fireflies don’t bite - alan harris · fireflies don’t bite - copyright © 2004 by alan harris....

Fireflies Don’t Bite

Poems of 2002

by Alan Harris

Both harmlessness and light?I bow to you, Saint Bug.

This book is downloadable in Adobe Acrobat PDF format at:

Noon Out of Nowhere:Collected Poems of Alan Harris

www.alharris.com/poems

Copyright © 2004 by Alan Harris. All rights reserved.

Front Cover Art:“Deep Night in the Forest of Magic”

© Mia Aasbakken of NorwayUsed with permission

More of Mia’s art can be seen at:http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/art/z/e/zeila/zeila.html

Back Cover: composite photo by Alan Harris

Fireflies Don’t Bite

Poems of 2002

by Alan Harris

Absence...........................................21 Bird Omens .......................................6Bug in My Kitchen..........................24Farmer Karma ...................................8An Inward East ...............................19Itinerant .............................................9January Adagio..................................2July Brushstrokes ............................20Karma Yoga.......................................5Man Walking...................................14A Meditation .....................................3Night Light......................................13Ones ................................................22Our First Warm Day........................16Pain and Promise.............................10Path ...................................................7Prayer in Brief...................................4Remembrance .................................23Some Kind of Haiku .......................15Thank You.......................................12Unclosed Loops ..............................25Upbeat ............................................. 11Urges ...............................................18The Water ..........................................1World...............................................17

About Alan Harris ...........................26

Contents(Alphabetically)

1Fireflies Don’t Bite - Copyright © 2004 by Alan Harris. All rights reserved. www.alharris.com/poems

The WaterYou cry your first in your mother’s arms.The water trickles down the drain.

You soon grow into a toddler’s knowing.The water flows beneath the streets.

You attend your schools for diplomas, degrees.The water enters a nearby stream.

You have your wedding, children, career.The water joins a seaward-flowing river.

You make mistakes in ethics; health goes weak.The water reaches the peace of the sea.

You retire from your career to savor life.The water now is one with all the seas.

You suffer through precursors of mortality.The water feels a need to rise.

Your body quits, and you leave it where it is.The water rises through a mist into a cloud.

You enjoy long bliss in the space of Light.The water joins a darkening cloud.

You feel a longing toward the physical again.The water rains down and seeps into a well.

Your vision of the Light has faded now.The water is drawn from the well for drinking.

You feel confined and utterly doomed.The water breaks.

You cry your first in your mother’s arms.The water trickles down the drain.


January Adagio

Tonight at 10:30 I went outfor my walk. In the distanceI heard a major commotionof geese. At first I thoughta flock might fly overhead,though the hour was far too latefor geese to be aloft.

But the sound wasn’t moving.

I heard a train’s rumble,then its mournful horn.A freight was crossingthe railroad bridgeover the Fox Riverclose to where the geesewere overnighting.

As I turned around toward homeI still could hear them fret and scoldin chaotic counterpoint withthe diesel’s basso continuo.

And the stars tonight burnedbright holes in the sky, decoratingbare tree branches overheadlike lingering holiday lighting.

After the train had rumbled offto where nocturnal trains all go,the neighborhood assumed a hushperturbed only by my footsteps.

Hardly anything is quieterthan distant sleeping geeseand star-bespeckled trees.


A Meditation

In the where of almostlies more somejoythan define inchly gives.

Streamtake and heartgiveare so many too softnessfor headly grasp to box.

If seldom all many centerin one boundless allitude,one oneity can still still.


Prayer in Brief

I bowwith heart in handto offer up my lifefor larger Life, for brighter Light,for Joy.


Karma Yoga

Living every hourin the exact middleof my weaknesses,I work some more.

Knowing the waysI fell apart beforeand took poor paths,I work some more.

To piece togethermy fragmentaryfeelings for peace,I work some more.

Pretty sure I willlater fail to restrainsome urges within me,I work some more.

When all of my jobson earth are done andI’m in and out of heaven,I will work some more.


Bird Omens

When you go for a walkin your nearby forest,you see pairs of cardinalsand thrill to their singing.

One time you overheardtwo owls conversingbetween bare trees.

In summer you havestared breathlessat a heron standingSamadhi-likebeside your lake.

Birds of beautywant to be near you.Your heart flies upwith these fliersand knows intotheir knowing.

Today as I walkedacross an open field,hundreds of crowsflew overhead,snidely cawing fromconfusing cloudsof cacophony.

After they were gone,I walked on in silenceand knew nothing.


Path

One mountain to climbOne abyss to pass overOne crow cawing law


Farmer Karma

I was a boy farmerbecause I had to bebecause my fatherwas a man farmerand all my granddadsback to almost Adamhad been boy farmersand man farmersand that was that.I hardly even realizedthat I hated farmingbut just did it becauseand forever because.

