements

of a life

most recently

remembered

images of

the deep beauty

propping love

and piercing sorrow

from each world

she had imagined

dams and bridges built

ceilings shattered

the boundless vistas from

the narrow crests

of forbidden peaks

those flannel pajamas

the straps and pleats

of ancient dresses

dangerous spun

from black silk

trimmed and hemmed

with delicate threads and laces

soaking up the rain

upon wild grasses

faces of these children

and their children

sisters who stood

stride for stride

beside her laughing

worn carvings

on the wooden handle

of the blade with

which she slayed

each scaled dragon

silence settled

about the gates

closed now

in the curving

shape

of a knowing

smile

the gate key back

in her pocket

fed up

at being

out of step

with heaven’s virtues

bored with solving 

some god’s problems

she drifted

breathed

ever closer

to the moon

blooming blood red

and full

at the

reappearing

horizon

picked up

where she

left off

and was

once more

on her way

The Gentleman Pulls a Weed from the Lady’s Garden

always the small

unintended gestures

ripple up

to misalign

a favorable

constellation

they met

for the first time

at a local nursery

buying plants

she had been

planting shaping

cultivating

her gardens alone

and unattended

for decades

on ancestral acres

on this day

wheeling pots

of geraniums

in a palette of blues

back to her truck

he had recently moved

back from another country

its lingering accent

still rolling about his tongue

carrying a flat of lemon thyme

to his car parked

randomly next to hers

as she loaded the open bed

they talked plants

in the small lot

for more than an hour

testing each other’s fitness

as gardeners plumbing

each other’s understanding

of roots and stems and leaves

measuring the depth of

their tender love

for what grows underneath

uttering syllables of the language

mastered from their private

conversations with trees

both radiating a vision carried

in their separate hearts

that flowed enthusiastically

to the tips of their fingers

to the fire in their eyes

satisfied she smiled

inviting him

her gaze unyielding

to come back

for an afternoon walk

through her gardens

if he had the time 

delighted to accept

for now he knew

he had nothing

that mattered

left to do

they exchanged names

then he followed her

along the old farm road

curving steadily toward her home

awed by all he saw

the words came easily

as they walked

the conversation

of two gardeners

practiced and rehearsed

in the soothing comfort

of all the many seasons

from the toil

of amending soil

marveling

and laughing at

textures and

transitions

curves and contours

complementary colors

narrow lawns

blooming trees overarching

winding paths

noting specimens unknown

to most and varieties of ancient plants

with uncommon names

not easily found in the trade

they turned

as she imagined

they always would

at the top of the hill

to the vista below

where a pond in the distance

sparkled with

the late afternoon sun

their hands lightly touched

he startled reflexively

bent to his right

pulled a weed lost

among a row of staggered roses

paused not knowing what to do

with what he’d pulled

held it wilting

in his hand

as they walked

slowly toward

the water

a certain intimacy gone 

a certain awkwardness

taking its place

unaware until

then of the car keys

wedged in his pocket

bulging against the fabric

of his trousers

scraping against his leg

as they often did

when he knew

it was almost

time to go

Grateful

as you cut a new garden bed

at a corner of the fence

where roses ramble and climb

give thanks for the grass you spade

now destined root and blade

for the compost heap

for clay yielding its firmness

to leaf mold and mulch

for all that holds the water

and the slow decay

near the bottom of life

for the worms

the ants the grubs

the hidden roots and stones

the hard work uncovers

for tools and

the idea of tools

ancient in their design

for lifting and raking

for digging and tilling

for plants

by color and name

that survived

plastic pots

in the hot lots

of the garden center

for rough hands

strong legs

a beating heart

lungs that breathe

the sour and dusty air

for those who showed the way

and those who didn’t

though neither knew

where the path would go

nor how the garden might grow

for mistakes that sort

the random and the sublime

and hard choices

that cut to the present

for yourself

dirty and marvelous

for being this in love

with the earth

The Carol of the Bells

is there such a thing any more

as a beautiful winter morning

slanting light over quiet hills

glistening ice on steps

white frost on lawns

reflecting dawn

the ring of sleigh bells

decorating an opening door

dogs bounding over frozen earth

for no purpose but the freedom of it

a slow walk along paths

in sleeping gardens

with no hope or agenda

but to breathe

the cold clean air

            *

was there ever

the iron bells

in the red brick tower

of saint patrick’s

and the mechanical bells

in the belfry

of the shuttered church

of the sacred heart

in the crumbling industrial city

along the merrimack

did not often ring

with good news

and when they clamored

the clang of the clapper

against the iron from saint pat’s

the rhythm of the mechanized notes

beating from the sacred heart

seldom seemed to say

-throw cares away

            *

when i was

a child

in that city

i found refuge

at night

in the same recurring dream

from which i would awake

in the gray smoke

of my stale room

and for a moment lie

motionless listening

as though i was safe

though i was not safe

always in the dream

the same halting journey

through the abandoned house

how many stories up i could not tell

at first wandering

into the paneled living room

of the dilapidated main floor

past the ornate furniture

the musty carpets

no one there

but always the sense

of someone watching

small before the giant fireplace

cold and strewn with charred

and blackened wood

slipping quietly

through the hidden door

behind a movable pilaster

into the narrow corridor

between plastered walls

dangerous but not frightening

forgotten objects of all sorts on the floor

(as if others had been there before)

