Melaleuca Morning 2 At the heart of it  Perhaps we're all Just tuning our  instruments, One pink sphere Surrounded By green leaves Swaying in the sun’s Music and a buzzing  Soloist returning Again and again  For gold.

Melaleuca Morning

At the heart of it all

A pink sphere

Surrounded

By green leaves

Swaying in the sun’s

Music and a single

Bee returning again

And again for gold.

  Animal Appetite

In the dream a cougar

a street gray blotted

suburban light.

Alone strange

watercolor

bricks of hunger

in her gut

sifted fog death’s mute

taunts, hidden shrieks and

bullets hunting nighttime’s cover.

Shivered human

wanting

wonders, hoping

smitten lover

stumbling

drunken

housewards,

to taste that flesh, then rip into….

         Animal Appetites

In the dream a cougar slinks

along a street blotted by gray

suburban light. Alone she slides

through this strange watercolor

with bricks of hunger in her gut

like sifted fog or muted

death, hunting nighttime’s

kindly cover, hidden barely

from shrieks and bullets,

those shivers of human

taunting.

Perhaps, she wonders. there’s still

hope for sniffing

a smitten lover drunk and

stumbling housewards,

to taste that flesh, then rip into….

                                      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 grinning at the wheel and I the big boy riding co-pilot

with great maps wrinkled 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, little sisters, brother and mom in the back seat, because

we all were too excited to sleep and so let's pile in the car and head south

through black night and the many miles into the magical city arching

through dawn as we cross the Golden Gate Bridge --

Oh! the Golden Gate, orange sun emerging strong and sudden from bluest sky over

infinite Pacific waters! and our chorus of song belting out ‘California Here We Come’

traversing the great span which seemed to represent pure joy, a kind of freedom

and play and goodness not known often enough at home —

and smiles, big smiles and laughter like a fountain bursting from us

in the packed car. Yes, I can hear these family vacations when screaming and

god-awful tensions at the dinner table where mom’s nourishing meat loaf and mashed

potatoes and our father’s blaming and mocking were on the menu and how

those screams and laments dissipated for a blessed week or two at a blessed time and I looked 
at him without fear breathing in my father's face and being, then even his eyes were soft, 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 gray unforgiving drizzle 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 some of why I shall always love the city of steep hills on the bay

with its Chinatown, beatnik bookstores, Italian coffeehouses, Nob Hill cathedral

and clanging cable cars pulling us higher and higher towards a slice of heaven

where peaceful easy jokes and crooning together as family at the table over plates

of pasta, soft Italian bread with real butter and vanilla ice cream floating in espresso,

this place where we sit in smooth wooden booths nourished together 
without threat of punishment or shame.      
                                     .

   Nothing Less

Can you, will you, step
forth from thought-stream’s

incessant distraction

to place both ears where

you hear a quiet
simmering, murmurs

of awakening from numb

slumber within this great

spacious Silence?

A shy meadow
where a limber fawn
grazes in early Autumn

nestles deep inside

the tangled bracken,
the golden forest of

your chest.

Today patiently awaits
your full unfurling,
wants nothing

less 

than your attention,

your blazing 

broken, 

wholehearted life.

August Snapshot

Decked out in red and blue shorts,
two or three boys cavort,

behind their pink skinny
legs and gesticulating arms

the bay rests, thin
as an indigo finger,

while high above
their rowdy shouts

an empty sky criss-crossed
by delicate fronds of pine
and branches of fir

eavesdrops the scene as trees
ponder in the breeze
what it is to be

young, standing in sand
with Summer's wet
barefeet, its sweet
unfettered boyhood.

Starbucks, Thursday Morning

She walks with a slight limp,
her left hip moves through life
to a different drumbeat,

still wet hair glimmering against
a gray sky, iced coffee held
intently in the right hand

as she leaves the cafe and ambles
towards her parked car and today's
work. I wonder is pain her frequent
companion?

             From Europe, With Love

I wanted something, I wanted. I could not have it.

It was as close as that pint of ice cream is right

now in the freezer, the kitchen 15 feet away.

Instantly she’d felt like home. No, her third floor

apartment on a chilled November day is what

felt like home. The small kitchen overlooking

a church and field, the warm bath after the long flight

and drive, trout with beetroot soup, cherry wine and

homemade chocolate cake for our first dinner, how tall

and pretty she was in person at the bleak airport

that reminded me of a rust-belt bus station. I thought

“I’m glad I came.”  Here, comfort and belonging were redolent.

Weeks later, buying the card downtown, I was embarrassed

standing in line with laughing school children getting

afternoon snacks, old women with meat and onions

for supper. Over the blue bridge and up the long hill one last

time, placing the card on the kitchen table, then a couple

of beers our final night while she watched patiently. Two

weeks’ later my new underwear and socks purchased

for the trip arrived in a brown envelope, a small candle

and note tucked within, something about keeping the light.

I’ll eat the Italian gelato, not sure I kept the candle.

Nearer

Tonight before dark

on my walk to the park

the air soft, mysterious and sweet

like a fountain soon vanishing.

On the way home

with our history in sight

your absence clear bright 

nearer than this risen white moon 

floating above Otay Mountain

in dusk's muffled lament.

Blessing of the New Year

May a sheen of tenderness sift through any shards of travail
or stones of disappointment as you travel your roads this year.

May a mysterious force of kindness sustain and nourish you

in ways that surprise, soften, and replenish you often in body,

mind, spirit and soul.

May the days of your being and nights of your becoming

know goodness and hope flowing from a well of strength

into the marrow of your bones this year and throughout
all your life long.

            Together

lamplight and a distant accordion

encircle six or eight old men

as day dissolves into dusk.

they sit in wheelchairs 

in a tiny park on this late 

Autumn afternoon,

suddenly a small boy bursts

into their circle giggling, ecstatic

he’s being chased by his chums.

the boys and men bathe in an orange glow

as the fragrance of music curls around them 
like smoke from a blazing campfire, 

and somehow veils of fear, of worry

open then drop as day surrenders 
its tattered flags of time, erasing decades 
of disappearance that echo and ache,

and aliveness, that good goddess, begins 
to urge and shimmer these men deep 
in their bones, 

now shining shouting like boys embraced 
in ageless beauty, in free-play emerging 
out of fertile ground.