Poem Ending with a Line from Lao Tzu

The road is silent. Who knows where

these voices come from that say

the road is calling. The road is a mirror

where a girl leans forward to inspect

the arch of her brow. The road stretches

along her curving arm, winds

across her belly, over thighs

to turn at her bare feet. The road

branches and leafs out into cloud.

The road repeats. It seeps into dreams

where mule deer cross to make

another road. It begins in sunlit dust.

It does not end in starry arches

but widens and turns back.The road

grinds over empires and disappears

in the forest. Over the rim of the hill,

across a hazy clearing, a traveler

gives birth to the road in his boots.

Wait. Watch. Walk. Wonder.

Become one with the dusty road.

You can launch a poem or complete a landing with a favorite line taken from a poem, novel, essay, letter, blog . . . Add your favorite lines to comments and share the inspiration.

Talk of War, Talk of Peace

Talk of War, Talk of Peace

All day long, working in the cafe,
there's talk of war, talk of peace.
People we haven't seen in weeks
coming in to eat, to seek reassurance,
talking about the thirst for oil,
wondering about the draft, saying
bombing and wedding in the same sentence.

We commiserate and many advise
others to pray. Those who bring in
newspapers will leave them--smudged
photos of the latest explosion, fanned
across the table. After lunch, we gather
crumpled napkins along with faces of
kidnap victims and prisoners. We sort them--
one batch for the trash, the other
stacked and folded for the evening fire.

Snowfall low over the mountains.
I sweep the walk and polish windows.
I stamp the checks and count the cash.
I weigh out apricots, raisins and dates
arranging pound and half-pound bags
into perfect pyramids, ready for trade--
any shopkeeper, any one of ten thousand
days in any marketplace in the world.
It will be dark long before I get home.

Tincture for Writer's Block

Five movies. Five books.
Three myths or fairytales.
Ten friends. Four homes.
Six subjects you want
to live long enough to study.
Seven foods to cook for family.

What horrified your parents?
What made them scold you?
What was forbidden,
what ways of life?
How did you know?
What did they do?
When did you cease
to be a child?
How did you finally
become an adult?

List fortunate accidents.
Lucky breaks.
Ideas. Causes.
Institutions you challenged.
Enemies you fought.
Vows you made.
Vows you have broken.
Tell me when
you told your first lie.

How have you been hurt?
How have you been helped?
How have you helped in return?
How have you helped in return?

Just as language is a carrier of meanings, a tincture is a liquid carrier for the healing components of an herb. What tinctures have you applied to get back into flow?

Weather Watch

Heavy snow and roads
so icy, cars swim
through shoals of frozen fog.
I turn around
three miles out,
retreat to my cabin
in the North Hills.

Through the round window
a triangle of blue
surrounded by roses
of clouds unfolding--
beyond a darker swath
blurs the horizon
warning of more storm.

Frivolous to write
of nothing but weather
when soldiers follow orders
to drop bombs on strangers,
when families leave blankets
in homes claimed by bankers,
when the bright river where we
once caught rainbow trout
with our bare hands, now
swills with brackish foam.

But mountains spew themselves
to sand, the mightiest pine
will blaze up into ashes,
while this sky abides,
the most constant presence,
even as it folds inward
and pelts the roof with hail.