In the canals of Amsterdam, dreams of wild swans
shatter the slow language of reflected edifices.
Invisible feet push the darkness toward the light.
I am caught between what I know to be true
and the existence of parallel lives afloat
in the canals of Amsterdam, dreams of wild swans.
What if we were living inside the dream
and time was a concept waiting to be born with
invisible feet to push the darkness toward the light?
What if you were dreaming me into being
inventing time to swim us through the canals
of Amsterdam in the dreams of wild swans?
What if the feathers loosened from sleep
drifted down from the moon’s edge with invisible feet
to push the darkness back toward the light?
And the beauty if it is we cannot prove whether or not we exist
in the Cartesian streets where the sound of bells takes flight
across the canals of Amsterdam and the dreams of wild swans
are invisible wings to push the darkness toward the night.
© Maureen Hurley, Spring 1993
Wednesday, March 31, 1993
Thursday, March 18, 1993
WEST OF POZZI RANCH
WEST OF POZZI RANCH
West of Pozzi Ranch the ticking
clock
moves the ridges ever closer to
the north
the move to freedom of the sea
fog rises as if dreams took
shape on the horizon
the only sound of seals coughing
in the beyond of time
to think about the difference
between meniscus and the horizon
is a matter of perspective
distance is attained by scale
we are but microbes in the petri
dish
mitochondria searching for
patterns
the fractaline structure
endlessly repeated over & over
as if space bent down to sniff
the newborn head of time
the beginning of creation and
the beginning of time
and we develop theories to prove
we exist
as if we needed more than our
existence
the beyond, was Descartes the
first to put it into words?
or merely the first to record it?
and so we sit in a room full of
morning
the sleepiness of waking itself
to the existence of a new day
3/18/93
Bodega Bay
COLLAGE POEM, RAIN
COLLAGE POEM, RAIN
Sunlight pierces my eye
clouds slide off the backs of
mountains
dreams take wing and circle our
thoughts
like vultures in late summer—
Camphor, cedar chips
a hope chest of moths
white nights
the approaching solstice.
Big Dipper, full of rain
holds the universe
across angry day
with no plan at all.
The drought, broken like a bowl,
spills its bounty on the earth—
all this sadness falling from
stars.
3/18/93
1st draf
1st draf
AFTER CHIEF SEATTLE
AFTER CHIEF SEATTLE
How can you buy the freshness of
the air
every shining pine needle holy
in memory
of death in the country of birth
we are part of the perfumed body
heat of the pony
He asks much of us
comfortably so that we will
consider
this sacred land, the blood of
our reflection
in the murmuring voice of the
rivers
the stranger, the enemy, his
father’s grave, forgotten,
sold like sheep, bright ways,
different eyes
a savage place of insects’ wings
insulting the ears, arguments of
frogs
the wind cleansed many days
air shares breath with the
sacred taste of meadow flowers
brothers, savage, I’ve seen
I do not understand what is the
loneliness of spirit
all things are connected
rich with the lives of our kin
this we know, all things are
connected
we did not weave the web of life
the common destiny our god may
not be owned
you shall shine brightly, that
destiny, a mystery
the secret ripe hills
where is the end of living
3/18/93
In class CPITS writing, first draft
Tuesday, March 9, 1993
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