A Single Bird of Unknown Species

The blaze above black mountains
yellow, orange, hectic red
if it’s morning or if it’s evening
no one ever knew
 
such beauty wrapped
in so much sadness
until it hit them
there it was for everyone
yellow, orange, hectic red
the photographic aftermath
of a gargantuan explosion
bleeding above high mountains
ridgeblade black
 
who lacked insight to say
the sky is blue
the sky is the color of sky
morning, day, evening, night
the sky is drained of illusion
the cold and beautiful light revealed
morning and night and evening
and all the long and wakeful day
a single black-winged bird floats by
the sky is blue
or white
or grey

The Name Beneath the Title

 I will be 60 in 19 days.

I keep asking myself, am I learning yet?
A poem is what can be said in the space of a poem.
There is no difference between what is said
And how it is said. Every word change
Changes everything. But so does every reader every
Reading, even mine. Will I one day know what it was
I was exploring? I cannot control the poem.
This is what makes poetry like everything else: like life
Like growing old, like stars, like knowledge, like the structure of knowledge
That opens as it closes. Wisdom has a voice. And a space
Where there is no voice.
Any resting place is home.
Everybody needs a home.
A home does not need to be a place.
Everything is a prayer
If you want it to be, Father Martin.
When you look at the numbers you say ah!
When you look behind the numbers you say huh?
All religions were made by people to know the divine
And each for other reasons as well. And if they help
They help. And if they hurt, they hurt.
And they don’t always help. But they do always hurt.
That is how they are like everything else. Like poems and laws and tongues
And flame. You have to live with words. You have to live
Where no words are. If this is a poem
Great. And if this is not poem
Also great.