Chipping at the ice

It is like I am chipping softly at the ice, a little bit at a time, trying to get to 
the clear water underneath, but the ice is thick and I can only chip a little bit 
at a time and every little bit that I chip fills up with water and when, the next 
morning, I come back to try to make more progress, all the cracks and crevices 
I have chipped, all the progress I have made, all those fissures have filled up with 
water in the night and refrozen, becoming once again just more ice. In some 
cases it seems the seams have somehow become even stronger, harder, more
intransigent and resistant to my efforts to break through to the water beneath.

I know that there are fish down there. I have seen flashes of them on occasions
when I have managed to make the ice thin enough to see to where the sun penetrates
into the depths and I know that if I could get through then I might capture one
of those fish and make a meal or a trophy or at least I might have a solid, silver
moving thing for a moment in my hands, painfully cold but brilliant and gleaming.

Other Mother’s MonDay…


I wrote this for my wife, the beautiful mother 
of my beautiful daughter, but I offer it up.
A Mother's Day poem for all the nurturers.


This is the mother’s month, 
the month of the morning 
of the year when the earth 
begins its cycle song. 

Here is the mother’s milk
where we always knew 
it was, where we leave it 
as we found it, as it found 

our mouths without looking, 
as it gave what could only 
be given, being what could 
only be once, though it is 

again and again beginning. 
Here is the new-turned leaf, face 
to the sun, brilliant in the warmth, 
lobes spread wide to catch the day. 

Here is the heart of the wood, 
where would will only find will, 
where only heart can know 
heart, be still and still be.

Monday’s Music Box: Soundtrack for Surfing…The Cinematic Orchestra

This is my city.

My city is a dark city.

My city sleeps in the light.

Comes alive when niceties,

formalities, moralities doze.

Murder capital. Mainstream

mainline midwest nightmare.

Only a city could have made this.

Only a city would have made this happen.

Susurrations and  permutations

in plain black and white surreal noir.

Darkness made Visible. Organic ordination

in non-ordinal imaginary numbers.

The Order of the Night.

The statistics lie and we are all spies

sleeping through our lives and

turning and turning and turning

on each other and turning

each other on

and off, on and

off, on




You have been saving the world
for so long that no one can find
you anymore.  No one knows where
you are or how to get from there
to here, how or who to search for
in the dark of darks, what strip
to lay waste to, what waist to
circle with arm or belt, saying
‘come along, come along’ as
if everything will be all right
at the end of the hall, when 
the therapy is done, when you
go back home to bounce back
but no one says anything about
bouncing back and forth, do they?

No one tells you the price.  No 
one mentions that it’s paid in
all directions at once, that there
is no keeping it contained.  It 
goes when it goes and you can
not make it go when it doesn’t.
It’s just like that.  And that other
thing; it’s like that too, but it’s
not like anything else, nor is it
elseing like nothing at all.

You have been saving the world 
for so long that no one can find
the you that is doing the saving.

[Inspired, spun off from, SPRUNG from this poignant piece by the most indefatigable 
M. Lewis Redford.  I can not say exactly what happened to me when I read this poem,
except to say that mind, memory, hope and heartbreak all collided and colluded to give 
me this piece--of a piece--and it fell, whole, into my lap. (Well, except for that last little
bit.  It fell later, like an over-ripe fruit from what strange tree...into....the see?)]


his darkness, his strength

Where he comes from.

His stability.

The solid thing that he can feel

–there, just beneath the surface,

beneath the light, under the dawn,

that never ceases its movement,

it is ever-present change and potentiality,

his heaven within the earth, his peace,

his source.


The weight of grey


It is so much to bear.

So much on his shoulders.

He feels the weight of it upon him.

Such pressure.  Such weight that he

cannot even grasp it all.

And yet….

And yet….

He looks down—always down—at his iron legs,

at his stone feet mired, rooted in the pavement.

“If you could just turn, just the littlest bit…”

“Right there….just over your…”

But no.  You do not know.

It is a darkness you can not know.

It is too much.