When my father was dying in Seattle
by luck I found Christopher Smart
chained to his bedpost writing praise poems
to the Lord. I would take match books
from my back pockets and write
what I saw taking place before my eyes.
I would write praise before and after
the given image. If someone was talking,
no matter the horror or confusion,
I would do the same thing,
praise before and after.
I knew I had been given a great gift.
The door of poetry had opened.
I did not know I stood before the door of prayer.
24 September 2010
So many things stood in my way.
Or seemed to. And then,
in the way things happen,
I found myself walking
from the war. It's simple,
If the telling doesn't ring true
as you're listening,
then it's not true. More than that,
it's without sound, absurd,
you can't hear it