36 Variations of Flight

36 Variations of Flight
Migdal Eden

Contents
Flight………….
36 Variations of Flight………………………...…………………page 3
Save the Ridge!...............................................................................page 4
Flying Bird…………………………………………………….…..page 6
I, my two hands…………………………………………………..page 8
Overlooking fault, my love was pledged………………………page 9
You turned and then ran………………………………………..page 10
A found poem……………………………………………………page 11
Shown on wires and trapeze…………………………………..page 12
Frieda……………………………………………………………..page 13
Random word list to write a found poem……………………page 19
Death…………………
The Death of a pearl…………………………….………………page 20
Misted name song…………………………………………….…page 23
In mirth and un-mirth………………………………………….page 24
The depths in things missed………………………….………..page 25
I looked into your eyes…………………………………………page 27
The dress mannequin……………………………………….…..page 28
The artist………………………………………………………..page 29
Love…………………………..

Second skin……………………………………………………....page 33
Still love…………………………..
Bursting and breaking to recover the found………………….page 36
Found fennel love…………………………………………….….page 36
Every time you open your eyes………………………………...page 37
You are my Pooh Bear…………………………...……….…….page 38
Tides…………………………………
Half moon, full sun……………………………………….…….page 40
Out of womb experience………………………………………..page 41
In the waves the grain………………………………………….page 42
In solstice………………………………………………….……..page 43
White clouds shot through……………………………….…….page 45
Bare cliffs show through occasionally…………………….….page 49
Sam’s Point………………………………………………….…..page 53
Mid-October sounds………………………………………..…..page 55
Some things seen clearly……………………………………….page 56
The cracked paperweight of the geese………………………...page 61
The golden half………………………………………………….page 63
Values…..Threats…………………………….

Sliding scale of values……………………………...…………..page 66
Halloween night spent on a broomstick………………….…..page 67
A list of things that we need protection from…………….….page 69
Sliding storm into-sliding storm-windows………………….page 70
One two three four……………………………………………...page 71
Terrorist attack………………………………………….………page 74
Psalms………………………..Songs
Prayers………………………………………………
Like an inner wave………………………......………………….page 78
In the moment of leaping………………………………………page 79
S(he) who sings a song without singing………………….…..page 80
I long to flow with knowledge……………………...…………page 81
The truth is………………………………………………………page 83
Yes, all things vibrate………………………………………….page 84
Here’s what the stones say……………………………………page 87
To know…………………………………………………………page 91

Books by Migdal………..
From out of the Burning Bush
Song of Sings
Headlines of Almost May
On Your Birthday
Erotic and Sensuous Meet
Color me with your kisses
The Bitter Herb
Prison Appendages
Nope, Nope It’s Not Going to Happen
The Awakening
A Fairy Tale book for adults

This book is dedicated to all who have loved,
lived and died, trying to fly…

Silken parachutes, silken hanging gliders-
multi- colored flight feathers
so vibrant in light
vibrant in unfiltered
freedom- from gravity’s pull -
vibrant in blue, green, jasmine- cream-
vibrant in yellow, saffron, mustard- dream.
they soar, they stream un-motored, voiceless.
In majestic eagles glint they drift above;
launching themselves off from “The Ridge”
…in a hived humming dance through the skies-
through the jet stream of the blue un-clouded,
undraped afternoon.
In swarm- the 36 colored songs flow up off and
over
the ridge- aloft, aloft and
over
the ridge, all and many,
in a cloud of flying songs….
Save The Ridge!

Save The Ridge!
for these-
……… flyers…
and the many more who’ll fly
into a wide wind spangled flight-
of tiered royal blue senses awakening-
and looking down,
circling, spinning, rotating, turning.
over
The group of choppers, stopped at the overlook.
All those black helmets, studs, and nail boots…
Up !
earthbound creatures looking- at the 36 launched
-off the lifting peak…. at once…
(And one more variation of flight), emerging
from within a white vaporized cloud,
lifted only by a white spoiler.
What is it like? to speed and prowl
in earthbound flight; a Poet Moved-
gearing up and down through liftoffs and
landings of doubly felt pains and ecstasies-
six gears times two-in doubled living… living
everything, even death- on the edge of flight…

Flying Bird
… You take my heart in migration.
Why did you leave me? …flying off to the South,
leaving me stranded,
pounded by a cold storm …
… unready.
You were my seasons…my days of
knowing,
Something blue ………………… and sunny.
You were… my heart…
my blood’s….
… exalting beating rhyme full scored then
I am …pulled by the receding light of your pale
grey flight.
In the cold flaying wind turning
I feel my blood roaring…. in your flying.
Flying Bird
Open up your beating wings.
Banish your darkest fears
……………………….to .include me in your
flight...
Soar back to take me
in framed wedded migration…
in the sunset’s warm embrace…

Show me the blade of an angel’s wing.
Soar back up through the North of my vision!
and! Shoot your hot feathered arrows’ assonance
straight through the cold ice freezing up of my
light.

