'Wholly Communion'

( I complete, euphoric, in you forest )


Now, we breathe deep this green forest.

Oh, how this thick sweet forest
Does breathe us,

Euphoric!

WHEN HEIDI DANCES

When Heidi dances,

the space she fills

glows with sparkling

effervescence,

scintillas of spindrift

grace the room

and refresh all

who witness

such joy, herself,

rambunctious

sumptuous,

an ocean wave

born in love
and beauty,

she flows with ease,

a relaxing sea breeze,

this carefree woman

of purely loving

motion.

First Coffee

‘Two dark coffees with cream please’, I ordered at Gelato Vero coffeehouse
after staggering in that chilly early morning in mid-December many years ago.


My daughter born just hours before in the hospital up the hill. She’s so pink
and luminous underneath that little longshoreman’s knit cap and I can’t help


but smile thinking of her birth as I write this down now. I recall the young
barista pouring our coffees, one for me the other for my wife whom I left


dozing, recovering, after the birth and three or four days of sharp back pain,
that hard labor a man can never know. She introduced herself as ‘Helen’


while she poured the coffees—this gave me goosebumps then – Helen my
three hour old daughter Keighty’s middle name and my great Aunt Helen


her maverick, mischief making, story-telling, psychic namesake who loved
to feed the black crows table scraps after dinner on her Wisconsin farm


and to spin outlandish yarns about the too earnest Lutheran minister and
his lofty sermons down in the village church.


Oh my dear daughter, Keighty Helen, can you see how I glow as my grin
devours the distance between us these two plus decades later, now that we’ve


come full circle, and sit here in the morning light, together contentedly, quietly
familiar, sharing these two round and true, steaming cups of such dark rich coffee.

SUNDAY

On this Sunday morning

may you bask in the warm

comforting arms of life,

 

enfolded thus, you are

emboldened in speech

and in your reach,

 

out beyond the crumbling

stuccoed walls and two

storied suburban homes

 

to where the grand lake

lies blue, fertile and fresh,

where silver geckos scurry

 

and laze on smooth boulders

and fish swim this fall day

away in secret peccadillos,

 

while above, fishermen languish

underneath a wide cerulean sky,

 

sit so quietly here, they could

not care less about a catch,

 

they know like the fish

and the lizards

and these clouds

 

drifting free in such

spaciousness

 

where they want to

be caught.

The Map is Not the Territory, Nor the Moon the Marriage

Be leary of theory,
Love dogs, not dogma.

Trust the quiescent
Radiant moon
And the way

Its luminous crescent
Shimmers alive

The awakening stream
Of your life.

(And if fortune has deemed
that you have one, shine all
your warm love with such

joy and much play
onto the flesh
and soul

of your one
and only,
your most
lovely,
good
wife.)

on the occasion of the full moon in Pisces on my mother's birthday

La Luna Lingers,

Watches Over
All Like A She-

Wolf With Her
Cubs Or A White

Rose Soon To
Bloom.

Tuesday, Late Summer

 

Back and shoulders bask, tan

and swim in glad sun’s warming

 

oven. Backyard sizzles late morning

in August heat wave. This spindrift

 

blazes and bursts, shoots hot scintillas

above thirsty red rosebush high into

summer's cerulean sky.

'JUMP'

Would you ever just
Jump ship? Step off
This aircraft carrier,

Gun-metal gray, big
As a small planet,

So precise and on

Top of it all

Always,

And with the endless
Possibilities of mother
Ocean arising beneath

Your fearful body, fall
Into unarmored space
Towards your deeper

Destiny and one small
Tattered and scattered,

Uncertain sailboat?

I would. I have kissed this
Empty air feet-first,
Taken one crazy plunge

Down into the salty, wet
Lips, the seductive chaos
Of life herself.

Meet me here
Soon,


    if you will.

Saturday Walk at Dusk

Trail crunches

underfoot,

 

Sky darkens

slowly.

 

Breezes soothe,

whisper softly.

 

Headlights shine

brightly down

 

One quiet

road.

'Nothing Less'

Can you, will you, step
out of this incessant

thought-stream

and hear now
the simmering

murmur of silence

awakening within
the great Silence?

The shy meadow
and limber, grazing
fawn of early Autumn

nestle deep inside
the tangled bracken
and golden forest.

They patiently await
your full unfurling
here, want nothing

less than your blazing,
broken, wholehearted
life.

'Family Picnic'

She threw out her famous one-liner

at the Elks' picnic last August:

"my father's mother is my sister's

brother and don't you say 'nothing

'bout it!"

We quickly asked for seconds

of the too-mayonnaisy lukewarm

potato salad, clutched our recycled

plastic forks and looked down

at cheap watches through dew-like beads

of sweat and the grandkids' cries

like blazing sirens or raucous biting

ants storming across acres of brown grass.

