'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.

BENEATH

In mysterious tunnels

underneath the slabbed

concrete of Los Angeles

 

shaggy black and sleek

tan cougars roam

and slink single file

 

over boulders through

a moist semi-darkness,

 

carry their sleeping young

close and carefully

 

next to graceful  muscled

bodies.

 

These silent creatures

with penetrating eyes

 

like golden bonfires avoid humans

in the upstairs world bleached

by bright sunlight and gray

hazy smog.

 

Above, people scatter

and scurry like ants

on packed freeways,

 

trudge along straight

narrow sidewalks

like drudges and huddle

 

together as fearful refugees

on roaring commuter

trains where eyes glazed

 

by smartphone screens

blind them to see who is

here,

 

all the while unaware

of this silent animal

 

presence breathing

and glistening,

 

ever breathing,

ever listening,

 

beneath their hurried

fevered lives.

Springtime in Spring Valley (for David and Soleil)

tiny red succulent seeds burst open 

with tart and tempting juice

onto a thick carpet

of soft green grass,

while the braided grapevine births

its promise of summer fruit

as the laughing couple

surrounded by smiling

friends,

now refreshed and enlivened

by their Italian adventure

spring forth into a life

of joy and sweet

surprise
together.

(Cinco de Mayo 2014)

Silence calls,

whispers 'come home Peter,

you miss you and words

get in the way

of the Way.

Be how rivers run

and breezes blow,

such times simply

breathe here,

flow nowhere, always

moving, standing

still.'

'the bully and me'

A big bully bopped my ballooning belly,

I yelled and smeared his ghoulish goon's

face with sticky gobs of gooseberry jelly.

                            

                   Things settled down for a bit and after

a quick nap on the city park's thick grass,

we stretch and yap, decide to skip quite

fast down the broad boulevard where

in a couple of blocks we order up a sweet

side of slaw heaped next to tasty pastrami

                   on rye at the cute little deli with a bright

                 yellow door where men with cigars and

gold pinky rings wile away their dark

hours with cream sodas and kraut, they

boast and shout like thieves in the night,

while the bully and me now the best of

buddies split a sumptuous slice of creamy

                   cheesecake and one apple tart, then in

                   unison belch and with no further ado,

                    

                   over-tip Flo the short waitress from Queens

                   so gratefully.