I, my two hands
I my two hands..…. ….. … once two of four
joined hands
now struggling with the cold
I my two ears
listening to the falling leaves, my tears falling
piling... sliding through
the
night.
tangling in frozen earth
… my blood,
turned into ice.
I’m now a flightless bird! Extinct. A dodo
stuck now in past memories, stuck in
grounded flight
through the cliffs
of your chained off love…
the nest ...
thrown down on
the rocks…

Overlooking fault… My love was pledged and
blind.
As you
closed the eyes of our past;
leaving behind only a stinging
blinding wound
flying off into a blind future...
without a map, with out a key
You turned and then ran
taking my soul with my heart
turning it aside
You turned and then ran.
Up flew my soul like a kite
flying on your string
You turned and then ran
and tied I cried out for you-
my soul impounded

A found poem
taken from the menu of an Outback restaurant
The cyclone Out Back
An outdoor performance of the Cirque du Soleil
The Cirque du Soleil Slides down poles
in a no rules version of catch- then flies
a cyclone-denying short circuiting
brain’s logic
of human limitations of act and motion
with forms
molten
flying in impossible slips of dimension-
between dimensions-
in a no rules version of catch then flies!
The performers fly aloft!
Elastic in a flight of
Aboriginal
impressionism
fly on in tandem flight
in a humanity that performs spiritual surgery
performs an acrobatic surgery of human
search

Shown on Wires and Trapeze
as a girl child… a maven of the human
experience appears… the drover of
human flyers
wearing white… pulls out a knife-
tiny, slight… and winsome
wearing a charming…
smile.
Knowing and studied…she twists her slender
body
into impossible postures-
no
surprise no grimace…
crossing her face
as. ..……… the adult performers roll down to
heel
under her light and fanciful touch
…………….under her studied smile
that is as winsome as the world is wide
that is as wide eyed as the world is many formed.

Frieda
lost things. She lost legs-
One.
She lost babies-
Two.
She lost her mother-
One.
She lost her father-
Second.
She lost her toes-
First.
She lost her leg-
Second.
She lost her first love-
First.
She lost Diego-
Second. And Second. And Second. And Second-
As he constantly mislaid himself-
In other women’s bodies-
Which he said meant-
Nothing.

Frieda.
Diego was always in her head.
She painted him in her head.
He was the-
One.
She made him the only-
One.
He was always the only-
One.
She told him that she had had two accidents in her
life-
The trolley car- that was the first-
One.
And Diego-which was by far the worst one. That was-
Two.
But twenty years into their marriage-
Not only had Frieda survived all her-
Ones. And
Twos.
She was writing love poems to Diego
Who was painted in her head as the-
One. And the only-
One
Writing in her diary-

Frieda.
One.
Diego.
One.
Together.
Two.
Perfect in creative union
And consensual love as-
Two.
So much perfect-that
One.
Would have thought that.
Frieda.
Had contrived all of her losses. Contrived all of
her
Ones. And
Twos.
Contrived the marriage-
One.
Contrived the painting/their lives.
Two.
A manifesto that overshadowed any saints-
In fervor. And in fevered clarity.

Frieda.
The picture in other words a fake.
But for one overriding truth and fact.
An essential-
One.
Frieda’s diaries were private-
Meant for her eyes only. In her diaries-
Were the only lines that-
Led you behind her eyes-
Which were the only parts of Frieda that-
You were never allowed to see behind-
That you were never allowed to read.
Frieda.
Painted her losses.
Painted her pain.
Frieda.
Painted coconuts crying-
Like it was only natural-
That everything ever living-
Was in pain.

Frieda.
Painted Diego in her head-
In every one of her paintings-
Painted the blood coming out of her body-
And her miscarried babies.
Frieda.
Painted and painted-
Her losses-
And her pain.
But in her diaries-
She allows for the first and only time-
A glimpse into the blood and the love-
That Diego infused-
Back into her-
In spite of the pain-
And the casual betrayals-
That he wed into her
Bleeding body with each betrayal-
One. And-
One. And-
One.

Frieda.
Her diaries say that-
The real stigmata of their marriage-
Was a spiritual union-
Whose sensual depravity and holiness-
Was far above and beyond-
The party line on marriage.
And her accidents. Both-
One. And-
Two.
Were a story about-
The ecstasy of-
The living and the
Damned/Blessed

Random Word list to Write
A Found Poem
• Heretic
• Pride
• Ruins
• Stubble
• Turbulence
• Crying
• Accessible
• Archives
• Ocean
• Labyrinth
• Pastel
• Time tombs
• Shaft
• Sarcasm
• hidden

Death…………..
The Death of a Pearl
Friday night:
You are neither living nor dead
in the minutes and hours
since the car struck you down...
and your husband who has been with you for so
long...
since you were both, ten and twelve...
has signed the Do not Resuscitate order ...if...
…your heart stops.

He is both sobbing and laughing…as he talks to
you...
about never picturing it ending this way for his
“longtime girlfriend”.
The ticking of the clock…
seeps through our bodies and minds…
with the intensity of your blood, bleeding
through our lives and hearts…neither living nor
dead.
Our lives are felt in these minutes and hours with
the intensity
of an Olympic performance of continued
tension…
neither living nor dead.
Saturday morning:
You flew off on wings of a different kind then the
wings
and jet engines
that lifted our long delayed flight off the runway.
We fly four hundred and eighteen miles per hour,
trying to catch up with the moment of your
death...
that was already happening.
We wanted to say “Goodbye”.
You said “Hello”…
passing us in the heavens
as your heart and breath …turned into a cloud
that promised rain in our tears.

