Dream Sing

If I could speak a thousand languages

which would I choose sing my dreams to you?

Would I use the elegant language of touch,

the dialect of soft caress

perhaps speaking in tongues

what words would my tongue speak?

Warmth

Passion

Love

Desire

Gently following the line of your body

what words would I breathe into your skin?

what words lie waiting to be born?

-Kevin Slick

A Fair Range of Colors

I can see a patch of trees

Outside

Now

That offers a fair range of autumn colors

And that’s okay

I don’t need the most brilliant display of colors I can imagine

Because

I can imagine.

Autumn lives in my imagination as much as on the calendar.

The sight of a few golden leaves on their way down

Riding gravity’s pull with a deep green backdrop

is quite enough

To open the door to every autumn in my mind.

A thousand colors, a million cold mornings and fallen leaves

All alive in my mind

And I can see it clearly

As clearly as anything outside today.

-Kevin Slick

Sandlot

Flat rough field

Flat enough,

Just barely flat enough

To run without too much trouble

Wheeling around the base paths or chasing

Wild hop grounders

That danced with infield rocks.

Flat rough field

Full of heroes

Fifteen or so legends

In fifteen or so minds

Whose sandlot deeds became mythic

With endless re-telling from imaginary broadcasters.

Flat rough field

Sweat covered midmornings

And dusty late afternoons

Sweltering days

Frozen in time

Rippling heat figures and late day shadows

With eyes forever on the ball

Bats dented and splintered swinging through the slow summer air

Powered by late afternoon weary arms

Held by hands still stinging from last inning’s line drive

Late dusty shadows

Called by distant voices to dinner

Scattering

Drifting in lines that are rarely ever straight for home.

February 11

February 11, 1999

Out in the woods there are tangles of leaves and branches.  Leaves and twigs and bits of bark and dried arching vines.  Under the dry, crispy top, the leaves are moldy and deep brown.  Below that, they fade into the dirt.  There is a layer below that crispy surface where leaf and earth meet.  Where the leaf, formerly moving high in the breeze fades, drifts, absorbs, changes, gives itself to the earth.  And the solid ground becomes a wild array of small particles- dirt, mold, decaying matter, the earth opens up to receive the air and the riders of the air. 

The first greens of the season are here- creepers that don’t know February from March, they only know warm and cold.  This sunny early spring day just happened to come in winter.  Up above me a bird is making a scratching whining noise, now breaking into something of a cheeping, clucking sound.  The breeze is rattling the small green plants that have pushed up through the leaf packed surface and it brings enough of a chill to say “winter” but then it grows weary and rests.  The eternal sun is waiting and breathing

“warmth”.

Long fallen branches are fading away.  Crumbling wood that flakes off into the ground and it soon indistinguishable from decaying leaves, moldy, beautiful dirt.  All around these woods dying and birthing, one fading into the next. 

These tangled woods and deep underbrush are so beautiful.

This twisted laurel will always live in my heart.

Blessed Dust

Blessed dust

Blessed street, gravel and lamp post

Blessed noise from the dust in your heart

Blessed is the heart of dust

Clinging to your footsteps

Perfect, fine dust that gathered and waited between the sections of sidewalk

Of home.

Green roads leading home

Time travels into my heart

Blessed dust rattles through the wind

The wind of November

Wind at night

Torn sideways like a fragile corn plant

Formless air in the midday heat

Air that begins to ripple

Convulsing with beauty

Flickering light

Candle

Television

Out on the fields of home

The dance of a thousand grey shadows

On the floor of the forest

The dance of a thousand eyes

Touching the beautiful sky

Touching the beautiful screen

A photographed undeveloped

Spoken

Unspoken

She is blessed

With dust on her hands and feet

Blessed dust that falls gently from her eyes

And welcomes me home.

-Kevin Slick

This Bright Wind

This bright wind,

that’s how it is.

This  quick, cold air

yes,  that’s how it is.

As if that small patch of trees

might grow out of my memories

and fill the world around me,

that’s how it is.

Pennsylvania brown, grey-green

thin winter branches

twisting

wrapping

a universe in their arms

that’s the way

just like that.

And I would be forever

walking quietly through those woods

lightfoot

mysterious walker through the trees

where no one can hear me

as I am invisible

that’s how it is

yes, it’s just that way

as the bright wind weaves itself into

grey cloudy forests deep in the afternoon

as that bright grey wind follows me in the forever afternoon

and I find myself searching for this forever afternoon

in that stillness between day and night

In between time

when I practiced walking

quiet and invisible

listening

forever 

-Kevin Slick

This Afternoon

This afternoon

sunlight crawls through the air

anyway it can,

knowing that winter will hide it’s glow for a season.

