andy bondi
there are times when men
who harbor secret desire
refrain from razing every village
and taking the spoils
to their hiding place
in the high mountains
there are times when men
lock up their guns
and leave the sharp axe home
while walking in the forest
allowing the trees to themselves
there are times when men
stop listening to the secret voice
instead turning to the soft touch
of darkness
and dream for a bit
of benevolence and love
in times of trouble
Listening for sleep
I write on the ceiling
with Monet’s blue/purple brush
Do not dream
Do not dream of yellow houses
paper horses, or cold, foggy days
Do not dream of fast waterfalls
on the creeks of childhood
Do not dream of old boots
or paper mâché bowls
Do not dream of endless desert roads
or crowds of deep lakes
Do not dream of the refuge of forests
or the visits of small birds
I write on the ceiling
with Monet’s blue/purple brush
as I fall away into
a quiet darkness
A blue eyed girl hides
behind a broken concrete wall
rebar bristling like pitchforks
she hears the sounds of sirens
in the distance
and growls and whistles high above
she waits, listens, waits
she takes a sip of water
from her precious canteen
she wants to run but cannot
a fluorescent hummingbird
hovers in the sunlight
beyond the broken concrete
she turns and sees the hummingbird
and the sunlight
he looks at her
she looks at him
then she cups her hands over her ears
to dampen the sounds that attack
I would prefer to live in the company of rocks
and stones under a canopy of tall trees
that send mist and fragrance into the air
I would prefer to live in the company of flowing water
in creeks and tributaries that define cities, counties
and fill the world with a covering sound
I would prefer to live in the company of tall, green grasses
surrounding a landscape of abandoned stone walls
and their carpets of lichen and soft moss
I would prefer to live in the company of mountains
as they are inert to human woe
and subsist in the slowness of time
I prefer to live in the company of oceans
that move with the power of the moon
and remind of eras of perfect change
Why does the moon dominate
what does one foot after the other mean
how will I breathe after I’m dead
who made Tolstoy
what about my lifelong dream to capture light
why can I not live under water
how can I possibly keep track
of the scent of all these blossoms
A snowstorm of graves howls
from the caves of mountains
Into valleys and plains
Graves scatter the earth
ancient granite stones
family markers
paupers graves
flanders field
hidden graves of abandoned church yards
wooden headstone
the name and date burned away by the sun
here lies in perfect peace with god forever
the loving wife of
Mass grave
grave of the unknown
unmarked grave
the muddy graves of small towns
burial mounds in heather
graves in the foundations of new york
The propensity of humans to fall into graves ashes a private ganges
to be forever remembered/forgotten
even as the air
is inundated by hovering birds
and acacia flowers
I am a prisoner in Van Gogh’s bedroom
perhaps living in all 3
together
not knowing which room
I am in
I lie in the orange bed
in an altered state
happy in the color
confused by the color
I am only waiting
perhaps waiting to leave
the color
but not sure that I can
walk on these variegated floors
not yet
established in unswerving rest
A green window
opague
slightly ajar
perhaps I can open
the green window
peer out
of Van Gogh’s bedroom
or leave forever
through the blue door
Rusty hinge
The door appears locked
Hummingbirds gather
as if to watch
I walk through
the breath of their wings
I push open the locked door
effortlessly
In the dim light
in a corner of the dim light
a small chest
Ernesto 1929 inscribed
I run my fingers through dust
covering the chest
making tracks tracks in dust
A low round table
2 broken chairs
a coffee grinder
2 people could sit
share
Perhaps my grandfather
was here
Ernesto inscribed
In a far corner
in the dim light
a mirror
I clean the mirror
with my sleeve
I see myself as
dust is cast up
up into old dreams
A door easily opened
perhaps by hummingbirds
a table chairs
a mirror
Ernesto inscribed
O take me back
to all that I have forgotten
A young girl
perhaps no more than 14 her auburn hair
in braids down her back
paddles a blue kayak
on the slack green river
She has no destination
the kayak half drifting
half directed
in small circles
in a slow river eddy
The kayak stops moving
The young girl is waiting looking
A blue heron
across the river
draws her attention
for a moment
The girl is not a madonna
or a girl with a pearl earring
She is rather a young girl
perhaps 14 auburn hair
in braids down her back
paddling a blue kayak
In a dream
I learned to breath underwater
by training my hands to be fish
Whale song drew me
to swim to the bottom of the warm sea
and rest among granite boulders
on clean white sand
The ripples on the ocean surface
were prisms that bent the light
and delivered these obtuse rays
to the ocean floor
where I lay
Among brightly colored fish
I looked up through the sea
There above in the natural air
the openings and closings of history
were smudges on a blurry sky
My family drifted by as clouds
seeming to search for me
with eyes of glass
guided by seagulls and pelicans
My home receded
to a pinpoint
located nowhere
and everywhere
As I chose to remain a while
I wondered how long
until somehow invited I kicked
and pulled up
into the human space above