Saturday afternoon:
We entered into the room...not to solidify your
memory.
Your memory and remembrance is assured.
We entered into the room…to talk about you,
yes…
but of more importance ..was the goal to tend to
your husband…
who has loved you for so long…
that we fear for him...fearing that his contract
(his anchor)
to this earth ...will be rendered null and void
(pulled up and turned adrift)… in his desire to
follow after you.
… Loss of you both would be too much.
We enter into this room …with greatly focused
breath….attentions focused…
to tie him with love…
to this earth.
Saturday night:
Night falls… in remembrance of you…
and in remembrance of… love of you.
I sleep with hopes renewed…
that the man who holds you forever in his
heart…
will abide with us awhile more.

Misted Name Sung…
What is that fluttering?
the picture of that man that you kissed-
when you and he were sixteen-
a perplexed child’s frown-
whose running footsteps drop down
like small pebbles thrown down a well
that
will
not tell-
how long, how deep-
until mired.
In Mirth and Un-Mirth
...In mirth, and in un-mirth,
this un-birth surprised me
midst the hummingbird’s dash-
to the red blossomed feeder; a vast map
unfolding, spiraling down faster,
far faster,
than the red throated speeder-
to a mystery, a history,
that will now lie in the shallows,
and the swoop
of the swallow’s wing-
the span of a name,
a life now to un-sing.

The Depths in Things Missed
There’s a hollow ringing frost
mixed in with the color of things lost;
an absence of voice, another choice.
Falling leaves touch on the surface
of the lake of remembrance;
but I cannot quite capture
the picture, or your resemblance-
sinking in echo
turning, sinking to the bottom
.….the scent very faint; the sickly sweet scent of
quickened frond,
as summer’s end turns bitter,
with a taste of sour lime-
the cocktail glass, still unfilled of time-
that left you behind,
with low sobs-the linen blowing on the line,
that your death robs of meaning;
now it’s meaning to be sent-away,
down below, down below-
to collect in the mists, in the depths
of things missed.

Premature Death
They would gladly have stayed…
smiled or laughed
and yelled, or cried, or turned sullen
(as long as you were looking to acknowledge)
and stayed on in this world.

I looked into Your Eyes
trying to dive down deep
past the abyss of your fearful
longing caress of black silk lashes,
catching the sunset gleam of
hopeful throbbing, that escaped past
the gate of your teeth, locked
against disappointment…
licking carefully the enveloped seal
of your lids, trying to reassure and reassess
the open invitation that I saw
when first struck by the glazed
glance first sight of you,
that quickly turned to face the wall,
but peeped out between your fingers,
shining golden, glistening with
faceted tears, strung on as yet unsaid words-
that might, just might, be sealed
with scented amber beads; my heart
strung on the lapis lazuli of your eyes

The Dress Mannequin
The dress mannequin
has stood at the door
instead of a smile
for two weeks.
The leaves change
color everyday
now.
The dress mannequin
does not change dresses.
The lights go on in the
same rooms at the same time
at dusk... every
day.
You were posed,
Arranged in your open casket
like a plastic…
bouquet

The Artist
your wild white song
which you write with purple symbol
which will weld open
my raw young empty silhouette
to create a deep shimmering fiery joy full
music
Sing!
Fashion me woman icon
from a piece of black wood
form a man. he out of dust
appears nude drunk in passion

Second Skin
I have to peel you off-
a pair of surgical gloves that I have to tug at
in order to finish off with a bow-
and clap of hands-
the successful operation of “us”.
I lean in through the window from my side-
you lean through the window from your side-
of the thin wall of skin separating us-
from the kiss.
I jump up and down,
peering over-the edges of the picture frame of
myself- and of my own(ly) consciousness-
kicking out the staples that keeps me bound-
within four cornered edges-trying to reframe
myself in
the larger portrait of the two (you and me)
together within one skin-
prowling the woods-
wrapped together in - one skin.
My second skin-is tight
I wriggle and wriggle-
having to shed you every time that
you open the door
to leave for a few hours……
until I can put you on again

Bursting and Breaking, to Recover the
Found
..for the found, like something lost,
shimmers, covered with the same
surreal dust; clinging to every particle
of every thing,
both living and non-living.
Yes, the climatic changes of time-
clings, hanging anchored with numerous
anchors-
and time, like all things either, lost and found-
or lost/ or found-
cannot be held, clasped tightly
to my chest, like a rag puppy, one leg drooping
down along my knee-
never to be removed from my silver grasp;
never to face changes, never to …
die.
That doesn’t happen with
fabulous things found-
especially found flying love-
especially found fennel love.
Found fennel love
The minute it’s green coolness enters into our
mind-flavoring our drink, our cake-
is the minute-the bursting, breaking tide
crashes through the leaves
of our protecting arms and
helpless our need-like all rag puppies
will fall from our broken arms-
will go all unreachable-
dissolving into dust-

a spot of glue stuck on the floor-
attracting a cheap tombstone.
and Someday/this day-
and all the rest of our days will be spent
in the bursting, breaking attempt
to recover, to find again-
the brief illuminating moment of finding
(of being found)
I found you! I found you!
And then came/comes the painful,
beautiful attempt to keep you.
Every Time You Open Your Eyes…
Your capacity for joy
And to give love
rustles my pages, sets off a mini smoke
alarm-
slightly unnerves me……
Every time you open your eyes at me
And I open mine back-
doing our silly noises game-
I feel like I opened a box of Cracker Jacks-
and found inside…instead of a plastic horse-
the winning ticket
to the ten million dollar lottery.
Your smile and loving looks-
are a pair of ice skates-
to take me safely along-
the slippery slopes of life.