Sunlight sinks deep

and I believe I can see trees

pulling the warmth into their bark

and into their branches

as if

to hold it

remembering

all winter long.

-Kevin Slick

Young God

Young primitive god

Maker of rock

Orange

Heated light

Some young primitive god

Made this land

Joyful and wild

Free

Free

These colors, green

Orange and

Red

Free

All alone they are

Bound together they are

Smooth strings tied

Together

Beautiful

-Kevin Slick

This is the Moment

There were at least a thousand different moments that day

August 13^th 1971, my thirteenth birthday.

It’s not the long line of baseball fans

on a hot afternoon

winding their way up the ramps

circling Three Rivers Stadium like a python preparing for dinner.

It’s not the grey concrete walkway

speckled and spattered with

chewing gum

cigarette butts

beer stains

and something that might have been food.

Not even the sudden rush of fans pushing together

as the clubhouse door swung open

and like baseball cards come to life,

two Pirates emerged to sign autographs.

It might have been the face

of Roberto Clemente

granite features

with blazing eyes that met my own for an eternal moment

but then

maybe not even that.

It was, however,

the feeling of my feet leaving the floor

and my father’s hands

as he lifted me above the crowd

and his voice

younger than I had ever heard

saying

“There he is!, the great one!”

That was the moment.

That is the moment.

- Kevin Slick

The Ink is Fading

Still There

The ink is fading

after years in the light

but it’s

still there

still visible

still “Mateo Alou”

ball point pen on baseball

and I am

still there

hanging onto the side of the team bus,

looking through the window

still there

my father holding me up for a better view

of my hero signing my birthday baseball

still there

in the brilliant August sunlight

never fading

-Kevin Slick

Solstice Moon

My heartbeat moves along following by breath

the sound of the train on the rails

the rattle and hum of steel on steel.

And there to the left is a full moon

rising over the Alps

on this solstice night.

Full moon solstice

once in a hundred years they say.

Blue, grey warm evening

as the light climbs the mountains

I only know that she is next to me

only her breath

only her heartbeat

the moon

the mountains

the rhythm of the train

and only her heartbeat,

her heartbeat is all there is

all I know

all I need tonight.

 -Kevin Slick

Portland Afternoon

Ocean

sharp bluffs packed with tall pines

the long, flat expanse

the endless rolling roar of waves

and wind

fine, grey, powder sand

raked by wind

constant wind

kites dancing

beach wanderers

and ocean spray

brave swimmers gallop into the water

and my face feels the ocean

I can taste the ocean through my skin.

-Kevin Slick

Patti at the Troc 12/6

Winter warm air, rain that should be snow wanders along Arch Street gathering light and laying it across the pavement/  Slow breathing, vibrating air filling the cavern space.  Gathering moving swirling, the air wraps a slow dance around a heartbeat.

Many hearts

one heartbeat.

Gathering darkness, look inside.  Stillness erupts into life.  Spirits called, spirits answer and gather themselves inside us, dancing to the heartbeat, slow enough to wander lonesome.

Lonesome cry, the blessed dust rising from ancient radios.  One foot forward, balanced on the bridge, this bridge we cross tonight.  Strong enough? Invisible bridge, crossing spirits, gathering passion, sonic harvest, the fields are heavy as wind brings release.

Running

walking

calling

spirits, we shall live again!

Holy ghost sweating, breathing hard

call on those holy fighting ghosts

revolutionary dreamers

dancing barefoot to the slow rising wave

one wave

a million waves

rise and fall

night and day

and lovers gripped by slow burning, consuming lust, hot fire, sonic lust, the sound of life

the hot pulse of night passion

quick torrent

split second passion burn

Catch me now!

Take me now!

Look fast! A million brilliant stars calling home the storm

holding the hurricane in your arms

air surrounding

air inside us

breathing

hard

pulsing

moving us together

fountains rising

lightning storms from the desert flash the city

walking in the footsteps of revolution

Hallelujah!

The gospel ship sets sail

and we whirl and dance in our power

amazed at the visions

amazed at the power we create and share

and then,

breathe again

into the night

the warm December air, a million streetlights like stars all along Arch Street.

-Kevin Slick

October, Massachusetts Trees

There is no good way to explain the colors

of these trees today.

You can only say beautiful

so many ways.

