Path through the moonlit forest.
Shadows follow like thoughts.
Trees fold in half after I pass
and where I came from disappears.
The way forward continues
as the moon is consumed by dewdrops
clinging to each fern
and ends in the lantern lit field.
How best to move forward from now?
While acceptance is difficult,
perhaps going against what
we identify ourselves as,
what do we do from here?
Moments and actions not only define us
as a nation, but as individuals.
The fog will clear
and voices will be heard.
From the collection “Beyond the Border Kingdom“.
an empty road
cuts various swaths
through empty, arid fields
until it ends.
an object prostrated
exactly where the road
ends, the fields border,
is naked, the sun glistening.
beyond the body
unknown landscape or wasteland.
we watch events unfold.
unaware of the role we play.
unaware of the script.
a vulture descends from nowhere
wrapped in nothing upon the
and with silent
voices we gaze
and do nothing
and do move.
abandoned fields grow –
things not yet experienced
things the vulture discards
and the ravaged
– inside out –
to cultivate and
return to empty fields.
After a long silence, we are back with a new interview to be posted soon. For this one, we interviewed the creator of the webcomic “Don’t Hit Save” Jeff Lofvers.
The child stares into the mirror of the adult
he is to become and both wonder why.
the adult sees a child running through
sand ahead of the waves and the look
of amazement when birds take flight
the child sees an adult lost
black eyes cold and the look
of bewilderment when he realizes
the path from here,
the only way forward,
the choices that lie ahead.
how do I get through the mirror?
the child sees a stray dog
and runs, chasing it into the water.
the adult sees a stray man
and plans to run, escape this life.
events begin to play upon the mirror
and the adult can only watch and remember.
thinking back to the one moment
the planted seed took root
the forked road vanished beneath black dirt.
only the shadow is visible in the mirror.
That evening I played in the snow and ice
crossing fields and hiking uphill
as the air dropped below zero and I promised
the sun and moon to listen and be respectful.
Memories of distant surfaces
of planets I have not seen.
Mountains beyond the eyes reach
and multiple suns that never set.
Where is the place beyond the
known expanse of space?
I see white petals
falling into the black water
over and over and over.
I stand at the confluence
and water washes over my feet.
I kneel at the confluence
and purple light washes over my body.
We are excited to announce that Stone Path Review artist Gary Glauber has published a poetry collection titled “Memory Marries Desire”. One of the poems, “Capsized”, was published in the Fall 2014 issue of Stone Path Review.
Link to Amazon book page.
As the rain subsides
and the sky fills with birds
I am left with a fragment
of who I was yesterday.
That is to say each day
we are given the chance to change
to shed what is not needed
and keep what we are destined to be.
The slow music fades
into the background.
The thoughts and words
I am left with
feel hollow and weak,
they have lost meaning.
I throw all of the words away
in an attempt to start again
after some time has passed
and the raw emotion becomes real.
I start down the path
collecting what best
describes the turmoil and
the twisted sense of being I have become
when we hear news of another event
and we are set back, we are pushed.
We are tested and we become one.
Burdened with questions,
begging for answers,
as a divide grows,
we walk through empty fields.
Searching the horizon for direction,
the shifting sky scatters with each breath
and when we listen to the primal unseen screams,
we lose ourselves in fear and doubt.
Broken and beat down by the present
afraid of what the future will bring,
there is hope in the past
where we all came from the stars.
On our daily walk,
we follow the same worn trails,
make the same turns,
and pass the same trees.
That pond is empty,
covered with algae.
That one is home to
busy and noisy muskrats.
So many times we have
have come this way
that I follow the dogs
as they know where to go
which trail to take
which hill to climb.
Yet this is a new day
filled with nature
and there are infinite mysteries
in each leaf and grain of sand.
Because art comes in many forms…
I cannot overstate how much I enjoy the on-line comic “Don’t Hit Save” by Jeff Lofvers. If you follow technology, there was a recent court case regarding ownership of the word “Sky”. Most recent comic talks about this.
Good stuff! Enjoy.
Across the black sea I see nothing with these eyes
and I stand here not as I see myself
and not as I desire to be
but as the being accepted by the water.
Across the see littered
with fragments I am
but a whisper cast from
I hope with every last
shred of this being
that you are out there
waiting with patience
for my return from one
field and when I land
in the black waters I am
able to swim now free of myself.
A Winter Light, by John Haines
We still go about our lives
in shadow, pouring the white cup full
with a hand half in darkness.
Paring potatoes, our heads
vent over a dream—
glazed window through which
the long, yellow sundown looks.
By candle or firelight
your face still holds
a mystery that once
filled caves with the color
of unforgettable beasts.
Photo below shared from Alaska Dispatch News which features a piece about writer/musician John Luther Adams and being influenced by John Haines.
From TWENTY POEMS, Unicorn Press, 1973
As I watch the April sunrise across
the turbulent waters I am reminded again
of my place beneath cedar and pine
while sitting on the rocks with two puppies.
To Jackson Pollock
Last night somebody murdered a young tree on Seventh Avenue
between 18th and 19th—only two in that block,
and just days ago we’d taken refreshment in the crisp and particular shade
of that young ginkgo’s tight leaves, its beauty and optimism,
though I didn’t think of that word until the snapped trunk this morning,
a broken broomstick discarded, and tell me what pleasure
could you take from that? Maybe I understand it,
the sudden surge of rage and the requirement of a gesture,
but this hour I place myself firmly on the side of thirst,
the sapling’s ambition to draw from the secret streams
beneath this city, to lift up our subterranean waters.
Power in a pointless scrawl now on the pavement.
Pollock, when he swung his wild arcs in the barn-air
by Accabonac, stripped away incident and detail till all
that was left was swing and fall and return,
austere rhythm deep down things, beautiful
because he’s subtracted the specific stub and pith,
this wreck on the too-hot pavement where scavengers
spread their secondhand books in the scalding sunlight.
Or maybe he didn’t. Erase it I mean: look into the fierce ellipse
of his preserved gesture, and hasn’t he swept up every bit,
all the busted and incomplete, half-finished and lost?
Alone in the grand rooms of last century’s heroic painters
—granted entrance, on an off day, to a museum
with nobody, thank you, this once nobody talking—
and for the first time I understood his huge canvases
were prayers. No matter to what. And silent as hell;
he rode the huge engine of his attention toward silence,
and silence emanated from them, and they would not take no
for an answer, though there is no other. Forget supplication,
beseechment, praise. Look down
into it, the smash-up swirl, oil and pigment and tree-shatter:
tumult in equilibrium.
40 Days become 40 years
and the revolution/transformation
I began culminates from the
Into the valley life flows
as the new sun rises
over the range.
Caribou continue their
thousand mile trek across
vast swaths of land
following their ancestors hoofs.
I teeter on this ridge and see
beyond the glacier fed waters
and the crystal sky and fall
into the ancient land where
the marathon first began,
where the fields were first built.
Sun rises over mountain peaks
after 40 days of darkness
We sing, dance, and cry
while the mountains darkness
subsides and the peak, birthplace
of our gods, appears.