I learned how tosharpen a hoeand cut through myhot-day reluctancein order to kill Canadianthistles in mechanicalplanticide. Dad toldme that the countythistle warden mightassess us a fine if wehad too many thistles.Chop, chop, chop,I spiraled into each patchand then on to the next,never finishing them all.

I learned how to startthe John Deere Model Atractor by yankingthe top of its flywheelmightily to the leftwith the petcocks opento reduce compressionuntil things got to poppingthen closing the petcocksfor more power.That Model A and I werepartners who bouncedacross years of bumpy soilpulling a drag or a diskor a 3-bottom plow.High in the bucket seat,teeth into the gritty air,I was as much a slaveto the A as it to me,as much a slave

to the farmas any farmer is.

I shoveled graininside bins wheredust polluted the airand filled my lungsso full thata time or twoI almost diedfrom asthma.But dying would bea slacker’s excuse,and the grain hadto be leveled.

In the haymowthere was also,guess what,dust and heatenough to turnmy lungs intosolid protoplasm--what bronchial tubes?When older, I got to stayoutside and throwthe bales ontothe Mayrath hayelevator and breathethe same good air thatour cows all breathed.

I was always dutiful.I never gave Dada single hint thatI didn’t like farming.No hint, that is,other than my stoicattitude, my yes-bossobedience, my lackof any initiative,and my slipshod work.These failings didn’t matterbecause there was the farmand there were weand the earth was turningand the weather was erraticand new work grew upas fast as the precious corn.

Dad never tried to teachme anything technicalabout how to farm.He could see my soul.One look at meon any day of any weektold him that this boywould never be a farmer.No point in telling the boyhow best to rotate cropsor how to repair a combineor how to choose fertilizeror when to sell the grain.Such breath wouldhave been as wastedas a cold March windacross the railroad field.

Dad was a good farmerand a good man.Farming is good, too.We get to eat from it.But farming gets glorifiedpretty often, and I neverpartook of that schmaltz.

I was a tractor driverwho would watch trainafter train go byon the Burlingtonand wave at the engineersand caboosemen,all of us dutifully chainedto our turning wheels.

I was a manure pitcherand a manure spreaderwho knew the cows hadto produce this but didn’tsee my future in it.

Farmer karma wasmy inherited destinyuntil college dayswhen I learned howto be amply engrossedin motions of the mindand never later hankeredfor any life on any farm.


Itinerant

On my electric wirea bold red cardinalbrimming with eonsof joyful songsloudly greets the dayfrom his overflow

while I on my lawntry to reconstructfrom tuneful partsan ancient wholebefore he fliesto another yard.


Pain and Promise

If only itHow can IWhen will thisCan I everIs there anyWhy am IThis is too

Better is laterThis shall passNow to learnWe are lovedNever all aloneBe in beingEndure in light


Upbeat

and exaltations. world of pitfalls amazingly beautiful through this left-right-left as we all tread correctable anomalies pleasant days andI wish you


Thank YouThank most youfor all little things big.

Beams of kindnessillumine all paths of you

and I am days on endin your gentle debt.

Accept please thisas my up payment.


Night Light

Melancholy needs a walk,so out I carry it at 11 p.m.to study two universes,out and in.

Our neighborhood is dotted withrandom porch and yard lampslighting the way for nobodyand me.

An hour above setting in the west,our less-than-first-quarter moonsmiles inscrutably like a queenin state.

Gliding through the trees, sheoffers only used rays to my heart,but light being now difficult to find,I accept.

With far-away stars shining only becausethey must, above a neighborhood whereyard lamps are glowing, thanks toowners,

a breath now washes through my chestinviting me to turn my melancholyover to night’s infinite matrix of Beingswho shine.

I do, and return home with lungs fullof light from outer and inner space,and from yard lamps left on for allwho walk.


Man Walking

There is a manwalking behind meon Wood Streetin Chicago.

He can’t knowmy heart humsa surging themefrom Movement 1of Mahler’s Tenth.

He can’t knowwhy I am walkingon Wood Streetin Chicago.

And why am I?It takes too longto think about.

Who is this manbehind me,walking?

What flavorshis feelings?What obstacleshas he overcome?What songis in him?

I somehow amthis man walkingon Wood Streetin Chicago.

I amhis walkingnessbehind me,his grapplingnesswith his day.

I can only knowmy own formbut he and Iare breathing ofthe same Breath.

Mahler’s Tenthplays on within meas I enter a building.

The man continuesalong the streetpaying absolutelyno attention to me,

this man walkingon Wood Streetin Chicagowho I am.


Some Kind of Haiku

Some kind of haiku that ignores authorities lies here in the grass.