You can only repeat the word

endlessly

and still you haven’t spoken the light

the sky between branches

the touch of autumn

as it breathes on your face

the fluttering breeze

and falling leaves

falling leaves.

October Light

October light

warm light

October sunlight

reflecting like a million mirrors

yellow, red, orange

but not only these,

a million shades of green also

and brown

and a million colors of the sun.

Autumn is dry and sweet spice

dry leaves fluttering

and stacked crispy

like a jagged carpet

crackling underfoot.

Sweet, the taste of apples

hickory spiced air

the deep, rich smell of decay

the earth receiving and

preparing to be born again

-Kevin Slick 

Opening

The opening of a river

One stone sends circles to the ocean

One word goes tumbling across the space

And all these words

Look like lines on paper

All these words

Look like thoughts I think

-Kevin Slick

Shadow

In the shadow of a pine

I rest my eyes,

rest my soul

inside you

where you may save my soul

like a treasure.

In the sparkle of light

in winter

like lace

draped upon pines

I wander

and follow the pattern

to the brilliant grey, white overhead

where the black ink branches fade

and disappear.

Stand for a moment

stand for a dreaming moment to feel the earth

to make the earth solid

beneath me

around me

to surround me.

-Kevin Slick

The Wind Howl

Hear the wind howl

long, long howling stretching sound

that sings through the trees

till it whistles through our veins.

Hear the wind slide

roll, slip and spread itself

thin

over the landscape.

On this evening of the storm

I think of well known fields

and see myself

walking there

with stories in hand.

I hear the rain outside

remembering a heartbeat

the soft, warm candlelight

the soft, warm night

gathers me

inside to tell of tomorrow.

To talk of where the daylight will break,

where the sun will rise

what fields I will walk through

where I will harvest words

and what will be the sound of the wind.

Ashes

I looked outside my window

November sunrise

sharply painting the air

clear and bright.

The wind walks,

doesn’t run through the yard.

It opens and folds itself into the growing forest.

There are more leaves on the ground

than on the trees

and so that fluttering dance is rare

each one is spotlighted in the autumn air

a dried soul dance

riding the faint touch of wind

into eternity

joining the song of the earth

the slow dreaming song of decay

and merging

to melt into the ground

to spin inside the earth

speaking the language of ground

the dreaming of oceans

wrapping around the earth

and one leaf merging into the earth

one leaf

one earth

the same.

It was eighty five years ago today

that Joe Hill died

killed by his brothers

murdered by his country.

His ashes floated

on a slight autumn breeze

through most

every country

in the world

and every state in the union

save one

(Where no man should be found dead, said he)

One man

merging with the good earth

air

and sky of a thousand countries

of a million dreams

one earth

one man

the same

his words moving beyond the ashes of his used up form

growing, now planted

solid and slow

in the endless circle of life

born and reborn

growing

one leaf, endless

one dream, slowly growing always

Joe Hill

planted on the wind

that covers the earth

His eyes looking back from a million fellow travelers.

-Kevin Slick

Maker of Rock

Young primitive god

First steps

Unsure

Still bold

Hand moves across the sky

Quickly

Joyful and wild

Maker of rock

Filled with orange heated light

Young primitive god

Walking

Wild footfalls

Stumbling

Dancing across the horizon

Footprint canyons

Wild paint splashes called horizon

Young primitive god

Left the secret of creation planted in this land

Where I can breathe it

-Kevin Slick

There Was This Sound

There was this sound

and I don’t know if you heard it

but it came from somewhere close by

and it sounded like the voice of a friend

and yet there was something new

and different

and strange

yes,

strange enough to make you stop

strange enough to make me stop

and listen

and the sound was awake

or perhaps the sound of awakening

and I don’t know if you heard it,

but I’m telling you this

because I want to remember

that sound

and I want breathe that sound

because my heartbeat has found a partner

in that sound.

-Kevin Slick

Thanksgiving

There is a slow thick sky today

a slow

soft

dark grey light

on Thanksgiving morning

I came home to watch the silken sky

open around trees kept company by a few stubborn leaves, now rich brown like old leather.  I came home for this slow moving daylight that will wait outside my window

quietly lighting the room with a grey light, a slow light, a dream light.  And in that soft light I’ll take down books from the shelves and read words I’ve read a million times and want to read a million more.  And in the evening the sharp black lines of trees will begin to sink into the sky as it looses it’s day color and fades away.  The woods will be swallowed in steps too small to measure and the trees in the front yard will disappear and someone will say “Another day gone” and that’s why I came home, for another day.

For time passing

for slow thick skies 

that move through branches on trees

I’ve seen a million times

and want to see a million more.

