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