You are my Pooh Bear.
I can squeeze you and drag you along
up and down the stairs-
your head bumping on each step-
until your stuffing falls out,
your fur gets rubbed off-
and all you’ll do is look at me
with your shiny black button eyes-
and beg to play again.
You don’t think things through.
Poohs rarely do…but you’re all heart.
You won’t lose your dribble in the middle of
the game. You won’t quit.
You’re always with me… just like my
shadow.
If for some reason, someone accidentally
shut you in the closet, and we got separated-
at the seams... you’d bang and bang
and raise the roof, until you found me again.

You cry like a hummingbird doing
a fast commute...
cry with a zither wing hum when you
think of how much you love me.
And laugh like the sun breaking out,
when someone suggests that being only
human
I might leave you... or forget you... or
inadvertently break you...
dragging you over the stairs.
You call me your angel. I can see me-
flying, reflected in your eyes…
every time you open your eyes at me-
and I open mine back.

Tides…
Half Moon, Full Sun
Her belly swelled in September Equinox-
a dome of watered tides, her silken pearl belly of
opposed embrace-neap’s tide of opposites attract.
Spring tide, flaring nova tidal stream in sky above-
the loon’s cry shot and knotted on a sky string
joining the two with ceremony, the passing of
a day, and night, in shaded light, in watch,
the voyage, in celestial wading and words,
she and he splashing through the surf,
and around the globe of the earth,

Half Moon, Full Sun
turning, turning through nebulous neap
then onto neon highest reap, her belly swollen
until full cycle; un-boarding, she’ll birth a son.
Then off on wings-a speck, a mote,
envisioned emotion, the child of diurnal differences
gambols in the flames of his father’s eyes.
He, the fiery storm thrown out far; hurled, bowled-love’s
neonate constellation growing great in neap wave
through and out the other side
of bellows, flaming lungs, flung out offspring, fired, re-
imaged in September’s sprung tide,(son)
tidally birthed from heart’s reactor.
Down under the moon
On planet earth; on surface-down below,
Woman, man, she, he-
we sit down below on the decks;
riding in sea sick pilgrim’s emigration-
swinging on a swing, arms and thoughts entwined-
thinking on the child, our love could bear-
thinking on the child…our fragile but tensile
joined strength-
could bear.

Out of Womb Experience
Beating in the dark…
wrapped in the cauls of a
salty sweet sea of rhythm-ed scent
(then)
light…..intense
intruding light
gigantic searchlight; blinding
my hands searching-
for the reef of my mother’s womb
and
(then)
….the salt rubbed dune
of my twin’s back,
where I can curl up
and throw my netted fists against him
(then)
curling, uncurling my hands,
starfish dancing in the metered darkness,
on the beach of his chest
as he turns, going out with the tide

In the Waves,
the Grain
The waves, the grain
the rightness, the comfort
that weeps and leaks,
in rivulets of joy, through the night
in our close shore’s sleep
the shore’s birds on slender legs
leaving prints, like light kisses
on each other’s sleep
No threat of death
can quell the waves, the tempest tossed gently,
of love…
the waves that we row through the night-
of pity, and sweetness, and need
that you kept locked like a pearl
inside of your shell, until now

In Solstice
The fat bear walks into sight standing
on it’s hind legs to strip the berries
off the bush…
fur rubbed with tallow - the candle
of the sleep of winter… that will burn
burn and cause him to sleep on…
growing gaunt as the layer of fat
…… that he is wearing now
melts in the flame … of his long sleep
until April’s bell wakes him again.
The bear… lumbers ungainly under
the weight of the winter provisions
…. he wears around his waist.
The bear is very black….. like a witch’s hat
highlighted ….. against the pumpkin
orange …. …. the yellow shout of fall
foliage,
beginning to turn red… set ablaze by the
evening’s ………… chill and frosts
that echo loudly
through the air the woodpecker’s knocks
the woodcutter’s chops… resounding
through the air- sounds clear – and un-muffled

White Clouds’ Flight, Shot
Through By Two Flocks of
Migrating Birds
Exposed in the sky, the vital spots of throat
and heart, in weft and weave of white clouds,
shaped and streaked, blown, and piled…
in column-ed musings- rising up in coffered
rings…
Cumulous…and in streaks of frisky cirrus…
in nimbostratus, serious with magnitude-
grand and inspiring…each inspiration white-
a white sight hammering delight onto a blue soul
with quiet and…
Quick and sharp
But a disturbance! of swirling black dots
In a sudden explosion Of exclamation!!!!!!!
marks through the eyes- Suddenly dazed,
then a swirling and quick regrouping- the
thick black veil of swarming migrating birds
roils against
the shades of blue and white-
flying leaves in windy eruption
In sudden gale, ANOTHER
QUICK BLACK EXPLOSION
and quick regrouping…then
the book of migration is
CLOSED Quickly
The curtain of the clouds
now thickly piled and scraped onto-
the blue canvas of the sky….
in towers of smoke-

In shadings of gray,
a coming storm’s writings,
that in vistas of unbridled longing,
reaches deft and leaning,
to eye’s wonder in blue-
where soft marbled
cloudy flocks of lambs, water washed, softly
gamble behind matching cloud’s tails of steeds-
curled and lifted in the air…………………
……………………..and
MAJESTIC PAST ALL MEASURING
the splendor of the skies.

