Some Poems


Prize every child for God’s eye glows in his soul,
David dances her steps, hearts not asking to be born
bring love & the whole crippling force of being here to
this world of rock & death, standing before God & us,
real, fluid, unfolding, beauty. Cherish each one, and when
they go, weep hard for them, and you & me too.
The faithful know mysteries opaque, rejoice at
another star in the heaven. I know only void, a
bit of infinite meaning slipping away again.

December 19, 2012


I am Zephyr, wind of the west, golden fire off
the chariot of Apollo, draggin the sun ‘cross
the sky. I clean the stables of gods, my brooms
and my shovels immaculately retrieved at the
end of my day. A thinning man with paunch, I
sit on the couch alone eating oatmeal and beans,
the night swelling large in my sky, a promise to
cover the day with Elysian meadows of green and
brown brick houses with long covered porches where
real people sit, eat, and laugh at the end of their time.


My poems are like vagrants on
the outside of town waiting to
come home. They sleep on the ground
and eat with each other and empty the
communion of borrowed food and fire,
Saint Dymphna’s delights. Go into town
sometimes to sell flowers,
offering to work.

Like vagrants on the outside of
town waiting to come in from the cold,
wishing for … they can’t recall,

A communion of unsaid things,
cooking on fires of their own
bituminous droppings, gritty & greasy
& poorly disguised

Forgetting the seer who
spoke at their birth (&
didn’t he say they were
born to be kings?)

Hunkering down for awhile
to stay warm, a gift of being
without, planning to go
into town some day, hold up a sign
& go back to work.


You see, there was this old woodcut,
a picture of a guy poking through heaven’s dome
and here (maybe it was Yahweh, the old goat,
how could I know? Or maybe it was me, incarnate alchemist,
player from hell)

But I know what I know, that to push
through the veil (witty, impassable) is to make it on home, once,
and that is enough.


Many names are good, allow you
to escape yourself, die on the trail
and still come down for breakfast
in a robe and silk boxers. A jaded
man made low by his crimes. Serial
eponymy, and the series is tied


In Dreams

So, you wait ‘til now to let me know
we both have sneaked around these years,
in dreams, looking for a chance to dance, or talk,
or party, speak idly on love and physics and God?
Or maybe go out back to the family plot where
our ghosts collect on a time for astral celebration.
Where they dance, and talk, make dirty jokes about
Mary and God, physics and yoga, don’t worry about
the weather, or a quantal conundrum. May be the
incorporeal through the window, in the seat beside us,
in us, through us, mystic blue and solid without
substance. Or mayhap they are the piercing substance
and the longing, plane of ethereal shrapnel cutting the
heart, bloodless, reminding us of what we thought
we did, so long ago, and the dark of the wood behind
the house we’ll be walking into.

There we can dance. And laugh again.
In the dark.

Steve Ball
January 14, 2013

Here are some more poems

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