I chased her with a yellow tulip.
She was not home.
She had no home, So
I chased her with a yellow tulip until I found her
Beneath the bridge.
Too late she said
It’s for my funeral now
But what of easter
As a train crossed over us
Your favorite is next week
And I promised to deliver this tulip
And take you home.

Amos, a shepherd poet
Sang dark wooly warnings to
The exploding cows of bashan
To the splitting mountains of the nations
Thunder came
Rocks stones and trees split
In fact everyone split
At the voice coming from this
Little good shepherd poet.

//
Before the internet:
Back when we had poems and songs which were only ours.
Back when you could trout fish alone with Richard Brautigan
And look at the sky through telephone lines
And consider death with Rilke
Or smoke in some alley with Paul Westerberg-
Without being overheard
Or overseen.
Back when there were private conversations-
Words meant just for you.
Back when you could even read the Bible
For yourself, and see things Luther never dreamed
Back when everything was a fresh discovery in Love
With babies heads popping out of the wet private womb
Of wonder. With only angels watching over us.
//

One poem
Is a morning prayer
For society
The writer
Is doing invisible work
For the whole
Catching a fish for us all.
Cohen, Brautigan and the gang
All the fishers of dimensions
Kandinsky and Christo included
Are fishing for us all with a flashlight
in the lake
Called night.

//