Evidence

I.

Where do I live? If I had no address, as many people

do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the
same town as the lilies of the field, and the still
waters.

 

Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are
strong men tending flowers.

 

Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue. But
all beautiful things, inherently, have this function -
to excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory
to the world, that good teacher.

 

Among the swans there is none called the least, or
the greatest.

 

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in
singing, especially when singing is not necessarily
prescribed.

 

As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a a mix of power and
sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

 

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

 

~ Mary Oliver

Everything Inside

Curled Up Against The Days Sleepy Form

In My Secret Life

Perfect & Lovely

Observance Is Elucidation

Placid Landscapes

Dandelion

Edible, 

deeply toothed 

or 

notched leaves, 

golden-yellow

flowers.

. . . . . . .

At peace

with its name,

lying exposed

on the ground –

common

to memory,

its being.

Taraxacum

officinale.

Quietness Blankets Time

Ineffable, 

this silence –

binding 

to both 

light and dark,

where unbegotten

sureties of truth

quietly exist.

Intriguing Space

Life's Musical Pulse

In giddying circles

memory twirls and whirls

growing older.

Always there with me,

the constant tick,

invariably felt just below

the fabric of my left pocket.

With replenished optimism,

life’s musical pulse,

though at times

alarmingly pale,

chapters on –

long after midnight,

ministering an endless

sense of remedial energy 

and enthusiasm.

Breathe deep. Exhale. Relax.

Enjoy the brilliance of the moon.

Smile.

Lie down and dream.

Breathe deep, 

Spring’s reverant awe.

Taste earth’s influences

that rest tenderly

on your tongue.

Familiar to all – the taste,

the fragrance.

As she pulls

her eyes away

roused by revelation, 

something unseen

releases its memory.

Consciousness comes

in giddying circles

as the mind

twirls and whirls

growing older.

Life's Inimitable Moments

This Needy Beggar

A single image

motivates these words

that come –

their poetry too,

and the love of it.

Words piled up

on the edge of thought,

ready to be set free –

intact with integrity,

complex still, their exit

as they struggle to shape 

a sense of worth.

How brave their black

rests, solemn on the white

of the page – like flowers
in a field, born there

in exaltation, readying

themselves for the

magnitude of the task
at hand – their burst into life.

.....

Beneath the window

where I do my homework,

scribbling hard recent musings
attached to this beautiful day –

words and mind co-mingle,
desparate to keep in touch

amidst the swell of perception.

The mind, a needy beggar
generously feasting on words
in want of their singular vibrato,

that steadily gyrates, heaving within.


.....

But, I wonder still,

what, if anything, 

becomes of all 

that is left unspoken, 

unsurfacing because

of the dialogue's

penchant for darkness.

Enigmatic, the silence
of each word's

abstruse aloofness –

their shyness mocked
by the hand that writes

as they resist the chaos 

that is this poem –
this mess of words 

caught struggling
within their own

unregulated bloom.

.....

In the poem’s growth

it is hoped that a view,
 if willed, will unfold.

As angular fortitudes
are cast horizontally
across surfaces of white –

stares of pitched theorems

swim in elliptical space

and in time something essential 
will take shape, arising out of 
something once imagined.

Beyond The Fragile Surfaces

Your tiny self

on those days

without bearings,

looks in on you

and this world

for guidance.

Poetry, if willed,

lends us courage

by means of its

powerful language,

giving us vision,

that we might

see beyond

the fragile surfaces

of our lives –

boldly enduring,

hazarding ourselves

through life’s cycles

and difficult terrain.

Carry everything

you want to say

to its conceivable

and expressible end,

awakening conversation

with the almighty,

which, of itself, is

personal and distinct

at the same time.

Real, undying love

can never be

legislated or coerced,

but you can speak it.

Do you not sense

how you carry

the sound of its calming

truth on the red of your lips?

Momentary Complications

Something

not yet said

collapses, momentarilly

complicating

the poem’s beginning.

And so,

silence

once again

has its 

claim

on me.

Though thought

be broken,

the swell of a song

flaunts the heart, 

right here, right now.

Eagerly

I catch sight 

the silent migrations

of rendered interpretations

and begin to think –

what, if 

anything,

can be gained from this.

What be 

the connecting thread

originating from

abandoned words

that previously held

moments of unabashed

self-expression.

Eyes and mind vividly alive,

newly sparked with courage,

carry on – leaning hard

in to everything.

Always there’s memory –

imperious its eye,

seductive its pull,

strategic its maneuvering.

Silent commotion as the words

start moving, pulling, revolving within

vistas of thought – images tugging,

figures melding together, passing

through black then white

and all else in between.

Lives, loves, losses

and forgotten miracles too –

all fatigued over time

as life paces on,

making possible

our daily continuance.

Trying to Be Thoughtful in the First Brights of Dawn

I am thinking, or trying to think, about all the

imponderables for which we have
no answers, yet endless interest all the
range of our lives, and it's

 

good for the head no doubt to undertake such
meditation; Mystery, after all,
is God's other name, and deserves our

 

consideration surely.  But, but -
excuse me now, please; it's morning, heavenly bright,
and my irrepressible heart begs me to hurry on
into the next exquisite moment.

– Mary Oliver

Focal Points

Dislodged, 

the air stirs,

delighting in

sown seeds

burrowed deep –

their roots,

flowering,

taking shape,

nourishing the air.

Unspoken beauty met with an off-handed simplicity.

Bright with vision,

we reap with joy

and acclamation –

the seeds unlimited

substance.

Sounding invisible, growing –

sustained, dancing under the sun.

You, me, we, us, 

the spectators

only half-listening, 

only catching the dialect

of seemingly, mumbled lines.

More beautiful 

becomes the idea of it,

which is more profound 

than one might think,

frolicking here in this season 

of simple beginnings,

where there exists

a celebratory feel – 

a flowering passion

as the bud opens

to the sun's light.

Bits and pieces

splash against the sill of life

dispersing petals to the wind – 

aloft they fly.

New boundaries

and focal points brim

with prosperity, 

offering a simple hope.

Splendor

 One day it's the clouds,
one day the mountains.
One day the latest bloom
of roses - the pure monochromes,
the dazzling hybrids - inspiration
for the cathedral's round windows.
Every now and then
there's the splendor
of thought: the singular
idea and its brilliant retinue -
words, cadence, point of view,
little gold arrows flitting
between the lines.
And too the splendor
of no thought at all:
hands lying calmly
in the lap, or swinging
a six iron with effortless
tempo.  More often than not
splendor is the star we orbit
without a second thought,
especially as it arrives
and departs.  One day
it's the blue glassy bay,
one day the night
and its array of jewels,
visible and invisible.
Sometimes it's the warm clarity
of a face that finds your face
and doesn't turn away.
Sometimes a kindness, unexpected,
that will radiate farther
than you might imagine.
One day it's the entire day
itself, each hour foregoing
its number and name,
its cumbersome clothes, a day
that says come as you are,
large enough for fear and doubt,
with room to spare: the most secret
wish, the deepest, the darkest,
turned inside out.

~ Thomas Centolella