of a cottage I've never seen

I think often of a cottage I've never seen.
Made of stone, it overlooks an azure ocean
with paned windows painted in oil white
in time.

I can see the khaki stone wall facing the sea
as clearly as the day is honest
as clearly as if I myself have been there
to this cottage by the sea
this cottage that lives only in my mind.

The image of this cottage is based
purely on my imagination.
No photo reference. No drawing or painting.
A coloring of, perhaps from, desire, although on some days
I think need is the more appropriate word. A calling from
somewhere within, someplace I'd like to know a little better,
someplace that seems to know me.

I need not even close my eyes to hear the gulls,
to smell the sea just beyond the swaying sage oats,
a small path, single file only, weaving from the wooden steps of the deck
to a beach glistening with shells, the ocean's fruit. This sacred
walk I've taken a thousand times in my mind
as surely as beads prayed under glass stained. Each step
known, acknowledge, an embrace of sand and foot to the eye,
a compact between heart and mind to the soul. Where
the wind gently combs the moonlight from my hair
and the stars wink of a time no more
no more than my cottage I suppose
in my mind. Still, I pray the steps
as my grandmother prayed the rosary,
taking no bead for granted in the power
to make a difference, to climb those imaginary
stairs under arch divine.

The sun is warm but not hot, the light golden
never harsh and the air as clean as air on undiscovered
islands. The place breaths me, breaths me back
to start, to neutral, to that place without the toxins
of hand and mind, of account and ledger, of list and do;
a place not unlike the other ocean
with a gentle, motherly rocking
home of dreams
cradle of health.

I sit as an only child before this clear horizon
wordless as one who knows not a word
and try as I might, I find any and all words
just more windows between me and my soul,
my ocean, my dear cottage

that needs me, I think, as much as I need it.

forever sun

the world is noon sun
day or night
inside or out
matters not

and no matter
how hard I look
I cannot find
my sunglasses

__________


maybe it's not them
maybe it's me
maybe it's not out there
but in here

and maybe
just perhaps
it's been there all
along

a thorn
in the soul
gifted
at birth

a pain
not visible
growing
with the years

maturing
with limb
matriculating
into that world

of clear skies
and forever sun
those invisible rays
making felt

what
can't
be
seen

__________

into nothingness

she looked away
to the next client

and I slipped away
into nothingness

so powerful
just a look

this lesson
I leave for you

the power of
the eyes

the power of
a look

toward
or away

no title 2

going to get up early
watch the dawn
come over the green hills
an orange ball rising yellow

I want the memory
one last time
to know in the watching
this is it

the last dawn
my eyes will see
to know
tomorrow

will come
come without me
and to know
how a last rising looks

feels
and be thankful
I know and I see
this is the last

chalk on a sidewalk

chalk on a sidewalk
watching the clouds
feeling the cool breeze
waiting on the rain

so real in small hands
a brush flourished
of joy and laughter
and little feet

then momma called
abandoned
thrown to the grass
a memory

let it rain
let nature wash
my life
from those eyes

that show no love
for the instruments
of happiness
in moments without gravity

no title

unemployed
and gaining weight

something wrong
with this picture

but I'm too drunk
to figure it out

a whispering shoal

calling your name
I walk into the forest

twilight watching
over my shoulder

glittering my path
of pine

minnows of light
shimmering between

branch and bough
a whispering shoal

bringing the cold
of an echo

I cast upward
cistern eyes

and say to no one
can you tell

can you tell
I say to no one

how much
I miss you?

windows to the street

I like live albums
feeling less alone

and restaurants
with windows to the street

just a table for two
although there is just one

she smiles
my waiter

I know she has
someplace else to go

but I thank her eyes
all the same

and I feel
the cold of the crowd

and a single candle
kissing brother sun

goodnight
on my table of snow

looking
always looking

for that angel
I know

somewhere
someplace

is looking
for me

pigment without hue

I sit
like paint settled
in a bucket

an inert sludge
lethargic in
separation

you colored
my life
when we twirled

now you sit
on me
in your dark silence

and I am
helpless
suffocating

hammered shut
from
light

pigment
without
hue

about
as
useful

as
pigment
without
hue

about
as
useless

as pigment (me)
without
you

reaching back

the truth is
I hated the man
my father

five years
I stayed away
five times
five hundred miles

the price paid
by my mother
such my anger

years lost
in the sea
of ignorance

still
I loved him
such is love

through all
the pain
all the hurt

I would this
day
pour his choice

and together
we would drink
and I would sit

not with
my anger or
pain or hurt

but I would
sit
with my father

as a father
knowing the struggle
to reach

a son
quiet as
a stone

a son
I love
as my father

one hand
reaching back
one forward

a father's day note (from my son)