'Bowl'

'Bowl'  (thanks to my fellow contemplatives in the Monday night group at the Mission)

I am a chipped and faded pottery bowl

ready to receive a handful of walnuts

from the stocky white frig or perhaps

the day old microwaved burrito smothered

in hot sauce. You on the other hand

are a silky blonde, smooth skinned beauty

queen sadly lacking a slick centerfold

in that miracle of a magazine I discovered

the summer after eighth grade when I could

feel myself grow every day. Sleep was my

favorite food then, as was all food my food.

Inches were added by Fall when high school

began and it was almost disgusting to sense

these changes in viscera, bone and muscle.

To be and become those changes so outside

my control.

Now my back aches every morning after trying

stupidly to add sprinting to the running workouts,

I hobble for morning coffee and lean in tired

towards an unsubtle brokenness, I am in need

of a tow truck more days than not, and the Subaru's

lights weirdly have a life of their own and stay on

all night unless the battery is unplugged, but Triple A

says, Premier membership or not, I've worn out my

welcome and gratitude has undeniably taken over

my life like the jagged uneven edge of the brown

bowl quiet before me.

wandering thru woods

when have you

felt in your eager

pink ears,

the softest leaf

of whispering

hope?

'tis pleasing

‘tis pleasing


to close
one’s eyes


often,


resting slow
and easy,


quietly
cozy,


(some days
dozing)


in a lazy
hammock


of the mind.

SOUTHWARDS IN SONG

did I say the time we wrote a song together in the old green ’51 Chevy driving down to
San Francisco? dad actually grinning at the wheel and I the big boy riding co-pilot
with great maps spread across my happy lap, the day unfolding like a fan of peacock
feathers through the bug stained windshield, leaving Portland at 3 or 4 in the morning


because we all were too excited to sleep and so let's pile in the car and head south
through the dark night and the many miles into the magical beautiful arching city
and the Golden Gate---


Oh! the Golden Gate, you orange sun emerging strong and sudden from bluest sky
over infinite waters! and our chorus of song belting out ‘California Here We Come’
crossing the great bridge which seemed to represent happiness or a kind of freedom
not known at home—


and smiles, there were true smiles and laughter spontaneous like a fountain bursting
from us then in the packed car. yes we had these family vacation times when the
screaming and god-awful tensions of sad desultory lamentations at home dissipated


for a blessed week or two at a blessed time and I looked at him soft and breathed in my
father's face and being, then even his eyes were soft too, he was a good and safe man
for this while who loved me and his life, which was not always the case back north


in the grim unforgiving rain and the day to day of worry and wear and shoes left out on
living room floors by seven year old ungrateful bastards, this may tell why I shall always
love the city of steep hills on the bay with its Chinatown, beatnik bookstores, Italian


coffeehouses and romantic cable cars pulling us higher and higher towards a slice of
heaven where ease and joy and even singing at the table over pasta and bread with real
butter in the comforting smooth wooden booths of North Beach prevail without threat of
punishment or shame.

Halfway Up the Canyon (October 1977)

The stranger and I sit in haunting stillness.
We are weary and alert here, held within
the immense womb of the Grand Canyon.


Today we hiked halfway up from the river at
its bottom where I’d camped after a long day
of hot steep descent on the South Kaibab trail.


Now, as the vastness beneath begins to transform
in the purplish inky light of deepening dusk,
an immense explosion bursts through this quiet


from high above us and echoes through miles
of empty space to pierce the early evening.


Two male bighorn sheep face to face on the narrow
cliff crash their essential weapons, curved horns
of thick animal bone like great warrior-gods


fighting for their lives and for a beguiling goddess
as she awaits the bloodied victor in a nearby cave.


Astonished and entranced we reverently welcome
this miracle of the wild, when suddenly a wind
crashes down these majestic cliffs onto our amazed


and weary bodies, blows off the stranger’s wide
brimmed hat, and sends it fast and far into the
darkening night towards the canyon’s endless


open arms where our unseen futures, hidden
in plain sight, silently await with wryly gracious
knowing smiles.

I AM,satisfied

I AM,

satisfied.

rain falls

on roofs

somewhere

I am sure,

traffic moves

and purrs

down the

nearby street.

war rages

in too many

places now,

burns children

and old men,

even crashes

into hospitals,

seems never-ending.

Still, sitting

here alone

on a brown sofa

in morning light--

I AM,

satisfied.

'tis pleasing

'tis pleasing
 to close
 
one's eyes
often, resting


easy

 
in a lazy
hammock


of the mind.

'Re-membering A Return'

Ocean shimmers out

beyond the buoys.

 

Daylight bends back

towards tomorrow.

 

Maybe rain will really fall

here one day in this town

 

of deserts and shoppers

blinded by the unrelenting

sun;

 

and then you might

return with a bracelet

 

of opulent green jade

on your right wrist

 

and a basket

of surprise,

 

wet and spiced

on your tan

pungent back.

