Selections From
MORE EVERYDAY NOTHINGS
August 1986 to July 1987
Leaf
oh the Leaf
floating through Autumn
the tear drop
spilling down your cheek
oh the
knife-sharp word piles
sugar-kind word smiles,
downs and ups and overs
over and over and
over again...
daily sun, moon, stars
how lay the meadows
of the sprawling green?
how play the shadows
on the snowy scene?
Inside
delicate, runaway
hearts or leftover
memories that
stir in shivering ash
with a crash
life slams an iron
door
and we place
flowers on a casket
turn and walk to the car
past a Leaf,
floating through Autumn...
PRODIGALS
Balloons, ice cream
and chocolate cake
banners, ribbons
unfurling in sunshine,
the orchestra plays.
Lord
the party is
You love me,
You love us
sin-poisoned dough-people,
strangers
to the sacrifice,
people of the pig-mud palace.
Now
washed and welcome.
Balloons, most
holy helium,
spirit air,
Jubilee materials
and
the gifting of your Your
questionless embrace.
Enter children, wear
the noble ring, the purple robe,
Father has prepared a royal dinner.
fireworks announce
His unconditional
never-earnable
unattainable
given-as-a-gift
forgiveness.
No speeches now
--He laughs until he cries--
the prodigals
are home.
Oh, Ancient
I wake to this day
fresh and page-blank
because this day, Oh Ancient,
You have already seen and known,
my words, my steps, my blunders,
All of life You have already seen...
You know, Dear Ancient,
my moment of birth,
how I will die,
when my spirit will detach and fly,
when sickness will rail my flesh
when I shall look into an old man's mirror
...and sigh...
You know me.
Oh Ancient, still:
the greater miracle,
through valley low
and mountain high,
I may
know You.
from the simple
sand, stars
ocean, cars
from the simple,
speak to me.
water, time
sunset, rhyme
daily Jesus
speaks to me.
simple songs
skelter days,
happy tears
muffin praise.
Life is built
from common clays,
to find His face
in all our ways.
simple journey
mystery,
all of life
brings You to me.
CLAY
clay,
my Potter,
clay.
chunky.
dead.
rock-like
unbending.
How could a tender heart emerge?
I have
no
moving
parts,
Lord.
I am cold,
clump-silent. Oh
Bring on the
Strength of
Warming
Fingers.
 |
| Author Ray Bradbury and I corresponded for several years. |
 |
| Here I am--meeting Bradbury--who couldn't quite remember me. Until I did my Stan Laurel face, and then it clicked! |
POMEGRANATES & BRADBERRIES
BRADBURY writes to me - this man - this genius.
Bradbury - cards a note to Butler
jotted, yes. Scribbled, typed, fat markers
scrawled on yellow paper, Martian man with Martian sky.
And I stuff it, thankfully
in a sleeve with other cards, letters, notes.
What's he been saying all this time? Well, this.
Don't sweat technique. Or force control. Or control result.
Don't follow the books, or be like another.
Don't write to sell or prove or fit so perfectly on a shelf.
Don't trim or starch or primp or even think.
Formulae -- procedure -- mechanics --
Out the window! Down the sink!
RELAX!
ENJOY!
EX-SPIRI-MENT!
GET BUSY and
DREAM
MAKE
DO!
Be the one and only one
God thumbprinted YOU!
Says Bradbury.
Says gift and pen and page.
Run playing in the fields of the Lord.
Dash and leap. Explode, thou pomegranate!
Seeds to the wind!
Rejoice!
Amen.
Nursing Home Observations
Jim Hime is smiling, shaking hands, touching people on the arm. He's kissing them on the cheek. Feeding, talking, leaning over their beds, listening to weakly voices. Esteeming. Comforting, blessing. "I'm glad I could see you today, Daisy." He knows their names.
The old general in his wheel chair... grabs the wheels, backs away from his breakfast and cries, "Help! Help!" But the nurse smiles and says, "Oh, he's alright. He always says that."
The elegant, white-bearded man sleeps. His bone-thin body shows through the covers. Next to the bed, his picture on the night stand, from years, years ago: A distinguished sea-captain, facing the salt-air horizon, silvered in fresh black and white.
I called my grandmother Mutti. We often went on walks through the hills of Sherman Oaks. She would kick a stone, then I would kick the stone. Her kicks were good, sending the stone skittering forward. After that, I would kick...and the stone would skip sideways or fly into the grass. Or go backwards somehow. And then we'd have to find a new stone.
Here are two poems I copied from one of Mutti's notebooks, written in August of 1955, the year I was born. Her original language was German, or Czech, and she spoke French. But she did a good job talking and writing in English. Maybe she stirred up my love for poetry.
Happy Birthday, Schatzl
Thirty-five years ago -- is it as long?
I met my Schatzl. The impression was strong.
He was so handsome, so slender, so tall,
I read in his eyes a question, a call.
My heart beat so crazy, so foolish -- and then
I knew exactly: this is my man.
You took my hands in your hands. And so,
We kept them together and never let go.
The years passed by and it seems rather queer,
That you are really sixty my dear.
For also today you are, even more
handsome and slender than ever before.
Your eyes and your voice make my heart -- I must say,
Behaving as foolish as the very first day.
And still linked together -- as firm as can be --
And our hands joined. For eternity.
Happy Birthday!
Your Packel
City of Prague
Look back in the past,
Your heart feels warm.
City of Prague,
Full of beauty and charm.
City of Prague
To live in, to stay,
Crossing a bridge
Without penny to pay.
City of Prague
The most lovely thing
With gardens and trees
Full of blossoms in Spring.
Old city hall,
Like a precious crown,
Steep narrow streets,
Hill up and hill down.
Summer and Fall
With colorful joy --
City of Prague
Dream of a boy.
Christmas weather,
Roofs under snow,
City of Prague --
Long, long ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment