Drinking in Time, The Night, The Days

Drinking In Time, the Night, the Days


It's liquid, the love that you feel for the stretching out moment,

day into night, like a dark drink you take, dark now

the darkness, thick and near splashing, a surge that you

feel, like a spigot unleashed the night that pours out, far into the

street, the puddle of time, do you think we can

stop it?


And after we drink, then where will it go,

into the flow of the thin clear ale, some sparkle you

know at dawn. Who's drinking, and where does your thirst

even come from when everyone's sleeping and everyone's

dreaming and everyone's lying awake? Who's drinking

when all of us walk out a door in the morning and what

have we started to swim in with words that come in

to the ear of the mouth on the tip of the tongue as you notice

the liquid inside you has come through the touch of your toes.


I wonder at buckets and cups and fine goblets that try to contain the

terrain of the night and the day, to hold what we say, in confidence

now, your soft secret, the liquid that comes from within and is running

far over the land of your legs and the sweat on your brow.

I'm wondering that even a ship could sail over the night

and into the day and far into the depth of what's happening now.


Closing my eyes will not stop my fingers and only one lingers

behind at the dance. It's you, yes, it must be, I'm seeing you

glide through the ocean of all this, the sound and the words

and the water you've held. We're going to start with this

body in motion, this way that a flood has now taken you

home. This way that the blood of your life is so wholly

your own. This way that the mud that is made from the rain

of your life is a pleasure, the pouring of gladness into

the unknown.




It is likely this will happen.

There, you've said it. Now,

there's comfort or no comfort,

depending on the question of your

wanting what is coming.

If you're on the losing team late

in the game what do you do?

This very moment, let us say,

could be re-played

a thousand times, you know,

at least, you'd have a chance.

But this is it, you write these words, believing

in a day on grassy land where you will live,

of woods and water near that home, your children

and their children, alive in freshened air

from rain that stirred the possibilities -

well, please - let's not lay odds.

Collapse the probablities.

Perhaps, there is a chance, you're bound

to the impossible. Perhaps,

you have a fateful meeting you must take with faith.

They say, I know you've heard, it's either or,

and every path you take involves a closing door.

But somehow, if you look around, it looks like

so much more is coming through the ground

than you and I have ever dreamed, and so

I say go on and take your chance this morning with this

one strong opening – you can sing the song

that comes up through the ground,

and listen for the song that's singing back,

you hear me? I am singing.

Because there is a way to make your way

through chances, like a blind man feeling so much

joy each time he dances,

believing in the

chance you really know

just who you are, as if you are the honey that

was brought back from a land with luscious flowers far away

and now you can be taken up with every spoon into

God's mouth and hear Her swoon, and that is how you want to be,

inside the honey that runs free,

and that is what you know you want to do.


Mornings With Daniel

Mornings With Daniel


A bored poet, nothing worse,

in the morning, in the shower,

the shampoo descending like stormtroopers

from the sky, the water falling over the cliff

of his chest, the eyes tired from the struggle

in the night with his destiny, to be a

boring poet or die trying not to be...

will he slip in the shower? No, his feet

grip the ground like two kids fighting

over the last oreo, the towel slides now

like a snake finding the sun, one more

day then, one more strained metaphor to try on,

like the socks, with the strange pattern of

something that could be cats that he tries on now,

feet pouring into the saucers of his socks,

the cream of his life, ready to be lapped up

by the tiny pink tongue of his imagination,

into the belly of the new day,

this day that is ready to pounce and lay it's paws on him -

playing with him, until he is exhausted from the

thorough pounding and he escapes into the safety

of the green green grass of these words.


God's Toes

We have to face the fact that we don't sleep, sometimes,

and God is right there, talking to us.

I know you don't believe

in God, but everybody knows who he is.

One day, he wakes up,

walks out, onto the grass and his toes feel the earth and he says,


With a period, very definite – that is what Good is.

We try to be good,

even when when we are awake at night,

and it is good that God talks to us,

for it has been a long time

since we have been spoken to like that,

in a soft gentle voice

that tells us that the morning will come,

and you will walk out,

and your toes will touch the grass, and you will remember

what God said about that moment.

This is why it is ok when you don't sleep.

He is still there.


I Woke Up With A Dream, Rare....

This is not a joke. I don't usually have very many dreams these days, but this one was a sweet one, and made it's way into this poem. Not sure what it means - it is like a touchstone, or talisman. We need these.

I Woke Up With A Dream, Rare


I had been working in an office

which I could not stand, I took my office

out onto the street, beside a pile of garbage

on a corner. One of my office mates had

also fled, disgruntled, and he wanted me

to quit. I did not want to quit, I only wanted

to be able to do my own work my own way.


I found my way back to my spot on the corner

how it is in dreams you think you're somewhere

then you see you're somewhere else,

but I came back to find a stack of mail that had

been delivered and more of my friends,

arriving from the office. There were

many good things in the mail but first

among them, was the gift of a pen

sent from Robert Bly. It was inscribed with

letters running down the pen, which I read,

filling with tears. Of course, it would have been

a long pen, to hold all these letters.

I'll give them to you here, just simple,

like this: If I had a king

all of in and out would.