Poems
She Knows
She knows she’s going to die.
She knows she’s going to die.
The way she watches her grandson,
Reads every word as joy.
She knows the numbers,
He’s learning to count backward,
Only go forward.
She’s smiling easy ruby ready,
Cheeked checking out,
The way he smiles
When he knows she’s smiling
Because she knows something
He’s just learned.
~ Wynn ~
You did dizzy.
Then spun around
In mind and dream
Like you do in this chair.
Like you as a toddler
Your spin dance
In the center of the kitchen,
Head back,
Eyes on ceiling fan,
In twirls,
“I’m happy now!
I’m Dancing!
I’m Dancing, now!
I’m Happy! I’m Dancing!”
Hope he remembers
The joy of dizzy dances
Under a ceiling fan,
The whole wearied whirl
Around world watched
And wondered while you spun
Happiness was
As easy as
Happiness is
In an unwearied world.
~ Wynn ~
Ugly Dogs
I freaking love ugly dogs!
Ugly Dogs!
I freaking love ugly dogs!
I love them!
Bilateral symmetry
Kiss his:
Ugly-pugly-fugly-mugly.
Pinch his (How many?)
Chins. (How many?!)
Wonderful!
I freaking love:
Happy! Joyous!
Ugly-Ugly-Ugly
Dog snores from the couch.
Lazy eye lounges
Leers at the front door…
Soon the pizza will arrive.
Hope he gets some crust
With bubbles on it.
God’s Grace is an ugly dog’s face,
Crooked teeth sunk in bubbles on crust
Made just right for an ugly dog.
~ Wynn ~
Sitting and watching the sunrise
With no one but your sleepy dog,
A cup of tea and a frozen waffle.
That's a good life.
When a hawk flies
Fast by my window
Just after
Sunrise,
I wonder what it means.
The hawk wonders how
I can be up so early
And only had half
A barely
Toasted
Frozen-Waffle.
Wynn
What about the tree that made the Cross that Jesus bore?
What about such a light, on the field,
That was seen, that was His dream then?
Such a light on a tree alight some yesterday,
So far away from so far away from some yesterday.
No today, know today.
Not a light, no, not at all.
What about this staircase,
About these clouds,
About this sky-break?
What about this day,
About this hour,
About this time
That tree
His tree, wept razed?
And the clock was.
-This-
And the time was.
And The Sun was.
-That-
And The Moon was.
And The Tides were.
-This-
And The Stars were.
And The Day of
-Him-
And The Month of
-His-
And The Year of Time.
And The Weather.
And This Weather.
And the pattern of clouds.
(What was that?)that light
(What was that?) that which moved
(What did not move?) that was seen,
(What was not seen?)but was announced.
There was The Wind, that was The Air
That didn’t breathe, but burst
Open a quiet sky,
The Quiet Sky gone incandescent
For a holy way,
The Holy Way,
His New Way,
His Chosen Only Way,
Home.
~ Wynn ~
The Great Blue Heron Leapt!
Then dove! Eagle like stabbed and grabbed,
and set down to eat the catch the size of his head.
He knows;
I’m here.
It’s raining;
I’m in the car.
Not only has he noticed;
He walked over.
Always a straight line of sight for us;
I’m indicative of something to him.
A sign of what?
Friendship.
Writers build libraries from the inside out.
So when we sit, take out pen and paper, (laptops don’t do it anymore, everyone types everywhere now), our whole aura is encapsulated by shushes from Hush Be-Quiet Librarian Sentries.
A Great Blue Heron’s pick of habitats: Library on a Lake.
People keep away the birds that bother,
Books keep away the people that pester.
How’s the energy? Mine I mean. For him? Lord, I exhale when I see him again.
He keeps coming back. Not to the same spot in the lake. The same spots. Where I am.
This energy stuff, this life and light alive stuff, this consciousness stuff, it works every way. All is alive. All is conscious. What we choose to do with the energy given us is what we are.
I have to believe every tree is a tree on purpose.
I can’t define what, or how, or why I know it,
Maybe it’s the way that bird knows me,
How he lines up a straight shot in my passing lane.
I don’t know the ball we pass or what the court is,
But I know we’re on the same team,
And I know he clears a way for me to get to him,
And I know that what is shared is returned.
But what that way is…?
What this floor means…?
What game we play…?
I don’t know what I am;
I’m not sure any of us do.
I don’t think this Great Blue Heron does either.
But when he’s in my passing lane with a clear shot,
I know without a doubt both of us are more than at peace,
In not knowing;
Together.
~ Wynn ~
There’s nothing new in a morning,
Sunrise is a promise kept.
Not something ancient.
Never something new.
What comes before ancient.
What comes after new.
The Sun is never shock.
Daylight decided dawns.
~ Wynn ~
Where is peace of mind if you can't hear
An angels song at four in the morning?
The house asleep. The dog even annoyed
You're making so much noise.
Where is the poetry of youth?
In mid-aged men. Kept quiet too long.
In fathers in uncles in men who
Remember the dawn in their bones
Know it like Keats knew it.
Know it like a poet's calloused poet hands beat a drum
Beat-pound too many days gone by spent wondering
Where the joke had a-line-punched-a-line-foot tripped-
Tipped-line-of-poetry for what a poem does.
Where are these bard's men?
These sons men?
These up before The Dawn's men?
What begs a voice has a song!
Ears go deaf. Not the song!
Poetry plays an Angel's Plea!
Commands heartstrings!
Poets to arms!
Pixels and Pens!
Not young men!
Men. Poetry demands men.
The faint. The stout.
The fair-faced. The grizzled.
Bearded!
Some bald.
Some ribald.
Some so much round-bellied.
Some too much gym-bellied.
Homely-angelic Everyman Men.
Father lover-turned loved safer sounder.
-heart-unsung-dead-sang-
World: (here) Is what you do.
Poetry: (here) Is what is.
Young poets die from
What youth now means.
A sunrise is as neglectful as a sunset.
We awkward witness apologize for watching the first.
The second only after kids-fed days-checklists (done).
Safety-safely away an accounted.
Asked what we're doing alone with a sunset,
We say: Daydreaming lost myself for a minute.
Though we know: It was remembering the song
We never sang when we were young.
Never sang the pain of our children
Who will never sing the song of sunrise
Or say what a sunset means,
Unless we -us men- shout-sing-say it.
Now! Say it plain.
Sun-up.
Sun-down.
And in between,
I love and love.
Grown, I love more!
More than what the sun means
The promise of what lies between the suns.
The only song worth singing,
The soul song between the suns.
There's more use in a sunrise than anything at all.
The Sun is setting I'm gonna -just sit-
The Sun is rising I'm gonna -just sit-
To Hell with fingers shouting lazy.
To Hell with human ways screaming:
Ambitionless! No good! Useless!
Nothing is more useful than a sunrise.
~ Wynn ~