nail points dried beams splintered studs

at each corner and half-barred way

cobwebs dirt dusty slants of light

each night the same journey

in the same dream

ascending inevitably

the wobbly stairs to the attic

the countless steps and landings

turning and climbing unevenly

until i at last arrived

at the tiny cramped and angled room

at the top of the dark

nothing above it

but the crest of the roof

and the endless expanse of night sky

a single window

frosty and cold to the touch

in a small dormered wall

a window barely large enough to kneel before

from which to peer out and down

at the sleepy tenement houses

and empty streets of lawrence

as the snow

begins to fall

            *

years later

in a strange twist of grief

writing my uncle's eulogy

failing to hold back tears

i connected the small room

in the dream

to the tiny third-floor apartment

of the old man i loved

who when others couldn't

had loved me back

that night there again

for the last time

in a deeper sleep

staring out at the decaying city

from that closeted space

a winter wind buffeting the house

the old dormer window

shuddering with the wind

a small tin bell hanging on a nail

tinkling with each cold draft

whistling through the lath

            *

we arrive for the party

as the snow gales and twists and drifts

harangues the rejoicing world

with a challenge seemingly thrown

by a deranged god bent

on testing the mettle of mirth

by obliterating the ground with white

our scarves and gloves crust

with the tossed and twirling ice

as we hurry up the driveway

with our wine and gifts

pass the colored lights to ring

the doorbell of our host

our laughter spills into the air

with the expectations for our visit

you clomp your feet

and brush the snow

and look back from the landing

of the porch and joke

that the farthest footsteps

of our coming have almost gone

bells peal somewhere in the distance

from a hidden church

that we both silently imagine in the cold

is soft with candlelight and warm

you laugh again and say

the ringing of the distant bells

on this god forsaken night

sounds like the clang of silver coins

thrown from some great height

by angels hell-bent for heaven

to escape the storm

Formulas for Liberty

they melt like

ice architecture in spring

recede as the end of an ice age

trickle drip away seep

through convoluted earth

hide in underground streams

flow into hidden rivers

roar through great storms

on wild dark seas

they rise

in a fog

when footsteps

echo down

damp

midnight

streets

Fox Hour

not the cable network

but something real

late afternoons

in january

for a few weeks she appears

at about the same time

each day

unannounced

presence

in the sloping meadow

weaving

between the gold tufts

that bend with the wind

hunger above the snow

one with the scent

of the gray

mouse and the

brown rabbit

Creed

            i

the last of the disciples

has stepped from the midnight church

onto the snow that covers the ground

without falling

            *

the women who have found

the folds of their bodies

flow with the endless wave

and never speak of what they know

            *

the spirit penetrates

those who pretend to forgive sins

in the world where only men

wear the masks of apostles

            *

the smallest child

waits for the lights of the tree

in the cold in the dark in the place

where the earth is hollow beneath

            *

the crows gather in branches

each time you pray

in the garden

burning the hyssop and sage

            *

the black night drips into the cup

of the crescent moon

and spills across the sky

and covers the stars

            *

alone you grow to love

those who have gazed

upon heaven and earth

and all that is seen and obscene

            *

and the crows gather again

on the lawn that sweeps down

from the fountain where the leaves

collect beneath the water

            *

you spread the crumbs of bread

daily for the birds just the birds

that are everywhere

in your dreams

            *

and you have no choice

but to believe and forget

and remember what you have learned

without feeling for the words

            *

and the crows watch

the old priest pass through the iron gate

like one of the resurrected dead

waiting for the world

            ii

the three fathers are there

but a day will arrive

and it will not be long

when they will be gone

            *

the day has come and we are here

and the holy fathers in their robes

have gone and we are left

with the immensity of the altar

            *

you climb the mountain

to steal an eagle’s feather

from the empty nest of an eagle

who has never climbed the mountain

            *

and you slip farther from yourself

your soul curling about your body

like the high snows curling

about the face of the mountain

            *

a shot rifling from the distance

scatters the blackbirds over the field

blots the sun and

brings on the night

            *

you dream of the memories of childhood

filling the body of a child

giving shape to the blood and water

casting a long shadow on the ground

            *

and you are carving a poem in the stone

to the stone challenging the wind

to lift it away

and it is your last thought

            iii

i believe in one god

eternally silent beyond silent and watching

with no words for that which is unseen

i believe in the end as in the beginning

that we may know only god

nothing more

i believe that all of this will disappear

with the dust without love

i believe that with love all of this will disappear

with the dust and the memory of the love

that was before the dust

i believe that we are made

in our own image that we spring

from the same place again and again

and that we are sprinkled among the stars

i believe that we have no choice but to believe

that we are the act of believing

born from one being

giving of itself to itself

i believe in the one journey

from the place where the self waits

to the place where the self sits

among the feathers waiting

i believe that in time all the separate lights

will go dark and fall into the center

and the center will long again for creation

and the world will be without end