azuen.net

for l.c.

The thunder cracked and the time
On the red face of the clock fell away
and the wild outdoors pulled everyone inside
gasping for air and flowing with water–

so we sat in a smelly corner with hard seats
and stared through the darkness without
finding a single face, and tried to keep track of
loud voices with the people behind them, until

a quietness was formed, and words became
scarce for the first time no one shouted
over three others all drowning each other
out in desperate want of an ear, so I began

to hear the quiet things, the truer things
about them, a haunting peace that lasted only
till the lights came on and the energy exploded,
and they ran around again while I sat watching.

for j.t.

Some know how the grass grows green and the
angle a hawk flies through the sky — blue for a
textbook reason, where the sun burns to specification
even when it rains. Some know how the sky glows
orange on humid nights, or how a star can shine
behind the moon, or how the leaves turn themselves
into autumn and explode in color by committee.

Some walk and see sunlight hit the waning hillside,
and watch the wind yell to the morning sun and
find where the trees talk in hurried whispers,
as the land arises in communion with the sky,
where the past slams around into the future,
and all melts into songs without words, a harp
at night or morning trumpets blasting soundless.

for s.a.l.

Champagne teasing through
the static crowd gently holding
glasses on plates of chicken barbecue
under the nametags slapped in the
left corner of their chests as
“Jane Redman” stares at “Mark”
who looks everywhere but at her,
as “Jeffrey” glances down the street
outside at his house with only
black windows and “Jack Cormier”
watches the thick red carpet
and says a word to it — “Kate” –
shaking his head and acting like
his eye has something in it while
laughter’s baton is passed among
the small crowds dancing around
each other to the music flowing
from the voices and light diamonds
from the twisting chandelier sparkle
brightest in those eyes filling also
with the salty liquid candlelight.

for a.s.

The rain slid down from humid skies,
and fell in graying drone
Rapping on the garden walk
And chilling through his bones.

He shoveled all the walkways clean
And piled all the rain
In heaps, along the garden paths,
Ignoring how it drained–

He pulled his thick wool jacket off
And laid it by his fire
He stoked it high for winter cold
To melt through August’s mire.

to t.t.l.

I listen to the pounding of the night temple drums
the ever beating waiting for the morning’s rising
something subtle buried deep below the thinker
and roaming drifting high above the thought.

I listen to the answer of a thousand thousand questions,
the pulsing heartbeats in the treelines black on sky,
the words beyond the words, the blood beneath the skin
reaching, pushing, throbbing to an unseen wanting.

I listen for a question I cannot tell the answer,
the echo of the forests knows nothing of the whys
the seven seven eons have never given reasons
for the ever plodding onwards, the graceful now and never.

I listen to the reaching of a million hungry hands,
understanding nothing but that hopes will fester
walking through the legged forest, loping through the bowers,
waiting for a moment when someone new will know.