Bared Cliffs Show through
Occasionally
Bared cliffs show through occasionally,
through the multi- colored cushion of thoughts-
colored trees that teach the mind, the intellectual
concept of beauty- as the mind travels the road
of
fall color- in detail, and incisive hunt-
dregs of saturated color thrown over the hills-
a treasure chest opened and revealed, to-
a dazzling intelligence- the path of thought-
etched colors, lined with stones, and the nests of
things…that will sleep, through the winter-
the solid wall of golden larches, signalers-
standing deep in the richly embroidered,
finely felted cushions of the attending court
of colored tree, grass, and bush.
In yellow flaunt-the mezzo voiced tree
woos the orange bass, that stands shouting,
with large embracing arms of branches,
amidst flaming skirts and hats of tree and bush,
whose colors- ingested, would relieve a cough-
of spirit, a flu of the soul-

that springing on the trampoline of the jeweled
moss of the tree line, in random crazily silent,
but singing-ly…beautiful, and oh- so etched
form of branch, and trunk, and leaf-
ringing and breaking-
the fluted glass of unreason and gross life…
gaps and chunks of color-like a giant child’s
crystal wagers- against the hills and mountains
of sarcasm………
The black horse that he rode in on…silhouetted
against the emerald green pastures, yet untied-
the black bird hung and flown-tied to a string-
against burnt ochre, blazing blown orange-
pumping red heart’s blood, flushed with gold-
the scarlet harbinger, the orange hunter’s-
the child’s vest and red wool cap, an amber
beacon
of rosin’s drawn bow-the mixed spark of yellow,
further heated by the flung, wildly thrown red
kiss to you-and apple’s hue, and pumpkin’s
orange grin, and the yellow giraffe, that you
don’t really see, with it’s dark brown spotted
neck,
the silver marsh grass shielding the late born
fawn
doomed to sleep and expire with the leaves, while
you are learning.

Sam’s Point
Ice slashed caves-trail fee seven dollars.
Closed on Monday-but no chain barring- access+
Notice at trailhead- Rattlesnakes protected!-
No poaching! Hand’s off!
( later)
Cliff pegged with dwarfed oak and pine-
slim white bandages of half-sized birch-
zippered onto cleft lipped rocks
and hare lipped rocks-
sucking stack of mammoth pinnacle-
grafted onto the piñata apex - meeting point of-
three states- kicking in pine armed colada-
triple score- rock cleat-ed goals-
sending over cliff and crested ridge-
deep blue lakes-land with a slight splash-
here and there-in the valleys and spiny ridges of
the Shawangunks - and the Catskills
(still later)
Sap rune memories- sink- clings to –the soaring
view-of a Canaveral- launch -existentialism-

Sap-coursing-running-memories- coursing-
through-veined leaves-alluvial consciousness-
coursing through- tracery of- bare- splayed -
branches-slowly dripping down-percolating-
down through- down into -the valley’s skirt- and
what’s underneath the skirt-soaking up-
being absorbed into- finally arriving at-
Wallkill Correctional Facility- clasped
between the knees and breasts –
of Theresa and Nancy-until they grow tired-
and forget (to remember)

Mid-October Sounds…
Every noise as loud as a rocket bursting in the
night now that the insulation of the leaves
lies mostly on the ground.
But somehow while clearly delineated
in the late afternoon sunlight-
outlined against the deep blue sky-
with a breath taking depth-
there is this other thing- this jointly held
breath
this folding up
and putting away of another season.
Even though seen and heard so clearly-
there is an element of seeing everything-
through an overlay - an overlay of
what?
Now that is hard to say-Perhaps
every thing is seen now, under a glass of
experience-
and inner character is revealed
the crisp October light - the wrinkles on an
elder’s face.
-as the elder
that has many times lived until this fall season-
gets ready to tell- and to finish.

Some Things Seen Clearly for the First
Time
Some things seen clearly now for the first time-
the sight’s revealed from behind the curtain
of the fallen leaves-
Look see in there? The neighbor has been
building-
all summer a new house that was unseen
before-
and it’s got a stone fronting- and a chimney-
that smokes with the smell of a fire
made from maple logs-cut and seasoned
for the winter.
And down there…there is a path revealed,
leading to the old barn that we would
take beam and post from- if enough can be
reclaimed- sound and un-rotted.
And see on our own land, behind the stand of
pine, along the stream- another cabin found-
fronted with half logs with the bark left on;
another cabin for ourselves or guests to sleep in.
And the chipmunk, unhidden,
with it’s racing stripes of black and white,
runs parallel to us on our walk-
along the stone wall.

The Cracked Paperweight of the Geese
When did I last love the sight of a goose?
It was before they hissed at me-
ignoring my warnings, not to ruin the grass,
with their deep piled leavings, unbelievable in
size-
making it impossible to walk to the lake-
without shoes
The cracked paperweight of the geese…
Now they gather in heavy, sodden crowd-
lining the edge of the lake in un-frilly relief;
gathered in recruited minions,
before battle-before migration-
un-cowed, un-restrained;
without a sound; mute,
challenging my restraint-
to not bring out the shotgun and shoot to scatter
this protected mob-
that ruins the grass, and
the mood….

