At ninety Ashberry is a dream

At ninety, life is  dream,
That it may have flowed,
How Ashberry has been.

You named green river’s
Flow in rock as a dream.
A boy saw your 68 as 90.

Rock is  million year old
With  river flowing in it.
68 might have been a 90.

You have death to dream.
At sixty eight ,you dream
The same as when ninety.

(Poet Ashberry turns ninety)


From sleep’s oblivion we shall
Now go into a primal oblivion

Into forgetting, in dark cavern.
Here our men crawled ages ago

Sang  saddest songs , made up
Memes to spread them to  sky.

There will be stalactite flowers
On us amid cascades of falling.

What are we afraid of, we ask.
To come back to a dark womb

Afraid to lose morning’s smell
And its aliveness in our noses.


We are looking for the soul.
A body reaches conclusion.

The body is life’s argument.
Argument has a conclusion.

Conclusions are fine music.
One hears just their sound.

There are more conclusions
Beyond this one ,like ripples.

There is not one conclusion
But ripples each stretching.

Ripples stretch like wailings
Creating horizons of sound.

(Reading Emily Dickinson’s poem “World is not conclusion”)

Holes in the wholes

The body is whole in the world
And body parts are wholes too
Like for instance ,the eye holes.

Eyes are part that is also whole
Enjoying autonomy from body.
They cry too much in the holes.

Too much light lives in the hole
Till eye-lids declare sovereignty
And refuse to shut out all sleep.

Eyes will be  windy and round
When no longer the body part.
There will be no water in them

Till there is monsoon from sky
Pouring in the grey wilderness
And manholes drown in flood.

The blackbird

We had thirteen ways to look,
Just one more than clock-face

Involved with  blackbird’s eye
On a snowy whiteness of hills.

We are moving in dark circles
And coming back to our God.

We have dark circles of sleep.
Our eyes crinkle on blackbird.

We will not cross the coconut
Where a water drips on stone.

Our stone is a black bird’s eye
On the vast snows of the hills.

Some times , God is icy stone
We arrive as bird only to die.

Thirteen may not be unlucky.
What can we do after twelve?

Our black bird is just an eye
On vast whites of our snows.

( Reading Wallace Stevens poem Thirteen Ways of Looking At a Blackbird)

Some boy

Birches need to be subdued
And are to be kept straight.

The glass of our sacred sky
Lies in hill as in a car crash.

Splinters shine as tiny suns
Fallen from the bent birch.

Some boy had to climb sky
To make trees green sticks

So like soft children’s bones
They do not break on a fall.

If there is wind, they bend
But come back to standing.

Birches are not dad- owned
But some boy has to climb.

A tree stood in street corner
Some boy had not climbed.

Against recent wind in rain
It had no green stick bones.

(Reading Robert frosts’ poem “Birches” )

Jack is the self

Jack is mostly inside of his self,
Tormenting Jackself inside out.

Jack knows what God is about.
God knows what Jack is about.

Jack mostly intends to his self.
God knows where he tends to.

Jack is God inside the Jackself,
Jack body with a hollow heart.

Have pity on a jack in torment.
God seems one up on Jackself.

Jack is a body God knows why.
Body is one up on Jack’s inside.

Jackself is gone with the body
As fool and his money parted.

Now that Jackself is inside out
We may Jack the poor self off.

(After Gerard Manly Hopkins poem “My Own Heart”

This is not to say

It is not to say that the plums
Have turned  cold and sweet

Or our son is executing white
Sighs in smoke in parking lot.

A daily sun has eaten plums
For our tomorrow breakfast.

it is who had ripened them
And caused them to wrinkle.

And it was not smoking son
We blamed for the wrinkles .

There shall be no breakfast.
There will be no tomorrow.

Just say all’s well that ends.
There will be no wrinkles.

(After William Carlos Williams poem This is Just To Say )