POEM-mulligan-collection

A Collection of Poems

By J.B. Mulligan

To List of Poems

shapes of passing clouds

In the clouds
a child is born.

In the clouds
he grows to manhood.

In the clouds
he loves and marries.

In the clouds
he sires children.

In the clouds
he labors.

In the clouds
he dies.

On the earth
a child is born.

On the earth
he grows to manhood.

On the earth
he loves and marries.

On the earth
he sires children.

On the earth
he labors.

On the earth
he dies.

watching the pond

The circles spread and fade,
perfect and brief
flowers of appetite.

The city built of water
floats on its bones.

dust

Dust covers our eyes,
each grain is a feature,
a color, a scene:
shifting, a kaleidoscope
crystallizes brightly
forms that we shape
to an animate meaning.

Twistings, fears and silver wings
sculpted with crooked
fingers of orderly dreams.

What cuts our eyes
in the shape of a day
is only dust, well painted.

Goose Pond

At the far end of the pond, the water's
smooth as a silver plate, the deli sign
NOW OPEN
is legible, inverted on the surface.
Away from the shore, the rippling scales
flow steadily toward the bridge
like the will of all the fish beneath
to leap the distant, tree-screened dam
into a dream of perfect water.

A dozen ducks or so
cruise in formation behind the island
where geese waddle and squat,
nip at the grass, erupt in a brief
flapping and squawking statement of boundary,
and are back to their feeding
before the frantic echoes resolve.

I've walked along the shore a bit,
and NOW is hidden behind a tree.
OPEN - red letters on yellow,
translated on the glassy water
to a mock-Cyrillic shout -
leap a dam, roil a surface,
stake a jabbering claim to the day.
Let the summer wind's Iago
plant its traitorous rumors.
Start the fire. Break the glass.

I loosen my tie, and wait
for the bus, so dependably late.

always reaching

Love at one remove -
like language -
I cannot say or do
more than scattered moments
of what always is.

What use a voice? -
when the tree knows currents of wind
with its slender water-body.

What use a heart? -
when the birds eat seeds
and spread them in their spills,
and die by the side of the road
on an autumn morning.

If I could touch you
with a hand that was your own...
if I weren't caught
in the bear trap of skin,
raging, pulling and tearing,
urgent for the mountain
glistened with light and grasses....

Rooms in one house,
held together and apart
by walls -
oh, to live in the house of the sky! -
a room with no walls....

Not the glass of water,
not even the sea...
but to be water,
to be what we are -
as if we could bear it.
As if anything could only be.

How we drink.
How we drown.

	A Collection of Poems By J.B. Mulligan
	Copyright 2001	To List of Poems
	shapes of passing clouds In the clouds a child is born. In the clouds he grows to manhood. In the clouds he loves and marries. In the clouds he sires children. In the clouds he labors. In the clouds he dies. On the earth a child is born. On the earth he grows to manhood. On the earth he loves and marries. On the earth he sires children. On the earth he labors. On the earth he dies.
	watching the pond The circles spread and fade, perfect and brief flowers of appetite. The city built of water floats on its bones.
	dust Dust covers our eyes, each grain is a feature, a color, a scene: shifting, a kaleidoscope crystallizes brightly forms that we shape to an animate meaning. Twistings, fears and silver wings sculpted with crooked fingers of orderly dreams. What cuts our eyes in the shape of a day is only dust, well painted.
	Goose Pond At the far end of the pond, the water's smooth as a silver plate, the deli sign NOW OPEN is legible, inverted on the surface. Away from the shore, the rippling scales flow steadily toward the bridge like the will of all the fish beneath to leap the distant, tree-screened dam into a dream of perfect water. A dozen ducks or so cruise in formation behind the island where geese waddle and squat, nip at the grass, erupt in a brief flapping and squawking statement of boundary, and are back to their feeding before the frantic echoes resolve. I've walked along the shore a bit, and NOW is hidden behind a tree. OPEN - red letters on yellow, translated on the glassy water to a mock-Cyrillic shout - leap a dam, roil a surface, stake a jabbering claim to the day. Let the summer wind's Iago plant its traitorous rumors. Start the fire. Break the glass. I loosen my tie, and wait for the bus, so dependably late.
	always reaching Love at one remove - like language - I cannot say or do more than scattered moments of what always is. What use a voice? - when the tree knows currents of wind with its slender water-body. What use a heart? - when the birds eat seeds and spread them in their spills, and die by the side of the road on an autumn morning. If I could touch you with a hand that was your own... if I weren't caught in the bear trap of skin, raging, pulling and tearing, urgent for the mountain glistened with light and grasses.... Rooms in one house, held together and apart by walls - oh, to live in the house of the sky! - a room with no walls.... Not the glass of water, not even the sea... but to be water, to be what we are - as if we could bear it. As if anything could only be. How we drink. How we drown.