When did I last love the sight of a goose?
When did I lose my soft wooly feelings-
about “ wild” things, creatures large and small-
that I would never shoot to kill-
the deer that leapt through my windshield,
kicking in the hood….
the bear that killed the baby next door.
Thank God it didn’t eat it.
So, now I stand at the door, ticking-
itching; watching the gathering storm cloud
of geese……tempted,
so tempted to get the gun and aim true,
instead of merely-
shoot it off-
up into the air
The Golden Half
With leaves already

The Golden Half
changed to a dry yellow-
that half of the oak tree
blown furiously by post-hurricane winds
scatters in a fleeing crowd-torn apart
blown around by a blow that is felt
that unfurls off of the tree-in ripped flag’s bleed.
For
now in pledge of allegiance
the other side of the tree- still green (entirely)
verdant- looking as if
life has not touched it (yet)
standing-unbowed-unknowing-(yet)
innocent (yet)
of the meaning-of the geese’s flight-
the guns-unpacked
the rowboat-stored-in the shed
under a covering tarp

Values………
… Threats…

Sliding Scale of Values(Katrina
disaster)
Cobalt yellow- cerulean red- vermillion-green-
shots into the side pocket=
canvas of bleeding color dumped into a bucket
of heavily disinfectant laced conscience=
factory tested-un-recallable=sold!=
strung up-hung up- long licorice strings-
fainting = (dead)
on racks of balconies, submerged in salt water=
blacks!!!! all those damned black salamanders
pissing in the pot=
exposed, hurricane, repeated hurricane=
alpha= danger=
something is in danger of being=
seen!!

Halloween Night Spent on a
Broomstick, in Drag
Drambui, Grand Marnier, Kahloa-sipped cold,
no rocks, an aid for sleep- or
Fragment of a photograph found in
Yevtushenko’s
Poetry (a book), dressed in black, head tilted,
tucked into same photograph of- son, no earrings,
same smile, same person; often asked if he is me-
or I am him, same smile that I find gorgeous-eerie
to see that osmosis of genes,
that cocktail mixing of spirit- not the first time
that
I’ve noticed how inter- changeable our pages are
–
finely hand bound-or
How come we’ve existed mirror images in drag-
the last six years- apart- a trick, a slight of hand-
the broomstick- in drag- minus the hat-
There is no Halloween in Bangkok
(but plenty of little girls for sale to thirsty, dirty
Americans)-
and not in Jerusalem either-or
Dresses in black, where that photo (graph) was
taken- is inhabited- or

My stand-in, my double lives in a place where-
in the backwater- the houses are on stilts-
not high enough to wade over or through-
the masses of fowl- Bird Flu will kill 1 in every 3
when
the jump though the missing link is made-
passing from person to person- and-
will be made soon- straight through these-
no culture, differences in mentality, what
culture?
USE THE BROOMSTICK to sweep your
feathered food from behind the door knob shut,
where you’re using him for a pillow- or
Yes, poverty, I understand poverty… of the mind
and of
the body-or
My double with the Y chromosomes will die
too young; a sitting duck for the next scourge-
which will penetrate his thin shell-or
I cannot conjure up the magic,
clean sweep the antidote by tomorrow,
conjure up a safe spot- for any of us-
It is already possibly- probably-
too late- or
There is no place for you to be safe
There is no place for you to be safe

A list of things that we need protection from:
Bird Flu-Tsunamis-Hurricanes-that will wipe
and will wipe the joy out of their paths – for the
next 20 years- Hurricanes- beyond naming..
Lethal mold, lethal love, non-lethal impotent
love..
Terrorists, fanatics- intent on killing…
TB- pandemic form..
Aids- outside of Africa- pandemic form..
Toxic waste, heavy lead poisoning,
contaminated food- salmonella- germs and
microbes feeding with glee on – shortcuts of
concern
Tragedy, Ecstasy, Ecstasy, Fantasy
Gang Violence- the Bloods, the Crypts, ignorance,
lack of choice, the “Hood”, Assault guns,
unlegislated, unnoticed- swept under the rug –or
Under the Hurricane-(see above)
Hate crimes-unlegislated, un-collated
coagulating,
festering in filth-or
Help! Please God, Get off of your asses and Send
somebody! (Nobody arrives promptly)
All of the above- mutilating and wiping out 1 in
2
1 in 1- or My son! My double, will I be able to
live through your being ripped from me- or
I don’t need to worry about THAT, do I?

