Notes on infinity

I don’t know if this is going to be a poem or article. Maybe both. I’m trying to grasp the infinite abundance of our world, our universe.

Count the pine needles
    I thought of that line as I walked through the woods, looking at the yellow blanket of pine needles on the trail and under the trees. Imagine trying to count them. It made me think about the line where measurements blur into the infinite.

Look to infinity 
Relentless abundance 
You are standing in it
Walking on it
Throbbing with it

Infinity is the disappearing importance of measurement 
Of rulers
Of defining numerals

Measure me out 
a teaspoon of thyme.
But make me the same teaspoon twice
With the exact number of grains each time.

I feel like I’m capturing something that I have been after a long time. These are elusive thoughts, though, and it takes time to refine them.

Mulch

This spring I spread mulch with painterly strokes 
Or smeared hurriedly, abstraction in brown 

My canvas: 
Rooty humps around tree bowls 
Beneath blooming bush branches 
Along Flowering paths  

My palette:  
Earth, all the shades  
From mahogany to ebony. 

My motif:  
Circles and curves 
And deep loamy earth 
The contrast of browns and greens 
That beautifies the beautiful. 

 

The Spark

I picture you sitting at your desk 
In your room in the apartment 
Or maybe at a table in the corner
By the window. 
It’s the window that’s the key. 
What you hear through it 
Will change you.  

Right now, you are looking at us below
Through the screen 
Its thin metal grill
Pixelates us into small boxes
That disappear to your sight  
As you gaze through them 
At the people gathered on chairs and benches.  

At first, it's just people at a fire pit. 
But then a woman steps up to a microphone 
That you hadn’t seen before. 
You catch glimpses of her words 
Mingling with the roar of motorcycles
Inarticulate distant shouting 
Sirens far away. 

The woman steps away from the mic. 
You expect applause, 
But this audience snaps its fingers. 
You don’t know why they do it, 
But it’s different 
And difference attracts you.  

You lean in closer, tilt your head, 
So your ear is nearly pressed to the screen 
Like an elderly woman
Leaning into her iPhone. 

Still, you only hear shards of words. 
“The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame.”
They rear in front of you, these eyes, 
So monstrous that they are alight with fire. 
They will be with you for days 
Lighting your way with wild rage.  

More snapping.
A woman sits,
A man rises to the microphone.
He reads: “There will be time, there will be time 
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; 
There will be time to murder and create.” 
Murder AND create? 
How can they be in the same line? 

Because of this, you will play with opposites for weeks. 
Love and hate, good and evil, pleasure and pain. 
Until you see the things between, 
The beloved, 
The neglected, 
The destroyed.  

You listen all night 
As each of us rise to read a poem. 
And though you can only hear pieces 
The words glitter 
Like the shattered glass necklace 
That littered the sidewalk 
On your morning walk to school 
Catching the first rays of sun 
As it rose over the skyscrapers behind you. 

You type the words you hear 
Into your phone 
And poems appear. 
Your future begins as you read them 
As worlds unfold 
Rise up 
Crash down
Stretch before you like seas of grass, 
Seas of water. 

This night echoes into your future 
Until one day 
You have the courage to write a poem. 
It is about opposites. 
About sirens and Sirens. 
The kind you run from 
And the kind you run to, 
Caught by an irresistible call.  
Continue reading

Heron

Blue Heron  

standing in the shallows: 

Stick legs 

Knot knees 

Twig toes 

 

Do you always have one leg raised 

Or is that the way I want to picture you? 

 

The way your body curves 

Into your long neck 

Curls into your head 

Pointing with your beak. 

 

Immobile elegance 

Poised to strike 

Pierce 

Capture 

Eat 

 

Immobile elegance 

Still 

Outside of time 

 

Do you always fly by yourself? 

You are solitary  

But  

The steady, slow wing pace 

Makes me think you are flying in place 

Makes me think you don’t know alone 

 

When you are above me 

You are so many things 

A seamless assembly of geometry 

Cylindrical  

Linear 

Curved 

Body 

Legs 

Wings 

 

Straight and curling 

Never bent or crooked  

You are dignity  

 

Except that one time: 

I surprise you in the small pond 

So close to the trail 

My hiker quiet feet don’t warn you 

Anna’s dog-pad paws hush on the packed dirt 

 

You jump up, water thunder wing crash 

But 

The trees are close around you 

The escape angle steep 

Up 

You labor, heavy strokes 

Slap the air 

Unsteadily ascend 

Somehow find a hole in the canopy 

Escape from me 

With my hand reached out toward you 

Trying to bring you back 

And 

It’s too late let to tell you that I love you