Your EyesWhen I look into your eyes
Where shining suns go to die
Where sparkling tears overflow your limpid pools
Where wise and loquacious men are made to feel like fools
When I look into your eyes I see
I see where forty years from now I want to be
I see the dying sun from my porch rocker,
One, next to the other,
Hand in hand,
We go hand in hand from one day to the next
And together we create a quite subtext
A subtitle track that plays behind our eyes,
A truth of love that anyone can see but only I,
I see the depth, so I,
I hold my breath
And dive deep into your eyes
And I stare into those eyes while I hold out the ring
To ask those four famous words
But your eyes are the thing
That matters more than any sweet words
Your eyes that hold our future,
And leave me swallowing
Air, building breath, building courage
To ask you to build with me a future,
To build forty years,
To build a big red house
With a white picket fence
And a porch,
Where we can watch
Where I'm FromWhen people ask me where I’m from,
I always start by replying “that’s a long story”.
But that’s not true, is it? It never really is.
What we really mean is
“I’ve told this story a hundred times,
don’t make me say it again.”
This isn’t that story. This is the true story.
Well, it’s not much of a story.
I was born in a little blue house
(Painted Robin’s-Egg blue, my mother always said)
With a red door and a white picket fence and a Volvo in the driveway.
I was born on a futon in the living room, with my family crowded around.
I was born on a cold day in February, with the snow coming down.
I’ve moved a few times in my life:
When my grandmother died, we moved to Florida,
To Miami, to take care of her husband.
I lived in a little white house
On the side of a lake,
With an old wooden boardwalk and an old wooden fence and a tired old driveway.
Well, nothing down there was really ve
The WalnutThe black brown walnut
Drops from the tree
Falls from its perch
Among the clouds.
The helmet-head walnut, it
Deftly charges the ground,
Catapulted for an instant
So brief the world does not even blink.
Do you think it knows god
In that singular moment between worlds?
That tiny impromptu diver, how can it suspect
When those stubby, grimy fingers clutch it tightly,
Scrabbling in the litter of its short-lived ancestry.
That hard shell cascades in the waning light
The Raven DreamWhen first I dream, I sleep to see, to hear
The rusty caw, caw in oaken syllables
Whose echo, reflected in your sequin eyes,
Bears forth the very music of my soul.
How now, gore beast?
What lovely secrets do you sing,
These ashen notes your corbie call,
Like seeds to feed my barren field.
And now I dream again,
I see – I hear that lonely heart beat,
The drum tattoo of your silken wings;
Fly! Fly to the west, to the dying sun!
Ancient beast of Corvus, to your brothers sing!
Let wise kings tremble while great scholars crane their necks to hear,
And behind their eyes plucked blind you plant your wisdom,
For from your wooden screams spring acorn dreams
To sprout anew in Spring.
The RavenThe rusty caw, caw in oaken syllables
Falls from wide maw on hidden hinges,
To be reflected in echoing sequin eyes,
Pinned to ruffled feather boa neck.
When first I dream, I sleep to see, to hear.
What lovely secrets do you know
That you scatter like ashes
Like seeds to feed my barren field
And only now I dream again,
I see – I hear – the lonely heart beat
The rhythmic drum beats of your silken wings,
And now to the west, to your dying sun–
To your brothers, sing! Sing!
Let wise kings tremble, great scholars crane their necks to hear
For behind their eyes plucked blind you plant your wisdom
And from these wooden screams spring acorn dreams
To sprout anew in spring.
The Music of PigsThe rustling pig, with its nose in the dirt
Makes a nails-on-chalkboard whine when it finds
That succulent truffle.
Is this music?
The other shoats are rooting nearby,
They remember the sweet success
That makes the wet, cold mud so worthwhile,
And now they lumber closer, noses working like bellows,
They root among the trees with hope in their eyes
Like the dust and flies cannot distract
Those sow minds know only.
Is this music, this squeal that rings in my ears,
That speaks of dreams
The musky forest dreams in dappled falls of golden light,
Wallowing summer days,
And dreams of half remembered dreams
On grassy pillows
Is this music?