A white feather in the grass
Like a spirit return
Under star spider legs
Riding grass snake wind
In the region of the disembodied
Shadows flying over the field
For the longest moment
I had forgotten the road
A white feather
And the speed of light
School of Music
Not the doors we never open
But the invitation of a violin.
A student sings from La bohème.
Better than ovations, his passionate devotion.
In another room, two trumpets
Sound out the physics of justice.
A young woman with bass clarinet
Or strange fish caught in a drift net.
A bassoonist down the corridor,
All thumbs at the woodwind door.
Every work a work in progress,
Perfecting imperfection in chorus.
Not the doors we never open
But the invitation of a violin.
Swans in a Snowstorm
By the hundreds tundra swans descend
like parachutes deploying
in blizzard snow and wind.
They tumble through the air
then canopy their wings
and toggle best they can
in whiteout conditions.
Seeing them is like hallucinating,
except they come every year
to the same fields behind a police academy
in Aylmer, Ontario,
and sometimes in bitter springs
they come out of the northern sky
like a late blizzard,
like driving snow
and meet the earth running.
Clinical Condition
Masses of medical clinics are appearing.
We must be expecting the worst.
Human shadows saturate the market
Like stuffed sacks of sickness.
The office of doctor beehives into bulk.
Medical realtors create a crisis bubble.
The cost of wellness offsets occupancy.
Clinics flourish on curable defects.
Life is the casting of contiguous lots.
Now every property is distressed.
A density test is a good biomarker
To the health of illness and equity.
Fake
Fake or not— something is amiss
Fake or not— blood runs out the veins
The appendage of doubt withers on the branch
Fake or not— the tree died in Paradise
Fake or not— pockets are sacked
Innocence suffers the fakery
Nothing changes but the fakemen
Fake or not— God has no face
Fake or not— there are natural facts
Presidents sign with a fake pen
A despot murders his kin
Fake or not— the flames of the earth
Blaze through the crust to the sun
Fake or not— the indigent go without shoes
Fake or not— time lifts the mask
Natural resources betray the rot at the core
Fake or not— a dream of peace is real
Fake or not— love is its own illusion
Ann Arbor Poetry Blues
Friday I visited Ann Arbor, Michigan. Most of the book shops I knew are gone, but Dawn Treader Books was still in business— a survivor from the great old days of Ann Arbor book shops. The poetry section was smaller than I remembered, with a few shelves so crammed with collections it was difficult even to dislodge a book from its place. I felt sad looking over titles and names. They weren’t just books. They were people I once knew. So much self-importance. So much certainty in their own greatness. Now here they were, interred in the last poetry mausoleum. I left Ann Arbor thinking I had wasted my life. But then I also thought this, how could I waste a life I’d chosen. That is something. That is perhaps something.
Barbershop Mirrors
Mirror barbershops,
Reflect space, imitate waiting,
Affix stillness, mimic motion,
Brush hair, touch faces,
Weigh shaving cream
In mirrored hands,
Maroon towels, mix tonics,
Cut conversation,
Amend silence, trim excess
In excess of excess.
Open Letter to my Son
I’ve been mulling over our conversation. I suppose for a young person today there is a lot of pressure to be successful. You’re ambitious and that’s good. The allure of worldly riches is strong: money, cars, private jets— even islands and countries can be bought. Don’t confuse ambition and happiness. They masquerade for each other and you might not see the difference for a long time. I’m glad though that you can talk to me, that part of you has sympathy for an ageing, not very successful poet. Something tells me you knew I’d say stay in school, finish your degree, don’t sellout your intelligence for mammon. I’ve also met business people with lakefront condos, expensive cars and boats… Their dialogue is all negotiation and their presence half facade. Not one of them could count among their riches the many gifts you already possess. Some of us were chosen for higher things. Love dad.
High Winds
Many broken branches, heavens eroded,
Trees uprooted, the heartwood with rot.
Roof shingles raised, power lines down.
I’ve never seen such wind-blasted light,
Blue diffused into dark, transparent night.
In my mind distance travels like the wind.
Outside our losses, the road of the wind.
State Mental Hospital
A sound structure in architectural
beauty and ruin,
Lovely grounds overrun by weeds,
Narrowing trails through forest,
The farm now fallow and wild.
Ghosts of place move on,
Legends vandalize experience,
Peace remedies chaos,
Kindness cures brutality
Bound to no restraints.
If facts are fake poetry proves true,
Patients shine with health,
Society suffers lunacy,
Institution disperses,
Madness finds proportion.
Salvatore Ala 