Joy

Tonight there is a moon,

more than half, almost gibbous,

brightening the ground,

a gathering of stars,

perhaps a planet or two

in the clear spaces

between the streams of clouds,

and why would I not be happy?

It is a glorious world

where I spent the day

among carefree children

whose movements set to rest

all my fears and doubts,

for at least one more day.

What is this all for,

if not the joy of play,

and now this heavenly beauty

before I go to sleep?

Summer Evening, 1976

On summer evenings in Oak Park,

after the quiet of supper,

the talk and laughter of play

danced again along the street

from porch to steps to sidewalk.

It was a world full of people

until the signal for retreat,

a street light touching the dark

with its anxious chemical glow.

Through open bedroom windows

came murmurs and half-heard sounds,

the background of a bedtime story:

thinning traffic on the boulevard,

a distant train sliding to its stop

and pools of spreading silence,

the day conceding to the night.

The Bug

I rescued it from my bird bath,

an ugly green fellow

of no visible value, I thought,

and placed him on a coneflower.

But how presumptuous:

though I conquered old instincts,

I did not know even his name,

and so now I’d say,

Live on little bug--

go and do what you must do.

Keep yourself alive

until you have done your duty,

and fill the pool with genes,

because, for what we know,

your continuing might be

the key to all continuation.

Decisions

Some live along the edge,

in the half-light of the tree line,

avoiding the sun in the field,

or the shade of the woods.

They seem undecided,

the lopseed and the white avens,

trefoil and tall bellflowers,

willing to live in suspense,

not choosing light or dark--

surely, no matter of good or ill--

but an affair of patience,

in no hurry for certainties.

The History of a Poet

I told myself I was not special,

not to expect the privilege

of being more than just myself,

but I wanted a gift, a calling,

a way to organize what I knew best,

some work beyond the business

of prolonging my existence;

and my first siren was history,

its romance of antecedents,

the facts which brought us to now,

but that vocation came to nought.

Now years later I think am a poet,

but I have never lost my respect

for the evidence, and why would I?

As any poet would confess,

we begin with our witness,

and however we may bend it,

or how we arrange the testimony

to find the place where it all ends,

we must be true to the day itself,

start with the flower we saw,

the actual bird who sang at dawn,

or the person we love.

A Poem for Tuesday

It has been laid down

that poetry must be serious,

concerned with eternals

of love, truth and death;

and perhaps it is so,

if the right eyes and hands

can shape these matters

into good lines and music;

but I’m also convinced

it does quite acceptably

with reports of Tuesdays,

and trips to the grocery store,

of walks up the aisle

looking at carrots and apples,

thinking about those I love

and what they’d like to eat.

Writers’ Block

Why would you doubt yourself?

Put your heart on the paper

and let the words come as they will.

You’ve done it before:

weeks of silence and drought

have surrendered to the music,

be it the birds or Bartok,

and you’ve found a way

to put those sounds into writing,

to let your mind run free

through the sights of a day,

and seize on that moment

when your pencil can say,

this is what I have loved.