Our First Warm DayIf I were to write about our first warm day of spring,

I would write about the stutteringburglar-alarm honks of a cartwo blocks away.

I would write about our waving neighborwho slowly rides his motorcycleout into the breeze, seeming to thinknothing of his vulnerability.

I would write about the silent forcethat brings the daffodils to bloomand emboldens secret romances.

I would write about children loudly vyingfor token goals and supremaciesin outdoor made-up games.

I would write about the lush airplaying inside my chest in C-major.

I would write about Celestial Lightbeaming upon all and within allwhile taken for granted by most.

I would watch the setting sun,

listen to the dusk birds,

watch for the first star,

pray my drop into the Beneficent Streamthat flows within every person’s heartand every star’s,

then drop into the heightsto write without a penupon the folds of Infinity’s Cloakabout our first warm day of spring.


World

Is a world hardlike a cue ball?Or beyond touch?

Does it janglewith war threatsor does it humsoft in the heartlike tuned stringson a fine harp?

Is a world separate I’son a spinning rockengaged and enragedwith each otherwhile blinded by whatthey can merely see?

Or is a world preciselywho one can be(within utmost Who)subtler than mindwith endless stairsfrom love up to Be?


Urgeswild windblow mesafe intoall here

all herelet mefly out onwild wind


An Inward East

To calm a care or soothe an anger stormyou pause to breathe your vital inside sunand, richly quiet with its steady glowof coremost tenderness and flooding peace,you reinterpret body’s aching bonesas levers placed for mystic ministry,propelled and infinitely smiled uponby forces which, when tapped, give tenfold strength.You find your earth eyes lidded from the roomand focused now on lightened higherness.

In light we are as one, beloved friend.How can a doubt or fear feel more than merewhen in and up we set our inner sightto see a splendor further east than east?


July Brushstrokes

gradual sliding low of Sol...

flashings out when trees allow...

sidewalk bathed in fading light...

yellow-green this muted hour...

whitening sky holds twilit breath...

shadows paint each passing trunk...

cicadas sing “six weeks till frost”...

hints of night inspire bird choirs...

all scent all sound all inner yes...


Absence

I always thought that you,dear friend, had been awaydue to a long, far journey.

I thought I knew you well,although I had no memoryof ever seeing you.

Stirring stories I heardabout your distant deeds,and I felt a link with youthough never saw your face.

I asked you in my heart,“How long, how far from herehas questing taken you?Does destiny intend for mesomeday to hear your voice?”

My white-haired yearsnow tell me it is Iwho traveled out uponthat long, far journey.

Soon I will be coming backto share my life’s adventureswith you in a place notfar away nor danger-filled,a place as near as breath and pulse.

I’ve missed your easy laughand kindly voice, dear friend,but soon enough we’ll meet againto pray the prayers of ancient days.


Ones

I spot a one.He changes lanes abruptlyright in front of me, no signal.My teeth clench.He is number one in his machismo,and I a separate one in irritation.

Another one is following my carclose enough to fill my mirror.I want to slow downand teach him a lesson,but instead I simmer alongas one trapped.

I notice my cozy tailgater is flyingan American flag above his window,loyal in some kind of patriotism,separate in some kind of jingoism,and I explore my intolerance.

By “ones” I mean sequestered minds,“me” people in a universe of “not me.”Ones will celebrate their personal glorythen perish into their self-created void.Ones will say we go around just once,done, with no later come-arounds,so that when the gustoed body quits,the mind joins Big Zero forever.

Why don’t I think the same as that?With not one proof that holds a drop,I see a future human stateunhindered by me-centric rivalries.

Birthing time and time again,evolving life by life eternally,it seems to me we’ll somedaygive up being ones, and enterfully the community of Unitywhere competition isn’t.

Though now I seem a oneto any other oneas the other one, for now,may seem a one to me,I hear an inner-speakingSpirit say that all of usare one with Utmost Oneand separated mainly byour walled-off minds andpretty bags of bones.


Remembrance

Remembering tells meI was never not, norwere you nor anyone.

Arteries in the Cosmosare pulsing with lightand life and love

in a flow never ceasingyet constantly changingin form and expression.

Peace it is to rememberthese arteries that feedfrom out of the Unseen,

their pulsings uncountable,their inner motions subtlerthan any evening breeze.

Remembering upwardand inward, how not feelvitality from the One?

I remember (don’t you?)the beauty within trust,the safety of community,

the triumph of cooperation,the brave sureness of joy,love as easy to find as air.

Remembering as I doand perhaps as you do,how could one not return?


Bug in My Kitchen

Let me guess,box-elder bugon my kitchen floor,that you know neitherhow you cameto be lost in herenor how you willget out--but you will.

