To Settle Old Disputes

There was a time, when all else had failed,

when plainsmen journeyed

to see the holy mountain

for themselves

and settle old disputes about

how high a man or a woman could climb

without slipping upward

into the deep.

Those who returned built stone temples

and carved stirring tales into wood.

Midnight bells called novices into a discipline of

retraced steps.

As for me, I’d rather hear from the ones

we never saw again.

what the wind knows

deer knows grass

      and soft places to lie at night

coyote knows grass

      and low places where rabbit hides

grass knows wind

      and far places scented with love

wind knows God’s face
      in all places soft and low

A Peasant's Peace

I walk this morning

through a tentative remnant

of snow, an inverse shadow

lighting the low places for once.

Winter’s campaign has moved on for now.

A peasant’s peace opens behind.

So I walk.

still no sign of beyond

I returned last night from the frontier—

after years at sea the depths and I

could find no bed to share,

a frosted longing through windows

then I was cast onto a strange-eyed shore

and into caravans of virgin slaves

plodding under a burden of books

no echo validates their sorrow

emptiness possesses the kingdom

returning last night I wrote in my journal:

it’s an odd business, this search for

the edge of myself

The Unbearable Fortune of Now

Life is meant 

for making

love. 

More. 

Freely.

For giving 

and taking

love 

in riots of 

reckless
being,

for spending the 

unbearable 

fortune 

of 

now

down to 

the last

penny.

it happened

last night

your hands in mine

God’s breath through

our fingers

a silent downpour

of bright stones

from black

sky

seeding the waters

with new words
for love

On Winter's Shore

An armada of leaves embarked

This morning from moorings

Outside my door.

Workers on shore cheered

Their summer's labor as

The cleansing tide of autumn wind

Rose and lifted golden hulls

Free from earthen cradles, and

Ruddy faced captains trimmed

Yellow sails skyward.

Youthful crews sang

The adventure from which

They will never return,

For the hope of love,

For the priceless treasure of

Living and dying.

Looking for you on city streets

How does a seed

starved for water & a

clear purpose shrivel

while others shine

amid adversities?

There are no answers

Only this beautiful dying

and those who go on

-Art Goodtimes

I never had

a reason before

to search the faces

of lost men

on benches—

or beneath them—

in hard places

downtown,

not for lack

of compassion

or concern, but

because I was taught

never to peer

into a neighbor’s

window.

Now I can’t stop.

I read the clues

in every heap

of man I pass—

Is that your jacket?

Your shoe?

Is that the way

your hand

once curled

under your chin

when you slept

at home

on other

mornings

in the other

world?

Would I recognize

your eyes among

the many?

i see you now

when you can

say these words—

and when they are true—

then your first self

will rise through

the depths

like shipwrecked coins

released from

mud tombs

to float above water

for once, to share 
the sun's life

what a city could learn from a mountain

on the mountain i love

each falling leaf in autumn

slows the hurried earth,

dragging drowsy feet

to bed

a pity the city’s
forgotten how

invitation to a riot

one night

i sat just so

in candlelight

staring

at heaven’s door

with properly

softened eyes—

gold lace and

gossamer

monk spun

angel breath—

waiting

until a brick

smashed

the window

and tumbled

across the floor

into my bended knee

like a landed fish

gasping i looked out:

god on the lawn

waving me down

in a hurry

“if you’re done

they’re throwing

a righteous riot

at the edge of town—

some have finally

lost their minds—

let’s go!”

the drone's echo

if you believe in karma

or some such system

by another name

in which accounts

are balanced

in which force

rebounds

weighted now by the

fruit it bore aloft

whether joy or pain

whether love or fear

if you believe no one

escapes the proper harvest of their

action or inaction

that no loophole protects

the unexamined life

then you must tremble

tremble terrified

each and every time

you send predators

in your sleep

to dismember

brown-eyed children

beside old women walking

a dry road home

from school

tremble  tremble

for grief’s droning echo

searches the night

for you

belongings

crystal belongs

            to

stone belongs

            to

stream belongs

            to

sea belongs

            to

air belongs

            to

sun belongs

            to

darkness belongs

            to

you belong

Parenthood: The Reality Show

Presented with love to my grown children--who are now beginning to appear in the their own parenthood episodes.

Can you taste the acid irony

of being hounded by children for the

freedom we ourselves gave up to have children?

Freedom to go where they please, exactly when

they please, with whom and for what

with no backward glance at you?

“It’s not fair!” they cry and tug

at the rope I felt drop over my neck the

moment the little test strip turned pink or blue,

or whatever, in her urine on the foggy morning

when we heard the front door slam shut

behind freedom we had only just

stolen from our own parents.

Storm Warning

The trick,

I’ve heard,

when wind

lowers

its shoulder

with a thin

brown eye,

and you know

by the way

lakes tremble

in their

mud cups

that you

haven’t seen

anything

yet—

the trick

is to be flat,

to become

the edges

of a

plane

so

thin

you

slip

between

charging molecules

of atmospheric rage,

a ghost

in the current

like a mirror

seeing

all

storing

nothing.