Train to Sendai

Of all the patterns spilt in red

the fingerprint catches my eye

wandering its labyrinth of identity

in the middle a mustard seed mystery

who am I to be sprouting here this year

but really I was sown over 23 years ago

yeah back before I knew what numbers were

and mustard too

This poem was written with my wife, Jenny, as we rode a train to Sendai, Japan. We took turns writing the lines. 

Barefoot Talk

Arkansas is
where I grew up climbing trees
with skint knees
it is known as a place where
folk might be so  backward as to
walk barefoot

For the most part it has become like the rest of the world
a synthesis of interstate highways
internet hideaways
and interchangeable suburb sets
lacing us up in cotton socks and rubber soles

But some of us still remember what words
the cool grass will share
in the summer afternoon
or the joy of a winter creek
the shift of the rocks beneath

Some of us fear not
the broken glass, black
tar and burning gravel
we have planted in our gardens
Eden is there below
the grit of sand and humus between toes

Dead Morning

Drinking coffee this morning in the rain
will it turn black with bombs
who is making such troublesome thunder, I wonder
will they ever come in and have a cup

Porcelain petals spin down from the
newspaper-grey of branches
into beds where
glass ferns are uncurling, broken

Yesterday I would have been afraid
but I woke here to find my body tingling in death
and the life I knew yesterday spun away by
the clock so that all I have left to do is breakfast

Will Surely Fade

just yesterday
starlike they were splayed
trumpeting the sun's yellow
from proud standing stems of onion green

the daffodils today
shrink toward the soil
in shades of brown already
becoming earth before they touch
its humus layer
just now sinking to darker humidities

in the warmth of coming summer
it can be felt that the sun too
once turned black and moist
cycling for three seasons
and returning at dawn

Ready Set

Newspaper said the pressure cooker that exploded

at the finish line was carefully set with

nails, ball bearings, and screws

        planted with a black duffle bag

Today I sifted red soil into a pot

turned in leaf compost and dark humus

collected from the forest floor

last I soaked it down and

        set a seed within 

Once

Once I was a pig

but I ate myself for breakfast

            fried

then grew up into me

Once I was a seed of a sunflower

but I chewed me up and spit my hull

in the sand of the home team’s dug out

and struck out

Once I was a dream

shared by two navels sweating together

                 pressed

but then I came

Seek The Harvest

With your hands

you seek the harvest

in compost piles, pig manure, garden beds

and the handle of a hoe that leaves

calluses and blisters

In your hands

you hold the harvest of the earth

cook it in a heavenly sauce

let it fill all who will humbly receive

See you hands

become the harvest

it is now growing in you

give thanks

press the palms together

break them in your labor

giving each piece with joy

I wrote this poem for the Harvest Thanksgiving Celebration in October 2012 at the Asian Rural Institute. I read the poem as a performance during the event. I worked with a Japanese poet who was also volunteering at ARI. Tomi helped me translate my poetry into Japanese and I helped him translate his poem into English. It was a beautiful exchange of poetic and cultural fruits.