the writing was scratchy
wandering on page
as the writing of the aged
the infirm
the old

I woke to sunlight
upon my table
and this card

and with my coffee
I sat

"Even though I may not say it, it means a lot that you're always there for me."

If there is more to life
I have not the imagination
to imagine it
nor the desire
to fill
what is full

I love my son
and beyond that
I am blind

ribbons of road

ribbons of road
we ride
through broccoli hills
watched
of hawks two
grooving ethereal circumferences
in the warm
blue heaven
as what is real
and what is imagined
melt as dusk
to night
as night
to dawn
as to love
in a touch
as to love
in a note
as to love
in the choice
to stay
or the choice
to go

a pebble tossed

a pebble tossed

a clear day

a cold lake

no skip

just a drop

a plop

falling

sinking

quietly

to join

the others

pebbles all

once tossed

by lovers

loveless

this seabed

of hearts

forever silenced

under glass

blue

as the sky

brittle bones (KKB-20)

the king looked upon

the knight

with olive eyes

lids heavy

when we age

we grow brittle

our patience

like our bones

the slow river

of youth narrows

into roiling rapids

before the waterfall

of mortality

and we want

what we want

and we want it

when we want it

and truth

is just an idea

about as useful

as this empty cup

which is my way

of saying

I appreciate

the lies you offered

and saw them

not as artifice

for you had

nothing to gain

duty done

coin rendered

but instead

as the gift

of a heart

that knows the difference

between what matters

and what doesn't

my lord

quiet!

now, gifts aside

tell me what happened

and spare me the sentiment

lest it crack these brittle bones

and force me

my dear knight

to crack

yours

nor a single blow (KKB-19)

as morning woke with the gentle turn of land

and shades dark awoke and reached

ignorant roses undressed themselves

for that bastard sun and

stray dogs defecated the night's meal

the knight's head, a turret upon his broad chest

dirty as the roots of roses

gazed upon the king's cattle grazing the morning away

their pelts golden halos in soft morning light

noses glistening in dew like fireflies

cattle were cattle, always the same

always true

as knights were knights, which was

to say men

and men were seldom what they seemed

he was paid to give the king what

the king wanted

to fulfilled the obligation of duty

and coin

to act

to act upon

to be a changer of the hour

a ripple in the lake of the day

true this was

true the act

true as death

as dead as the words

the king heard

as dead as his heart

in the swing of sword

as dead as the boy's father

who died not with honor

nor a single blow

in a china sky

heavy fabric full
this sailcloth rotund
pregnant with wind
in a china sky

flap as chime
masculine notes
whipping
humidity

as my thoughts
dry rope wrench
neck muscles
taut

braying to hold
the burgeoning belly
the breath of time
warm in the king's yolk

_________

revised while watching my Tigers dispatch the Hogs

upon lacquered chestnut
under sailcloth pregnant
and a masculine wind
blowing fatherly

I gazed into
a china blue sky
counting white clouds
drinking amber beer

dreaming the day
as waves lap
our vessel
of wood and leather

only the song of
rope taut
stretching twine
flexing bristle

as bow on string
the music of wind
on a clear day
clearly mine

as my Tigers swing
bats on fire
gloves aglow
in the golden jerseys
of victory

palimpsest (KKB-18)

from a sky blue
tongues of silver
spoke

from a muddy mound
tongues of flesh
bled

from a boy's heart
tongues of spirit
drank

drank the dreams
of darkness upon night
rooting bitterness

burrowing deep
taking hold
spinning clay

tolling angst (KKB-17)

Doesn't everything rush
to be something else?

