Barry Spacks

Mount So-and-So

New here, I still don’t know this mountain’s name,
the tallest of the ones that ring us round
with their fine flow that lifts the sight to pleasure.

How can I speak of the mountain, then?
I could point, I guess, say: “That one,
snow on its crest in sun-shimmer.”

At first I thought I’d ask a neighbor,
maybe find a map, so I could tell you
“We live near famous Mount So-and-So”...

yet when has concept-knowledge felt this sweet?
Now each day’s still the first day of the world,
before the shadow of the knowing.

What’s Needed

The parent birds know how to nudge
the youngster-birds from the nest,
but we, with our words? Hush up the lecture,
what’s needed is strut, a louchey tap-dance
for them to yearn to imitate:
say unruffled Dad mid-smile in Armani
or half-clothed Mom in original frenzy
worshipping in a Cretan cave,
smeared with the blood of the Aphrodite.

A Miracle

In a B-movie dream I’m clutching stone
dangling from battlements over a courtyard
while crowds of friends gaze up below,
some weeping, some laughing; a few shout “Jump!”
not one rushes off to fetch a net
or a fireman’s ladder: “Hang on there, Barry,
we’ll save you.” None of them think to save me,
so what I need is a miracle,
to be no more alone than the universe
and as certain to fly letting go.