Southern Exposure

If I had a house,
the violin would be in the front room
on the east side,
the one
with the southern exposure.
And each morning,
I would play the sun
into the sky,
sing with a voice that only exists
in my fingers,
in the wood and the strings and the bow.
In the fall, I would play the leaves their soft descent
down to earth,
play them
into their brown,
their red, their yellow,
orange and purple shades,
out of their green summer dress. And
on Tuesday evenings,
I would sweep up the dust
from my rubber eraser,
collect all the notebooks that are scattered about,
and I'd read from the pages
to my guests.
Read them welcome
and love and
loss, and death
and beauty and new. And
I'd sing the leaves down,
their soft descent,
with the words that escaped
the rubber eraser. They
have their own words to sing,
the leaves,
in the fall, and I'd
play them welcome
and love
on the violin, try to translate them
on the page smeared with rubber eraser.
The leaves, dying in the shades of the season.
Death is beauty, falling from trees
in the room
in the front of the house
on the east side
with the southern exposure
with my fingers that sing
to the leaves that were green
turned brown,
releasing their grip
on the trees.

Lovely

Isn't he lovely,

soft at the temples

but rough jaw, lip, and chin.

Gentle hands that hold children

the same hands

that lift bricks

and pull ropes,

building buildings,

moving rubble,

sailing ships.

Hands as strong as the voice

that he quiets to listen

and to whisper small words

that feel bigger than

hands,

bodies, buildings,

and ships

Isn't he lovely
who once was a boy,
nursing and then crawling,
soon running and falling,
losing teeth,
making wishes
boosted up to candles.
He learns to use hands
and words that are gentle
with his kickball bruised sneakers
and his school box of pencils
that curious quick turn into pens
and his sneakers to slacks.
Then they cuts his boy hair,
and his face turns to man.

But he still has his bikes,
and he likes to act silly,
enjoys being held
like his mother once held him.
Eyes mirror the heart,
and when he smiles,
his eyes show the boy he once was
hidden inside.
It's not on his face or his glue-stickied fingers
but in the way that he says,
"One more kiss"
and then lingers -

And lovely describes him
because it captures it all
the softness he possesses
Although he is strong.
The strongest man is the one
who is more than his gender
who is lovely and grotesque,
vulnerable and full of power.
Whose arm can be under the arm
of his other
and who knows that he's lovely
because he isn't bothered
by gender.

Young

Just when you think you're getting somewhere in the way of maturity,

a creased and creased again forehead

that raised mounted eyebrows to accompany a laugh

or gasp at the pinnacle point of a movie,

to greet a passing friend,

a passing stranger,

reminds you that 19, no 18

when skin still resists its familiar folds

is young.

Just when you think you've learned enough to be considered an adult,

a set of five fingers, a warm and worn hand

that, pudgy, wrapped around a parent's fingers once,

that learned to comfort

as it nervously found a place on a shoulder 

where it squeezed,

warmed the skin of a friend,

the skin of a stranger,

reminds you that your 21, 19, no 18 

year old hands

are still young.

When the things that await you 

like hands that know where to sit on a shoulder

and eyebrows that know where to sit on a forehead

make the present seem like a glimpse of the someday future's past

just then

you are young.

Wonder on My Words

Where do words come from?
I wonder -
will they cease to come
one day?

Like a measured hollow vessel
shaped from clay
do words pour from the lip
until the flow strains to a drip
and drips to drops
until it stops
the words dried up -
I wonder.

Wonder on My Heart

Is doing ever done?
I wonder -
will I ever breathe the final breath
of accomplishment?

Like a marked and measured trail
through town
does doing wind and bend
until the trail comes to an end
and end to stop
legs rest from body's heavy top -

Or is doing like a heart
that beats and beats
and never stops
from before birth
to final breath,
the heart is never given rest.

Assigned to beat
caged in a chest
and never rest
unless in death -

Is not this constancy in our
best interest? -
I wonder

Chikamatsu Mon'zaemon

"Some playwrights, thinking that sadness is essential to a jōruri, often put in words like 'How sad it is!' or the lines are chanted tearfully, as in the Bunyabushi style, but that is not how I write plays. The sadness in all my plays is based entirely on reason. Since the audience will be moved when the logic of the dramatization is convincing, the more restrained the words and the chanting are, the more moving the play will be. Thus, when one says of a moment of pathos 'How sad it is!' the connotations are lost, and in the end, the feeling conveyed is weak. It is essential that the moment be filled with pathos in and of itself, without having to say 'How sad it is!' For example, when you praise a landscape such as Matsushima by saying 'Oh what a beautiful scene!' you have said all you can about it in a few words but to no avail. If you wish to praise a scene, pointing out all its features objectively will reveal its intrinsic appeal naturally, without having to say 'it is a beautiful scene.' This applies to everything of this sort."

-Chikamatsu Mon'zaemon-

Virginia Morning

Good morning -
sweet birds I love-
hear me your sun rising song.
Morning's breath fill your lungs,
your chest cause to swell 
as you turn morning air
into song

Good morning,
pink rose in the sun,
my eyes your bright body attract.
Morning's fragrance you make
that my nostril's inflame
with the scent of your
sun-baked perfume


Good morning -
sun, giving light
what reunion is this
after absence in night.
Welcome, your embrace
earth's arms open wide
to the light that you give
and that gives morning
life.