Fright-propelled boat,six-oared, you worrythe woodwork thenhasten acrossthe open glossand disappearbeneath my stove.

I shall not hunt younor shall we evermeet again.

I am just as adrifton this waxed worldas you were on my floor,and yet I feel certainI will someday finda serendipitous stoveto mask my out-passing.


Unclosed Loops

Life after rollicking lifeI have litteredand fritteredbut mostly learnedwithin unclosed loops.

The room where I workis a monument toget-out-and-leave-outand all my other roomsimitate such open loops.

Shall I dare to suggestthat every spiralis an unclosed loop?And point out that spiralsare the basis of lifeon all of its planes?

Closed-loop peopleI have seen, dazzlingin their neatness,smilingly prompt,dickensly proudof their punctiliousbuttoned-downishness.

Do devotees of closed loopsexpire with a snap, I wonder?And will I expire somedaywith an ambiguous sigh?

Let’s broadly hint thatperhaps people never do expirebut instead subscribe over timeto suitably-spiraled-up bodies,incremental costumes for playingparts in this human dramaof infinite run. “Death” is allthe rage these eons, but onlyfor those who think their eyessee all there is to see.

Let’s even risk wonderingwhether supposedly closed loopsmight be minor quanta within majorevolving spirals.

Unclosed as my loops are,I admit to irritating the tidy.Closed, the tidy may enjoytheir control, but beyondtheir cubishness a universeswirls with intranestingspirals that may little praisethe painful righteousnessof an organized desk drawer.

Now, where is that CDI bought yesterday?Has it spiraled off?


About Alan Harris Born on June 20, 1943, Alan Harris was raised in Earlville, Illinois, a small farming community of about 1,400. His father Keith was a World War II B-17 pilot who for the rest of his life (he died in 1980) farmed the family acreage east of Earlville while also taking time out on weekdays to drive a school bus. Alan’s mother Margie served as a diligent housewife and mother of four children, and for many years was Head Librarian of the Earlville Public Library. Although he studied plenty of poems (often half-heartedly) in the local elementary and high school system, it wasn’t until he majored in English at Illinois State Uni-versity (minoring in trumpet and piano) that Alan began experiencing strange inner stirrings that resulted in some serious poems. His college poems seemed to spring from a new unknown place and seemed rather odd, yet were sat-isfying to write. Several were published in annual issues

(1964-1966) of ISU’s literary magazine, The Triangle. Alan and his wife Linda were married in 1966, and all through the next 35 years, new poems continued to emerge and seemed to need readers. Every year or two, between 1980 and 1995, he would assemble that interval’s crop of poems and self-publish a volume to give to family and friends. In October of 1995, having acquired some HTML skills, Alan published on the World Wide Web all of his poetry books as Collected Poems. Within a year he added four more site sections: Thinker’s Daily Ponderable (original aphorisms), Stories and Essays, Christmas Reflections, and Garden of Grasses. The latter section, originally co-edited with Lucille Younger and now co-edited with Mary Lambert, is an on-line literary collection for work contributed by other authors. In 1998 Alan’s literary collection took on its current Web address of www.alharris.com and in 2000 was given the title An Everywhere Oasis. After buying a digital camera and taking it to the forest, Alan published several photographic essays and poems which are now available in the site’s Gallery. Also offered are 76 audio poetry readings, with 20 poems being read by actor and friend Paul Meier and the others being read by Alan. New “Web-only” poetry books posted since 1995 are Writing All Over the World’s Wall, Heartclips, Knocking on the Sky, Flies on the Ceiling, Just Below Now, Carpet Flights, and a new 2002 work-in-progress entitled Fireflies Don’t Bite. Launched in December 1999 with co-editor Mary Lambert, a new anthology entitled Heartplace began accepting and publishing work from contributing authors. In 1998 Alan’s son Brian composed and performed Bunga Rucka (a recording of which is offered on the Web site), which is based upon Alan’s poem of the same title. Alan has earned his living in a variety of occupations—high school English teacher, junior high band director, piano tuner—all of these before settling into a long career of computer-related work. He retired in 1998 after 22 years’ service at Commonwealth Edison in Chicago, initially as a computer programmer, then a systems analyst, and later a computer training coordinator. For his final three years at ComEd he developed Web sites for its corporate Intranet and the Internet. Linda retired in 1999 after working for 20 years at an insurance company, but rejoined the work force in 2000 as a transcriptionist in a large medical clinic. Since retiring, Alan has been doing freelance Web design for individuals, non-profit organizations, and other non-commercial interests, as well as continuing his creative writing. Alan and Linda relocated to Tucson, Arizona in March, 2003 to live near the younger two generations of their family.

fireflies don’t bite - alan harris · fireflies don’t bite - copyright © 2004 by alan harris....

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