ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

sequence #
1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 9 10
11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20

  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 18

SURVIVAL
Survive the summer, crumbs of dead leaves dropped by the...


THE DREAM OF LAST NIGHT
dreamt of rain...


INHERITANCE
you are heir to a hidden philosophy...


LAST DAYS OF SUMMER
the long dry spell weakens everything...


THE HARVEST
late afternoon...


A MAN
as I left there stood a man...


TIMES/STEPS/FUTURE/TRADE
the times I saw...


untitled
blank page: no wreck yet...


OUR NEIGHBORHOOD THE UNIVERSE
a black hole is empty...


A SQUIRREL MAKES A MEAL OF ACORNS
it looks up and sees...


THE DIVER
the tomb lid sketch a naked man his body arched...


MY FIT
my old clothes carry my old shape...


12/31/10
will I be silenced? yes...


DRIVING BY
a field of crows in winter...


LOSS AND GAIN
the wind that took...


MY INQUIRY
do you piss first thing when you get up...


THREE QUESTIONS
the last cold night passed...


HEMLOCK BLUFFS ONCE AGAIN
along the ridge...


NEWS
somewhere peace has begun...


untitled
we are always...


MY ENVIRONMENT MINUS ME
looks around...


THE WORLD WE ARE NOT IN
the known world...


WORLD NEWS
everything is a containment vessel...


BORROWED THEME
leaf lying there...


3/18/11
moon up...


IN THE HIERARCHY OF POETS
I attempt to find my place...


BEGIN HERE
the light inches forward...


MORE
the old: as they shrink...


WHAT IT IS
something has chosen me for its disguise...


FOLLOW
the one who disguised himself as rain--...


MORNINGS LIKE THIS
inside me...


NIGHT
the spatter on the boards...


TO REASON
I love you because I am not like you...


TO THOSE OF A DISTANT PLANET
there as here...


ERIC RENSBERGER
The date and cause of his death are unknown to the present...


BETWEEN STORMS
the sparrow's hop...


REPORTING ON MYSELF
who tried hardest with me?...


HERE
Here where the alleys cross all the ground has been asphalted...


MY DISASTER PLAN
I will write about it...


WHAT WE HAVE
one sky becomes another...


I RECALL A JUNE DAY IN THE FIFTIES
brief as any...


5/30/11
the wind-felled trees piled in the open...


AFTER EASILY
I take with me ...


EARLY HEAT WAVE
the new moon takes its pincers...


I DON'T LOOK AT PHOTOGRAPHS
so there's no way I'll be inspired...


OF STONE, STONE
to speak of stone...


PURSUIT
the zodiacal beasts bounding...


WE HAVE TO PROCEED CAUTIOUSLY
no one else must ever know what...


INSTANT
lightning that touches earth...


untitled
one stone with one name...


A UNIVERSE
upward is more or less forever...


YELLOW CREEK
each spring the plowing...


LEAVES AND RAIN
the leaves in the wind make a sound like rain...


LISTENING TO A TRAVELER
there you go in the dark...


THE LOSERS
when the bud can no longer strain against...


MY FATHER'S GRADUATION PORTRAIT
your youth faded far more swiftly...


POEM NOT DONE
two thirds...


THE PRESENT MOMENT
overall I'd have to say...


ORCHESTRAL ACCOMPANIMENT
the cicadas' strict song...


HOPE
Never easy in his mind, that man still keeps hoping. It's true:...


AT THE WINDOW LOOKING OUT
a narrow street comes to mind...

PROSE POEM ON THE BAKERS (NO COMMAS)

I always see the bakers when I am in a hurry walking past the door
on the alley where they take their break. In any reasonably toler-
able weather they sit outside the door on crates or squatting on
their heels. Many of them smoke during their break because they
can't do that inside. I don't think they talk a lot and they sel-
dom make eye contact with people like me walking past. For some
reason this makes me more aware of my stride and I can feel it in
a way that makes me grateful to the bakers. They work in a yuppie
place that is chaotic and expensive (a microcosm of our late twen-
tieth century world) where the customers always seem intent on
their transactions rather than on any personal grief or joy. I
join this atmosphere with enthusiasm since this is now our way of
having a common experience. Experiencing something in common with
other citizens is sacred or at least has always been thought so.
The bakers in their white t shirts white aprons and small white
caps seem to be (or I would like to see them as) messengers from
another realm of existence whose message is simply their presence
in our world. Hence their silence. As I walk past them silently
my legs in their regular pace say to me "I get the message I get
the message I get the message."