-Kevin Slick

Morning Mountains

The morning mountains

lifting soft shadows

to the sky

as sunrise

pulls back the cover of darkness

and what is

ever changing

and what is

eternal

and what is

newly born

and what seems to be

hidden

is waiting

is changing

is forever

and I

watching

remember and

discover

what is

ever changing

and what is

eternal

and what is

newly born

and what is

earth

and what is

sky

and what is

now and forever

and what I am

-Kevin Slick

Desert Song

Desert song

The notes are so slow

they enter in dreams only

and I listen through my fingers

The rhythm of the ground

sifting between my hands

I am listening with my skin

to the cool touch of shadow in a deep canyon

Desert song

like waves of sound

riding the stone ridge of the San Rafael Swell

Desert song

an echo

a counter rhythm for my heartbeat

in that place where my footprints disappear

I listen for the harmony

I taste the melody in the air

In this place I hear my sound join the slow, ancient sound

I am one string on a violin

In that moment I am one note in a symphony

In that moment I am the most important sound in the universe

In that moment I am one sound in a thousand others

merging, invisible, in a slowly changing chord

a wave like any other

so beautiful on the sea

perfect

fleeting

eternal

Desert song

-Kevin Slick

A Quick Sparkling

A quick sparkling of colors in the wind

A thousand

frightened

dancing

leaves

waiting in the moment of change

filling themselves with the energy of change

the moment of forgotten time

running

waiting

October

-Kevin Slick

Southern Utah Journal

This is my cathedral

Wide

Beautiful

Wild

This is my dream land

visited by spirit gods long gone

and yet to be

There is no time

No passing of time

There is only a sound

and no sound

in this land, silence is a sound

in this land there is stillness and power

in this land the patterns of sky and rock are joined

forever

My eyes walk high ridges

cutting through ageless stone

my eyes walk with the older spirits

and we follow the same patterns

of rising stars

of rock edges against sky

My cathedral

god mountains rising

saints and angles towering

watching

My cathedral

beyond dreams

only in dreams

There is no time

time has been laid aside

forgotten by these solid living gods

who spread dreams across the ages

one slow life dream

one slow word spoken

forever

-Kevin Slick

Turning to Sunlight

A few leaves come dancing down to the desert floor

Mirrors of the cottonwood leaves still above

Still airborne

Still clinging to the tree

Whispering

Murmuring

In the constant breath of the canyon

Where the water ripples,

Pushes and rumbles

The leaves lay a soft noise on top of it all

Each one turning to the sunlight

To dark

To light

To shadow

Two sides in constant motion

-Kevin Slick

Jerry (for JG)

I saw your hair on fire

September 1987 in Philadelphia

At least it looked that way to me.

Long, white and flowing under blinding yellow lights

Headlights

Northbound train

River of air, liquid melody

I’m turning my face toward the sun

Covered in dew at the first light of morning

The circle of days

The circle of sound

Turning

Sunlight turning

The sun wraps around my face today

And burns me close to your heartbeat

I still hear that

I pray to always feel that.

-Kevin Slick

Lingering October

Lingering October

The leaves glow warm yellow

Orange, red and purple.

The brisk morning air

and damp moldy smell of  fallen leaves

disappearing into the earth is sweet

because it mixes with leather and horsehide.

We live in a balanced universe

A perfect world

Because there is baseball in October.

We have a whole year to think about this world

This universe,

To solve the great mysteries

But in October

As autumn firmly plants itself in the backyard

There is still summer

In perfect balance

There is baseball in October.

-Kevin Slick

Meg Asked Me

Meg asked me to help her make a crown out of paper.

Someone said

“Oh, are you a princess?”

“No” she said

“I just like to wear crowns"

-Kevin Slick 

Radio Nights

The world arrived through a two-inch speaker.  A small crack, a doorway opening to a mysterious world outside, somewhere outside, somewhere there were people talking to me.  The whisper voices of static in tempo with the crickets outside my window on a summer night.  This was my bridge, a secret passage to another world at night.  I was no longer in a small town in a small room.  I was riding somewhere on those sounds, crackling, distant and magic.  Somehow the distance made the magic more powerful.  Those sounds were traveling through the air, into space, forever, magic.  And I could hold it all in my hand.

I grew up following magic voices, always from somewhere.  Somewhere else.

Filtered through space, cradled by train whistles, highways humming and night birds calling.  Magic voices pulled down to earth with each one carrying the tantalizing map to somewhere, somewhere beyond here. 

-Kevin Slick