Cypress Forest Circling Hornsby Springs
The cypress knees genuflect upward like a chipmunk choir
chanting the Adoramus Dei. These chubby, knobby
nubbers have owl faces on rabbit bodies, and red-rimmed
eyes like overworked bookkeepers.
Oh, to be a cypress tree, fed by so many gnomes and angels,
able to burrow low, extending, shooting away, then
reaching up again.
Trunks of oak and pine stand around like relatives sampling
the ham rolls at a family reunion.
A soft denuded birch twists sensuously like the Moulin Rouge dancer
in that famous print. On a fallen log, brown fungi with white collars
scamper away like a pack of crazy quarters. Down in the gulch,
the larger cauliflower fungi stack like cliff dwellings, yellowing in the
gloam like card files in the old library.
Thunder rumbles, then tendrils of rain elude the perfect canopy,
tickling the bald spot of a walker at the very moment in which
he feels, for no good reason, lost, and a little afraid.
The rain feeds the spring from above, while the source boils silent
and full from below, Spirit meeting Soul at long last. The surface of the
water shimmers, iridescent, electric, and dances like the
rear end of a dachshund when his fearless leader ambles in from the day.
The upper torsos of pale trees, split near the root, recline gracefully,
at peace after long service. The cypress knees, the ones that keep the trees
quieter than they already are, worship the fallen ones
from the middle distance -- the ancient ones, who will
never be forgotten.
The Trouble With This Poem
that I have
little to say
in this moment.
Weird densities have occupied the territories of Topic and Content.
Ugly gnomes are laughing at the ceremonial robes of Meaning.
Crucial sections of my Usual Self
are somewhere in the Bahamas.
Have I mentioned that Vital Energies essential to Creativity
are sidetracked into fighting minor inflammations?
Iíd like to see you write a decent Poem under such circumstances.
Not for the faint of heart, my friend.
Perhaps Iím better off with No Mind.
After all, the Artistís True Function is to
Mirror Reality, reflecting in purity
The World As-It-Is.
And, so -- I submit to the Call.,and Notice, Now:
hot summer heat
spinning laundry noise
sleepy, grouchy dog
procrastination around finances
niggling undercurrent of Time passing
contentedness born of clarity and new understandings
inexplicable desire to bring forth a poem
©2008 by Eric Diamond
Eric Diamond is a new poet, psychologist, and men's work leader,
living in Gainesville Florida. Major influences are Robert Bly, Tony Hoagland, Bob Dylan, Persian poetry, myth,
and archetype. His poems have appeared in Poetry Harbor, New Warrior Journal, and Slow Trains.