Mark Doty (Nocturne In Black And Gold)

from the boy's view:

I sat upon the days
as a cat upon the mouse
not whole upon the hole
did I watch

silent in wait
a thundering hunger
tolling angst
of a bell unseen
through a fog impenetrable
tolling

toiling

these storms of stomach
as if I were an eater
of church bells
and the hours of the day
were clad in veils
of lace
black and bottomless

as mice eyes

mourning or message

message of mourning
I cannot fathom
the tingle
my bones a tuning fork
tined as battlements
before the oncoming
charge
of silver ghosts galloping
across translucent landscapes
of nocturnal visions

what am I to be
that I am not now

what am I to know
that is beyond the horizon
of my years

what am I to do
with the blackness
of my blood
in the night

I have no answer
in my gut
to the pain
in my gut

so I wait
just sitting upon
the dim hours

feeling as useless
as I did
upon the day

when steel rained
and cheeks drained
upon a soil
so stained of me
of mine
of an our
sundered
in a sky
without
thunder

arraigned
perhaps
ordained
I could not
explain
nor
chain
the pain (that)

one,
somewhere,
a who
of blood concealed
surely
must
have
entertained

hand on rope
pulling
tolling
calling
resonant
as the hunger
tolling
thundering
across the plains
of my youth

__________

version 2:

I sat upon the days
as a cat upon the mouse
not whole upon the hole
did I watch

silent in wait
this tolling angst
of a bell unseen
tolling

toiling
these storms of stomach
as if an eater
of church bells I were

and the hours of the day
were clad in veils of lace
black and bottomless
as eyes of mice

mourning or message
message of mourning
I cannot fathom
the tingle

my bones a tuning fork
tined as battlements
before the oncoming
charge

of silver shinning ghosts
galloping across translucent landscapes
my nocturnal visions
tongues of steel

what am I
to be
that I am
not now

what am I
to know
that is beyond the horizon
of my years

what am I
to do
with the blackness
of my blood in the night

no answer have I
in my gut
to the pain
slutting me

so I wait
the dawn
just sitting upon
the dim hours

feeling as useless
by dusk
as I did
upon the day

when steel rained
and cheeks drained
upon a soil
so stained of me

of mine
of an our
sundered
in a sky without thunder

arraigned perhaps
ordained
I could not
explain

nor
chain
the pain
that

one,
somewhere,
a who
of blood concealed

surely
must
have
entertained

hand on rope
pulling
tolling
calling

resonant
as the hunger
thundering
across my empty plains

in wax church gold (KKB-16)

from the king's view:

I sit as most kings sit
alone

at home
with idea and pen

thinking not the sins
of parchment

delivered in wax
church gold

but of legacy
of legacy crafted

of sword
as much of quill

what is done
is done

as the picked
apple

grows no
more

but lives
on the tongue

before the waterfall
of memory

consuming fact
with fiction

a welcomed
digest

upon our humble
seat

mornings and nights (KKB-15)

mornings and nights
these were the hardest
when the chores
sat aside
and the mind
had time
for the heart

the boy refused
to speak
and his face was
unreadable
except for
a distant look
which was not a look
so much
as a wall

mute as stone
slick with rain
dirty with refusal
to wash
to clean
to move beyond

I wanted to reach
to touch
to communicate
as we once did
but what once was
was
no
longer

he sat my table
our table
and I stared
as did he
as two mutes
each suffering
beyond articulation
publicly
private

I measured our moments
in breaths
in thoughts
unspoken
in pain held
within
my withering breasts
tears of milk
run
dry

he was my boy
and I his mother
beyond that
there was
nothing

Reading and Commentary (a martyr make)

Reading and Commentary: a martyr make

upon the news (KKB-14)

upon the news

he came

a fortnight

mattered nought

to see the face

of heaven

to hold the heart

of Mary

and touch the life

divine

would horse

gallop

and the winds

guide

as sun

to dial

as moon

to tide

as man

to woman

as stars arc (KKB-13)

the boy came home

two eyes in a face of mud

looking

without regard

thinking without

thought

climbing (into the loft)

without smile

forever and again

not seen

said he didn't

know

that it died

that day

in the rain

in the mud

in the blood

of his father

seeping as

innocence

into the soil

of animus

nourishing memory

as a slow rain

setting course

as stars arc

through the heavens

to the king

to the sire

of his father

Reading and Commentary (plays with Quicktime)

crones and fools (KKB-12)

tonight, we drink
drink to be drunk

not to forget
that's bullshite

there is no forgetting
and there is no regretting

let the crones regret
and the fools forget

tonight, we drink
to be drunk

you understand
said the king

yes
my lord

good, pour
more

we've work
to do

the boy
tell me

665. horizons on the dawn

"Rog?" asked Yul.

