When I A Boy [poetry]

When I, a boy, when I could,
I voyaged out into your cool company—
the coldness of boots pulled on at the doorstep
before walking that large solitude
of no cricket, no owl;
walking with silent snow feet among birdless woods
tossed among the taste of echoed blood
at such a time of the coyote,
invisible and dull by the snow.

My secret ice-making ice-haiku poems
driving me to the warmth of your breath—
letting me dream my dreams of romance
written at twilight by fire
in the hidden garden of no ordinary lovers,
letting me feel again the enticing light
that secretly guided me like the slow slipper of moss
to the doorstep of your excited hands—
when I, a boy, when I could.

Poet [poetry]

The boy who lost his mother gnarled like a bear—
tough bear he.

But away from the bestial,
he had softness in his eyes—
they laughed even when he and his words were sharp
and sometimes ambiguous.

He showed the plumpness of his belly to his closest friends
and grunted like a pig and poet,
laughing behind his scars
with eagerness to taste color from afar.

He took from the sunglow like an artist hunched at his easel
and painted everyone—
even the ones who had no power to imagine.

He painted deaf-mutes with love that ran down his breast,
ripping chords from the constellations
and opening creation’s ingenious blindness
to music that volleyed beyond his art that transcended ages
and volleys still
in us all.