Sliding Storm into- Sliding Storm-
Windows
In the damp day four wet deer=
hairbrush full of river’s threatened flood=
hurricane- paddle-hurricane-boat=
door afloat off of its hinges-theatre ticket-
useless=
hurricane- 1000 drowned ducks-sudden frenzied
rage = storm- seven heavy inches- batter)-ed-
home run-terror-unpatriotic-pushing the wheel
chair
off the deck=They were right-He’ll never walk
again=strike four- walk-the next storm only
minutes away- no more doors-to float-snow
shoes- avoiding crazed power lines-necks-
snapped-
more damage=four wet deer-wet razor-rear view
mirror=black convertible spinning off the road=
equals out of control- off the wet road=
rear view mirror-wet razor-deer’s throat cut-
crime’s blood- sliding across the wet road=
upper Hudson valley- adjust the rear view
mirror-
pilot’s license-drunk- fired- condemned= done=
adjusted mirror-Wallkill Correctional Facility-
wet razor-sliced throat- Seventh Day
Adventists= wrong turn=road kill

One Two Three Four
Count the time between Hells’ lightning and
thunder clap, aroused by storm
sounding clanging… huge in form-
a frozen glaciered scream broken into my head
as I cling to my senses razed and near dead-
Five Six Seven Eight
bolts that seem to be drawing me ever nearer to a
quick and unsheathed death
with a horrible visage as skull lit bolts of
lightning meth
pouring out of the sky in long jagged chains-
snaring and drowning, all in the path of the
opened up reservoir mains
Nine Ten
Big fat hen… Yes this is what nursery rhymes
do..
informing us sweetly that nature, is our master
and that politics are about taxes and Little Boy
Blue and about who’s bribing who-
(and as the death toll piles up,)
we are made to let go of bribing and reasoning
both
in the face of this force, far vaster.
Eleven Twelve
The Cat and the Fiddle
and the Man in the moon…were drowned in the
flood of the waters.. without making a sound

and never mind that…suspicious fire set at the
Government hub….
right after charges of graft were leveled… by
other moral members of the Tammany Club
as we learn to count by taking off our socks and
counting our toes… so start again...to count up
your woes
One Two Three Four
While all the King’s men and other intelligent
citizen’s and residents
think that it’s a waste to vote or run for office at
and anyway we’re too busy bringing up suit, and
not a suite of hearts
to slam down on the tables of the damned dam
people who prematurely opened the dam with
nervous tics and starts
Five Six Seven Eight
It’s far, far too late to call in Little Boy Blue to
blow his horn.
The sheep’s in the meadow... drowned, along
with the cows and the corn
and Jack’s not asleep down under the mow
and Jack’s not asleep with a frown on his brow

Nine Ten
Big Fat Hen… They’ll recover his body in another
day or two
Just count all your blessings that it wasn’t you
and get on the phone with your mother who
hasn’t called in a week
even though when she hears you, she’ll accuse
you of having forgotten how to speak
Eleven and Twelve
There’s got to be a reason why we are given a
brain, love, and something to eat
It wasn’t a ticket to bribe, steal and cheat..
It was something far bigger, as vast as the storm
that blasted our houses and cats and our
treasures and collections in jars
that left us calling in insurance claims and
lawyers to replace this feeling of
being bereft and forlorn
Did you once look up tonight to wonder at the
brilliance and the number of stars…?

Terrorist Attack
Blue night, three bomb blasts
Restaurants turned inside out
Teeth lay on the street
A policeman cries
Knee deep in body pieces
that cover the floor
The bloody girl holds
A baby’s sleeve-baby’s arm
All that’s left of him
The boy on the ground
Endlessly moaning one thing
“Please find my mother…”
Soon he’ll stop asking
Where is his mother (She’s dead)
He is dying too
Down below his knees
Splintered bone and matted gore
Show there are no legs
For god’s sake don’t look!

The head on the floor-cut off
Stares out the window
The head was going
To the wedding of his son
Before he was killed
His wife now blinded
Cannot see what has happened
To her husband’s head
Their youngest son dies
While the fraught ambulance crew
Strives to revive him
Twenty six are known dead;
Ninety maimed beyond belief-
Now die too slowly
The three that claim
Paradise for what they’ve done
Died far too quickly

1) Like an inner wave
Breaking on an inner shore
I crest and break
and come to know the Divine. Myself…
In the clear glass mirror surface of the pond
I am reflected
in all of my life
in all of my deaths
in all of my appetites and refusals-
in all of my hopes and disappearing-s.
I am reflected in my multi- colored
Garb of the Divine . Myself. My God…
in the plowed furrows
of the harvested field…
outside the prison and the prisoner’s walls-
I enter in and out-
in and out-
knowing that praying-
both to you and to myself and to him-
is in the invisible moving of the-
cemented stones-
a little this way
and a little that way.

2.)In the moment of leaping
to capture a prize-
or in the covering of the Night’s fire-
that warms the spark of spirit-
the spark of life that folds like-
a card game-
When hope is lost-
This is reflected in all of my life-
and in all of my deaths.
like an inner wave-
breaking on an inner shore-
I crest and break-
and come to know the divine myself.
I am reflected in my multi-colored
Garb of the divine. Myself. My God

3) S(he) - who sings a song without singing-
clasping and clinging to the leg of a prayer-
wearing and waving within the white shirt-
of truce and parley-
taking the school board chalk to draw-the line-
of where to begin and of-Where to end-
knows and will know how to knit together-
the knowledge of what was taught-
and told in school (any school) full of holes-
and deep untruths.
Lies will be thrown in the air to fly away-
like black birds-
The telegrams surrounded by black-
congratulating the fathers and mothers-
for their good fortune and true bravery-
in the sacrifice of their son or daughter-
for a flag-will be eaten with strawberries-
for breakfast-and turned into a song-
that digs deep into the desert of life-
deep into the sand-
And up will grow a century plant-
That blooms once and only once-
in one hundred years…
and that will be their dead son’s face.