"What?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For nothing."

"Nothing?"

"When I am with you I feel nothing--"

"Nothing?"

"Nothing in the way of me being me. Do you understand?"

"I have no frailing idea what you are talking about."

"Then shut up and frail me, with nothing, nothing between you and me."


Flowing into his arms, lips rising as dawn, kissing the horizon of a day seen with eyes closed, Yul sighed.

integrity fallen (KKB-11)

Tell me

did he stand tall

lift his shield

parry the blow

bearing

dignified?

yes

my lord

clear of eye

speaking in stance

resolute

hair waving as

the standard

planted

with his feet?

yes

my lord

and from

a distance

did they come

did the boy

bathe in the blood

of baptism's

lies?

yes

my lord

soiled in the

ugly fate

of men bitter

we are

you and I

and

the boy

yes

my lord

then come

let us drink

the sweet fruit

our temporary

antidote

and tell me

yes

my lord

every detail

every sight

and sound

and in this way

honor

integrity fallen

and . . .

yes

my lord?

integrity

fallen

Readings

as stars arc

integrity fallen

with fisherman eyes

falling light

a martyr make

unforgiven souls

(the rest to come time permitting)

with fisherman eyes (KKB-10)

with fisherman eyes
upon polished wood
the king sat
before the crackle of fire
his jeweled goblet
silent rising dim stars
in a study dark of book
warm of face
cold of hide

sighing
maw sinewed
command given
old to young
young to old
and somewhere
a friend would fall
fall as the wine
down the gullet and
a boy would stand
bloody feet
caked face
a consuming rain
passed like summer
to fall and fall
to winter

on the horizon
sight before sound
would come
the deed
by flag

by flag
life
done
life in a flag
waving in mind
heart still
in the image
a friend
in the wave
of a flag
on a horse

he stood
frame creaking
upon the unforgiving
stone floor
poked the fire
stroked his dogs
and walked to
the window
to the rain
to the night
to a cool breeze
bringing forth
news
closing
the
circle

black and white

I want to walk
down a street
I've seen
only in my mind

everything is
black and white
lampposts
mature trees

lining the way
in the distance
storefront lights
a park

the evening is young
the streets busy
candles burn
in restaurant windows

and I'm
just walking
in black and white
with you

falling light (KKB-9)

from the horseman's view:

the horse felt light

when the work was done

when the news was good

when the view was new

and steps taken

need not be retraced

one didn't think about

taking life

one felt it

and what one felt

there were no words

save heavy

light and heavy the mount

sword washed in the river

gleaming as a shoal of fish

ready

always ready

rising heavy

falling light

above all

the sound remained

of sword falling

of head falling before trunk

and this is how it was

this falling of light

and with each swing

with each falling

to match the falling

the darkness grew

the soul dimmed

as the horizon pass gloaming

addendum: thoughts unspoken

from a distance
just a smudge
on the horizon

as they were
on gallop
smudges

blurs dull
wood raised
dead oak

to dead trunk
and dead
limbs

into the soil
to give
what was taken

the arm of steel
creating circles
from blood of blood

upon the face of soil (KKB-8)

camera pans from overhead looking into the upturned face of the boy still standing upon the bloody ground of his slain father:

between acts
curtain clouds
dim light everlasting

and upon the face of soil
two white eyes
two red lips

look into the tears
of heaven
washing away

the sins
of men
in the baptism

of revenge (forgiveness)
the eternal fire
growing, consuming

past, future
burning
hand, heart

reaping
sorrow (love)
and from above

the gentle weeping
of father
for
son

(this is where, in comic relief, as the camera pans above the boy, Johnny Cash's voice plays, Don't Take Your Guns to Town)

