How the Invisible Speaks (19)

The poet is the priest of the invisible, the one who paints pictures of the way the air holds still or the way it moves away from the woman in the red dress, walking home from the bus stop beneath the row of old oak trees. The one who orchestrates the sacrament of placing words on empty paper, lets life move through the pen, leap across streams or fly like salmon up their ladders. The priestess who tells us stories about the heart of humankind, the whisper of doubt, the musty scent of secrets uncovered, given over to the day. It is not a small or unimportant task, this working with words, this waving of incense, these footsteps placed one after the other, ink across the page.

[Editor’s note: This is a piece from our spontaneous writing group on August 17th. The prompt was this quote by Wallace Stevens from The Daily Poet book (Two Sylvias Press): “The poet is the priest of the invisible.”]

Owl Love (56)

I race all day
and at dusk
I walk out my mother’s gate
and hear
a great horned owl
in the neighbor’s tree
I stop
stand still
listen
feel the earth
under me
fill my lungs
with rain washed air
caress this big bird
in my heart
his soft whoots
follow me back
inside
blessed.

Late Night Work (55)

The heater shuts off
and the quiet dark world
wraps around me.
Finally after a frenzied day
and an evening nap
I accomplish something
concrete for my colleagues.
Time now
for a late-night snack
Jerusalem artichokes
pinenuts
a dried persimmon
and the good book
waiting for me
beside my bed.

1000 Tiny Princes (51)

Saturday evening
a house across the creekbed
blasts music
but the frogs make it okay
make it tolerable
so many voices
loud
plaintive
happy
contradictory
ceaseless call and response
so many
I remember years ago
after the rain
tiny frogs
everywhere
on the path
so many
you had to watch
every time
where you put your foot.