A world we can believe in

Water is always practicing. -- It is not practicing, it’s just sharp
On itself and gravity cuts into it. Anyway it hurries along.
This is its business. The affairs of water carry it through foreign things
And into foreign forms -- but they are not foreign, only stranger
Cousins. How differently they get along, though, both amongst themselves
And with each other. Water always finds a souvenir, its great genius is to mix
All things within itself -- or most, since some are too clever for water,
Wily though it be, and these would keep instead of being kept. Of course, water
Isn’t the only Houdini, but our planet is thankfully too cool to attract
The attention of its denser friends -- not to say they won’t emerge dressed
In many colors and abrim with flame, but where they burrow it is deep
And dark and close, whereas water loves the light because
In part she is a mimic of the sun who loves to look on her
As though his face.

The Others

They seem happy and proud. Are there fruits
That gleam while they rot? Rapture
Wraps the moment in cheap wrappers,
And there are images meant to look
Unreal. I wish they would silence themselves --
Someone could come and claw off the vinyl,
Breaking the glass. Then there would be water
And coffee grinds, and the still air would rush
And never beat. Things as they are, are peace --
Except for the fly and hunger.

Another Day

There was a stream flowing and its waters sound
The way waters should a perfect symbol of eternity
Where they came and clasped their palms and the air was
Stiff, only the constant sound
Which was something real after all reminded them
They were there though they tried to forget since it was not
That they were there but why
They were there -- that they asked
Why they were where they were

(They were there).

You can see their village between two hills.
There are children and women and men.
They play (the children)
If the sun hasn’t turned back over the hill;
The old women come out to wash clothes
And the young women stain their white hands
And no one knows about the men.

Everyone grumbles at cocks.
Sometimes when a young man sees a woman
He tries to impress her --
Women can also say,

"I love you."

It would be simple except that this has gone on.
And people remember.
And people remember what people remembered --
Or what they remember they remembered.

And the day is the same -- a different day --
And the food is the same and the sex is the same -- but the children!
There’s another one each day -- which is acceptable,
Since others disappear, and there are enough names
For them all -- you don’t even need more than seven
Or eight -- it's the place
Takes care of the rest.

That’s the short and long of it:
They have what they need. Or make due.
And if they’re needy, they’re called
‘needy’ -- and sometimes that helps,
-- not always. People

Always look past the hills
And say queer things about the sun.
It worries them -- that regularity.
People always look past the hills
And think of the end of the day

When the sun turns back over the hill.

Humanism

Let people believe in improbable things.
Let them publish books bearing the imprint
Of misplaced thought -- let a feeling
Articulate their words into a shape
That squints at nature's face.

The River As A Symbol

By the Erydani is a stream:
It flows clear from the mountains;
The water is sweet
And the color of the sky.

They come here to sing, after harvest,
In honey strains matching the flow,
And their cords bring them into accord:
The place brings them peace.

There is such a place, and it is still at night,
Bright and strong in the day, resonant
At dawn, and in the dusk subdued --
Duly -- but it keeps itself -- itself preserves --
It is the image of its source.

Look into this mirror: is it not honest and true?
Its nature is its faith, its faith, its virtue,
And in or underneath its virtue is itself --
So from itself it springs.

But this is also the mountain's
Promise -- a covenant of earth and sky.