Tag Archives: Childhood

grown up

grown up


At the branch, all

ways draw outward

at a twisted angle


it is not easy





Someone will come

up the road in a truck

to disrupt the black–


is it enough?


one star is more

than you will see




Oh, the tall ancient building

precisely the same


from outside—

the scale within,

a wait




wait long enough,

dreams will breach the wall






the argument is inside—

the question is why.

Plastic stretched across

a wooden frame.


A child version

of an offering—

weeds grow up

through a fever


patterns unfold

square by square,

knit loop

the finger fits through



at this late date,

dawn is too late—





there was a time

for this


not even a town

not even a town


mud-black knees,

tunnel through hours—


but they were silent.


in-fluent veins of grass


conversation in threads,

the hours


at the ends or beginnings

of threads


an entire sky


web of threads


to get a sweater from the house


thereafter, the test

of an equine confidante


black plum relevant to time

and space


water in the foot print


water in the gopher hole


rain-wet birth of the spring creatures

balled, or translucent, wedged

in the soil


the red flag is up

on the mailbox



hiss on the road


an unseen person

humming into a task


a generational field

yields a warning sign


an analogue feline

fades into memory




breach the pattern

breach the pattern


internal effect


on gravel


wild chamomile is a weed

in the road, don’t

eat it,

it is tainted.


in each direction, the distance

misleads—The road

never narrows to a point.



out of reach.


faces in vehicles–

barely a face–

zoom past, a moment

of round recognition


the high

speed mirror

carries part of my face

out of reach.


in defiance,

I carry in my palm

the answer to an unasked








incubate words in a bird’s

heart, where O

a discourse marker,

O of recognition,

round and flexible,

to shape a nest,

to live


black-red blood of the plum,

ephemeral, contained

by thin skin


an eternal child



makes gesturing hands


motor skills

to carry and crack

an egg


plum, your limb

is my limb, contin

ues more limbs, two

of us drawn upward

as go and wend merge to



undulates vocables of Ur names,

now live on the slate, a trader’s



sealed into clay,

opened only


the voice


Much like this poem

Much like this poem


a child speaks in projective whisper

learned lessons from the clouds—


whereas, in high desert, projection laws

do not apply


blades of grass imply distinct edges;

to sever an edge is true

when held in memory


childhoods rove in waves—broken

toys and plastic chairs surface in the sand;

storybook territories continue to expand



unfinished lines hang there, threads

a line of thought paper thin, as a vacant

lot of known flowers in context

of what we don’t know


some lines calcify, locked in strata

where we put them and fill in sand

and sleep


when they find us

here, they’ll replace themselves

into the hollows left by these bones






opens hues only known

in passing—


the mind precedes

and follows by long



reach in, the image

swirls in displacement—

as known principle

that forms the earth,

her fragment moons

so ejected


leave aperture open and you’ll see

what they mean this is only

one phase of the question


sound- and scent-

triggers: bullfrog brooding

in the ditch, creaks the branch

against the trunk in the wind


our continuous kin, opens all windows

and screens thus replaced—


winds through gallery of all remnants

now displaced


weaves meaning, a unit

untethered from perception—

often the scale is wrong the words

wrong, but kinesthetic impulse,

auto correct


I’m telling you, I didn’t hear

what you heard. Song bird’s opteryx

lineage. Aquifers’

abduction. A honey bee

dies inside a flower. All

is meanwhile—


I fear I have no reason

to return, to intercept

of perception

and words



Loop topology

Loop topology


Born in a small town, walking paths

on imagined maps. Grown where margins

meet green fields, within seed coats

and insect rinds.


A screen, to protect

nocturnal animals from our thoughts.

Which must not be documented, only

half-breathed into sheets.


To sink into plum bark,

moth wing, a loop to lean into. An imprint

echoes through top soil, between layers

of sun and water, where our voices

leave deposits too faint

to dig up.


In that way,

the fields incubate an opening, a closing,

a flowering underground.


Very faint vibrations, very

faint, and at home, the blades

of grass have started to count again,

counting faintly but just enough to extend

space beneath story lines.


The way space

evolves between roots

growing toward hardpan,


the way limits

create novelty

in iterations.



Sometimes we feel obligated to “schedule” our day (even weekend days). Try to find time to be alone today, to observe the wonders of the world around you in solitude, for the benefit of your soul. . . and enjoy a short passage about the subject of daydreaming, from The Poetics of Reverie by French philosopher, Gaston Bachelard:

What a lot of proper nouns come to wound, rag, and break the anonymous child of solitude! And in memory itself, too many faces come back to prevent us from finding the memories of times when we were alone, very much alone in the profound boredom of being alone, free to think of the world, free to see the sun setting, the smoke rising from a roof, all those great phenomena which one sees badly when he is not looking at them alone.

Smoke rising from a roof! . . . a hyphen uniting the village with the sky . . . In memories it is always blue, slow light. Why?

When we are children, people show us so many things that we lose the profound sense of seeing. Seeing and showing are phenomenologically in violent antithesis. And just how could adults show us the world they have lost!

They know; they think they know; they say they know . . . They demonstrate to the child that the earth is round, that it revolves around the sun. And the poor dreaming child has to listen to all that! What a release for your reverie when you leave the classroom to go back up the side hill, your side hill!

What a cosmic being the dreaming child is!


To my lovely readers: have a wonderful, daydreaming Sunday!


Excerpt from The Poetics of Reverie: Childhood, Language, and the Cosmos; Gaston Bachelard, trans. Daniel Russell. Translation by Grossman Publishers, 1969. Originally published in 1960 as La Poetique de la Reverie.





remember, you were born

an unspecified point


wire line across the palm,

you wondered what would happen—

wrap around the wire


remember—the puncture

points do not end, project

through to depth poles

through to recurring birth


air mixes with blood in the palm,

between divine aberrations


where noses in the grass where

there is only grass


black, twitching points dance

across field surface


merge, become one

for a moment then

expand, break apart


fly far away

to come back


viscous lines outline

familiar shapes within reach

to space beyond



at each opening,

a line is a tether,

or conveys air for travel


is how deep you breathe

through the aperture

Conflagration of postal codes

Conflagration of postal codes


A conflagration of postal codes

mingle, covert adaptations, till we no longer

recognize the grid we claim as original—

these postal codes reinvent themselves

with new inhabitants,

to the letter writer’s consternation,

bodily facts reduced to a historic map.


But to augur the grid

according to flight of birds—

what largess!— to choose the right

position, innately oriented east,

in new familiar patterns, paths first laid

for nascent kings, and built in mirrored layers,

postions kept useful, sacred;

vaulted feet above the carillon, above

cobble, above the headland

where codes were born, now free to walk the maplines

of familiar kingdoms.


Otherwise, the people’s address was such

there was no street, only locus

and a horizon view alive,

dripped with ceremonial voices.

It was undersides of trees convinced them

the sky is holy—thus, the top room

to forecast eclipse, encase

an interior god who reclines within the old

structure, smiling a waiting smile, he knows

from correspondence with silence

the true orientation.


But nothing solves the immediate

mess of lusty postal codes, that correspond

as a way to mess with the surface, a meaningless grid—

talk muddles; have the roots

changed their minds? The childhood

code once memorized, now reinvents itself?


Is the original code (as we claimed it)

preserved down there,

in the dark, in the root,

or did the new people remove it?

as if removing the root renegs

on past prayers made to tree-lined

sky and stars, on a previous code!