a martyr make (KKB-7)

from the boy's view:

our violet standard
blood wet
stood here

as
my father
against horsemen

cut down
a grunt
a swing

a horse galloping
on
not a word

taking life
sundering
my beloved;

lean
on knee
a handful of mud

I scoop
the bloody earth
my warpaint

two eyes
I am
caked with my father

iced with remembrance
those colors
those lions,

of silver
swinging
in a blue sky

of snorts
neighing
braying

mud spraying
a dirty wake
a martyr make

no mistake
said I
a boy

of memory
long
long as silver

tongue swung
slaying
old and young

Reading and Commentary

to the field (KKB-6)

from the woman's view:

the boy finished breakfast
wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand
and without saying a word
walked to the field

I watched him from the window
walk slower than the boy
was wont to walk
leaving footprints
in the soft wet soil
somewhat smaller
than the footprints
he sought;
the footprints
next to me,
fading with
each breeze

inside

with each step taken
I wanted to be there
hold his hand
make that walk

together
mother and son

but the look he gave me
wiping his mouth
heading toward the door
I'd seen before
seen in his father

I knew, I knew
he would walk alone
to have a few words
between men
between father and son

puddles of wax (KKB-5)

the rain came

as without as within

and the morning too

an opera of birds

breakfast we ate

the boy and I

two chairs sat

three unspoken

spoon and plate

chattering

to the puddles

of wax

I was too numb

to clean

and the floor

was dirty

as it would be

for days

his footprints

the heart

I didn't have

to sweep away

as the rain

swept his blood

into the soil

through the night

without or within (KKB-4)

Night had come
as the knight had gone
without a word

the children slept
the fire crackled
an old pot needed cleaning

rain was coming
a cool breeze
through windows open

memory would not
wash away
so easily

and where the crickets
were silent
one old rocking chair

was not
as one
was

she sat with
her sighs
cheeks rosy from fire

within
that no rain
would extinguish

and she thought of youth
of dreams
of the night to come

as many more would
without a word
without or within

on porcelain knees (KKB-3)

Iron falls heavy

to the eye

in the mind

rising as dawn

falling as night

the space between

measured in prayer

exhaled through teeth

hilt to spittled hilt

upon bloody soil

crimson rivers

form pocks

of quiet lagoons

muted cries nearby

dirty faces

unshod feet

young cheeks faded

running and falling

on porcelain knees

the ground a pew

of wet muck

and not much more

Alt versions of the Unforgiven image

unforgiven souls (KKB-2)

I have this recurring dream
the images coming
in a watchet heaven
clear as the Agincourt sky

wood I smell
old, dark
somewhat polished
stained and scarred

I feel the cool breeze on my neck
then the whole world
tumbles upside down
and all is quiet

as children dance
and bakers bake
and blood
fills my nose

the suck of muck
everest effort
to walk

sackcloth blisters
oily hair
beard caked

on horseback
we hear
gallop as heartbeat

our life
measured
in lengths

of horsemanship
of breeding
of the rain of steel

may God
have mercy
on our unforgiven souls

when

When One's head

is up One's arse

One is the last

to know

although you'd think

the aroma

would be

enough

wooden shields (KKB-1)

The crack of iron swords
upon the faded heraldry
of wooden shields
shattered and splintered

shields made by calloused hands
before the sloe eyes
of milk-laden cows
and courtyards of cobbled stone

these shields of weathered oak
slain amongst their own as
child to parent witnessed
as limb to trunk departed

sawed limb by limb
by hands calloused
in the labor of raising
crop and child

hammered and beaten
measured and nailed
the damage covered
in the hue of berries

this dead wood
protecting young life
protecting calloused life
the very life

now threatened

now making two noises

the noise of life
still living

and

the noise of life
still fighting

salt and sugar

Simple as salt

yet sweet as sugar

forever blanched

in a world

of rainbows

where rivers talk

I do
remember

the bloom
of a smile

the lilt
of a voice

the look
of healing

where rivers
talk

and birds
walk

as grass
grows

and dreams
sow