Flight of the heron

Poetry wanders in the spaces in between the stars

and in the interstitial spaces deep in the folds of your brain.

Or I might simply say that Poetry is in the air.

And, of course, there is so much nonsense

and so little truth in this definition

that I have really only spoken of my ignorance.

It’s not that I have not wracked and pondered

and watched and waited for understanding.

And then I was walking across the bridge

and a heron took off from the shallows

and instead of a lazy, low, flap and glide

to the other side, he dug in his wings,

pulling hard against the air.

Building speed, he flew,

and hard he turned,

still grasping every molecule of air

and pushing them straight behind him.

The lowering sun shown off every gray feather

and his hard pointed bill thrust forward as he passed.

The strong winds buffeted his body

and he corrected his course,

until finally gaining the levee

the heron turned again, not resting,

wings moving with purposeful grace,

back toward the center of the river,

and then yet one more turn he took.

And that heron beat on and on,

finally headed straight down the river,

not having taken what would have seemed to me

to be a more straightforward path.

The heron spoke no words.

And it was not, after all, for my benefit that he flew.

Yet I paused in my thoughts

to watch that heron fly.

Water miracle

  

I walk to the river nearly every day and I have noticed that where I cross over the Kaw River Bridge, the water always flows from west to east. I am coming to the conclusion that gravity is inexorable. If you’ll pardon the obvious, the river Kaw flows from upstream, down. And the rain drops drop down. And then they mingle and the waters flow inexorably down.

But we interrupt the flow. Maybe I am not the only one to think that this, too, is something of a miracle. The city sticks a long straw out into the middle of the river and with pumps and pipes and tanks on towers, they take out and discard from the water what isn’t water from this very stream, mostly, as it flows along the interrupted way. And when I turn the tap at my kitchen sink, the river water splashes down into my glass. And if you haven’t noticed, this happens all over town.

This is perhaps no great drama. But there would be some little commotion if a pipe should break. And if the rain should cease to fall, we would soon dance on the dry streambed and cry out, our arms raised to the sky, until we finally fell down onto the burning sand and the vultures would come and clean our flesh from our bones. And then they, too, would fly away and down.

So I walk to the river to check. Gravity seems to be inexorable. The water a miracle. Our lives dangling down along a thread of water.

What ---- More puzzle than poem

What is the little word

that when added to the

fundamental word

changes the ensuing expression

significantly.

That is to say, again,

‘what’ is the little word that

when added to the fundamental

‘word’ changes the ensuing

expression significantly.

What word?

with a question mark

comes closer to my

intent, but you might find that

the context, my intonation,

and the expression on your face

matter,

if only to me.

Let me suggest that you

read these following words

and think of young Judy Garland -

remember her voice and the

expression on her face when she sang,

‘somewhere,

over the rainbow.’

I think you can also find some of my meaning

within the context of that movie.

Pay no attention to the man

behind the curtain.

Follow the yellow brick road.

Walk to the river.

What I mean,

one thing that I mean,

is that close attention to words

is important

but music and poetry

matter,

      and you.

What is the sound of my one voice

not clapping against your smile?

What word?

If you have tried to follow

me this far, you might

guess that we are not there yet.

Here is a picture of the north unit of the Bowersock Power Plant.

Here is another.        

Can you imagine that you see my point,

or do the possibilities overwhelm you?

Do you see a reflection?

Will these words here finally come clear?

What words?

Sometimes, I write what looks like nonsense

for a reason.

Maybe this is nonsense.

Did you ever watch the movie I suggested?

Dorothy, in her ruby slippers.

There’s no place like home.

I walk to the river.

The words are clues, hints, 

signs pointing to directions I have taken. 

Sometime I manage to be more straightforward.

Sometimes using words in this way might be the best way

I can think of to point to some meaning beyond

what you will be able to find

in my words, my voice, my face, the steps I take,

one foot following another.

Even if I could,

why would I tell you everything,

without a little song and dance,

a little nonsense,

not everything, that is, not everything -

only the some small bits of tune

from within an immense song

that I hear someone sometimes whistling behind me as I am walking.

One way to understand what I mean

is to walk to the river with me,

and I mean that as it sounds, in part.

It’s one way to get beyond the words.

When I walk and then when I write,

you are already with me, in a

more figurative sense.

And if you see what I see

and hear what I hear

as you read my words,

that too, is one thing.

What words matter to you?

I love more words, more

things, more of you,

that I can sensibly express.

I’m willing to not understand what all the pieces of life mean

the first time, or the second … 

and I will revisit my own words

myself on occasion.

Sometimes all this apparent nonsense

from the universe and life on down

seems to make sense,

sometimes.

Sometimes I search a word at a time.

What word?

But for now,

let us simply pause

for a moment

and walk wordlessly.