 

Then the ocean’s shimmering

will make sense again. Then hope

 

shall rise like a dancer drunk

from joy and sparkling wine,

 

her red dress glowing hot

at a raucous gypsy wedding.

 

And the New Orleans' funeral marchers

swagger single file down Bourbon Street

 

towards the broad muddy river

on a bright day glimmering;

 

they grin together in wondrous
cacophony with father death,

 

they are soaked in salt

and swelter.

 

Their music has never been

so plaintive,

so like a human animal,
being.

PARTNERS IN CRIME

 

He stole the angular tan rock

shaped like a miniature Alamo

from the nearby mountain.

 

It languishes, this kind

patriarch, with arms

that spread  above

the surprising lake

 

in this parched and thirsty

micro-climate close to

the Mexican border.

 

Transports it to his suburban home

in the aging green Subaru Forester,

plunks it outside in the dirt

 

of the narrow rectangular back yard

where it now shares morning’s gold

gleam and glint of sunlight

 

 with the blue, red and seafoam

fading seahorse painting,

 

 a true fish out of water,

 

this his signature work, his pride and joy

pilfered straight from his happiest dream

 

of a shared picnic table, cerulean skies,

greenest grass and flying ocean creatures

more than twenty years’ ago.

 

He awakened, wrapped

in pure laughter, the dream

 

and he thick as blundering

thieves, that fine bright day.

 

Yes, plunder does have

its own rewards.

Halfway Up the Canyon (October 1977)

The stranger and I sit in

a haunting stillness. We

 

are weary and alert here,

 

held within the immense

womb of the Grand Canyon.

 

Today I hiked halfway up

from the river at its bottom

 

where I camped last night

after a long day of hot

steep descent.

 

In the spreading purplish

inky light of dusk

 

from high above us,

immense explosions

 

burst through this quiet,

and echo through miles

 

of empty space to pierce

the early evening.

 

Two male bighorn sheep

face to face on the narrow

 

cliff crash their essential

weapons, curving horns

 

of thick animal bone

into one another,

 

 

great gods fighting for life

and the beguiling goddess

 

as she awaits the victor

in a nearby cave.

 

Astonished and entranced

we reverently welcome

such a miracle of the wild

 

when suddenly a wind

from nowhere crashes

 

down these majestic cliffs

onto our amazed and

weary bodies,

 

blows off the stranger’s

wide brimmed hat,

 

and sends it fast and far

into the darkening night

 

and the canyon’s open-

armed endlessness,

 

where our unseen futures,

hidden in plain sight,

 

await with wryly gracious,

knowing smiles.

Runner's Song

 

Feet plod and pound

the hot gravel trail,

 

streams of sweat drip

down my face,

 

breath deepens to keep

up an unforgiving pace,

 

as thoughts  of quitting

pierce and slow my mind.

 

One step after another

keeps me moving steady

 

through the thick, awful

heat. Tired and weak I stay

 

quite present with cheerful

grins chosen at the ready,

 

in quiet thanks to myself

immersed in this heady

 

joy of running, once again

I’ve outraced such tempting

 

limits, to now rest easy

as I transcend defeat.

‘Deep Within’

 

Deep within the bleakest blackest night

I stir awake, dazed from murky slumber

 

in my lonely bed, hours before the warming

orange of sunrise through the eastern window,

 

and then as eyes slowly clear from dreamtime’s

gauzy world, I gaze upon you my shadow self

 

standing tall and sure, you shine and smile  

in the open doorway, beckoning me to trust

 

this new, unknown frontier, from whence

you have arrived.

'An Argument for Silence'

 

Could it be that the most truly

vital parts of life cannot be put

into words rightly?

 

Neither writing nor talk,

no matter how eloquent
or poetic might not be
adequate to the task.

 

That waterfall up ahead through

the tall pungent pines in all its

sprawl and plunging froth, its

 

strident wild roar, nature's

wet and freshest dancer, is

not the waterfall itself.

Ask it who it is.

Listen for the answer.

 

The finger pointing at the moon

is not the crescent moon, nor

the precious single finger,

and that’s the point,

or is it?

YARD WORK

Yesterday, I trimmed the bushes

in my front yard. They’d grown

 

gangly, odd angled,

and yes, a bit forlorn.

 

Today, I look out the window,

pleased by their newfound

 

shapeliness, this green easy

growth, the way their

leafiness greets

 

the morning sun and I

thank myself

for doing so.

 

Now, I type these few words

onto a blank reflecting screen,

 

wondering back and forth,

tomorrow, who knows,

 

(do you?)

 

what might

or not,

 

transpire?

peregrino

Tired feet meet solid

rock-strewn ground,

 

thick shrubs obscure

blue sky,

 

rhythmic breath carries

you slow

 
step

by

step,

 

a map-less path beckons ahead.