Poems ✍️

further the poem. “They came up
      and died
just like they do every year
      on the rocks.”


      The poem
feeds upon thought, feeling, impulse,
      to breed    itself,
a spiritual urgency at the dark ladders leaping.


This beauty is an inner persistence
      toward the source
striving against (within) down-rushet of the river,
      a call we heard and answer
in the lateness of the world
      primordial bellowings
from which the youngest world might spring,


salmon not in the well where the
      hazelnut falls
but at the falls battling, inarticulate,
      blindly making it.


This is one picture apt for the mind.


A second: a moose painted by Stubbs,
where last year’s extravagant antlers
      lie on the ground.
The forlorn moosey-faced poem wears
      new antler-buds,
      the same,


“a little heavy, a little contrived”,


his only beauty to be
      all moose.