4) I long to flow with knowledge-
breaking through the walls-
with my tiny persistent rootlets-
like the pine tree growing bent over-
in a heavy wind-
on top of the mountain-
breaks through the boulders-
imprisoning its feet-
to grow inward-
bigger and bigger- for a hundred years.
I long to flow with knowledge-
painting with shadows that turn into roads-
places where no one has ever gone to-
or that many people have gone to-
but never told-
the dark shadows turning into beacons of light-
and I will be whole-
and I will be quiet with myself.
removing the false barriers of color and era.
I long to recognize and reconnect-
basic auras.
We are all the same-
How we are all the same.

the steady inward fire, the steady inward
journey-
the release of the unspoken, the release-
of the felt but unspoken, unshared-
unrealized… how common… how true-
how universal-
which would heal us all if spoken.

5)Everything vibrates-
Even after it dies or is burned-
it continues to vibrate-
with the energy with which it is created.
even if it was created in frivolity-
to no good purpose-
It continues to vibrate-
and how much more so-
it continues to vibrate-
if it was created in love-
and with the purpose of love.
It continues to vibrate-
And to sing-
inside of a deep well-
which is the common human heart.

6) Everything that seems solid-
is not.
Every cell of every being-
is a set of dancing vibrations-
set around a magnetic nucleus-
that listens and dances with each of the-
surrounding positive and negative ions-
charged with a magnetic flow and pole.

…Thursday there was a great blast-
from the terrorist’s bomb that went off
in Dizengoff Center.
The fountain which was already a great
dazzling mural-
started dancing to the vibrations of the bomb-
and disintegrated in the air.
The girl student from the high school-
who was passing by Dizengoff-
when the bomb went off-
was taken to the nearest hospital-
to be checked over-
for shock or injuries.
She didn’t have a mark on her-
and no other signs of injury.
She’d been talking peacefully and sweetly-
to a young doctor who’d been checking upon
her- for the last hour-
when she died in mid-sentence.
All of her internal organs-
had been vibrating like a giant tuning fork-
since the bomb had went off-
until they too-
dis…. in… te… g r… a t ed
At the Battle of Gettysburg-
In 1863-
The cannon blasts on a certain hill-
Were so horrific-
That a whole regiment-
Died, disintegrating from the shock waves-
Not a mark on them…

7) Here’s what the stones-
whether laid down on the sand of beaches-
as pebbles to be tossed in the waves-
to return with the tides-
more polished from hard slapping…
or as mountains in layers-
thrust up to point at the sky-
have to say.
In order to endure and bear witness-
You must undergo and endure-
great pain.
You must endure-
the pain and the molten fires that scar and burn.
The pain will not be trivial; the pain will be
great-
But you must endure-
You will endure.
Silently and steadfastly you must stand-
through jagged storms and harsh punishments-
that you don’t deserve-
and hold with the integrity of stone-
when your torturers start their blasting-s.
You must allow tunnels to be made like worms-

You must allow tunnels to be made like worms-
To be tunneled into and through-
your heart for the sake of love.
And grave stones will be made of your marble
and granite.
But if you are true-
they will mark another monument-
to the continuity of something.
And if you endure-
for you must endure great pain-
and surely have borne great pain-
in order to bear witness to-
how fully you have lived-then
Your stone bridges that are passed
by Searchers and travelers-
Your stone houses that shelter-
the poor in spirit and the great-
Your stone sentences and periods-
behind all major thought-
Will bear witness-
To what can be endured and transformed.

8) To know.
They killed all of the searchers of-
Inner vision and inner revelations-
Who believed that the Divine could be-
Found in each and every one of us.
They branded them as heretics.
They were too complicated.
A new knowledge of God could be found-
and spoken of every day by the searchers.
They were too threatening.
Such independent thinkers and searchers-
Could not be controlled or manipulated-
except by their own reason.
Why these anathemas didn’t even believe in-
Original sin and thus could not be made-
To feel guilty or to accept the punishment-
of eternal banishment and damnation.
They believe that Eve was looking for-
Divine knowledge/Divine partnership!
They were too dangerous!
They were so educated!
They knew the tenets of -
Buddhism and studied Greek philosophy.
Mary Magdalene or more accurately-
Mary of Migdal,
Their Prophet of Prophets, their truth seeker…
Stuck like glue to Jesus on the cross-
While all the others ran away. No,-
No one could forbid them these People
Of the Book… to read the bible-
Whether written in Latin or Aramaic or Greek.

So few knew how to read and obeyed-
When they were told that they would be cursed-
if they tried to read the words of god-
For themselves…But not these! These Gnostics!
These knower-s! They read! They read in Latin-
And every language that the books in the
Great Library in Alexandria were written in!
And anyway being complicated -were writing
their Own prayers- just like I am doing here-
Their own visions-Their own prophesies-
Yes, daily-
And didn’t need a Roman pontiff-
To read for them-
To interpret the laws and the relationship-
between themselves- and God…
They were burned
They were branded as heretics
They were harried and harassed
Harried to the ends of the Earth
They were tried and burned as witches
Even their cats were burned
Causing the Black Plague to kill a third of
The “Faithful”
They were extinguished
And their memories were extinguished
And wiped from the memory of mankind
So that they now officially
Never existed
And Mary Magdalene was
A prostitute
Not a Prophet

9) To know
To be impressed
To know
To be at peace, to re-align
Schisms, fractures-

36 Variations of Flight

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