Last Day of 2018

Three pink roses peer 
from a blue vase --

newborn stars gleaming

like strawberries dappled

in fading light, fields a'bloom
on the shore of a great lake,

or a thousand geese aloft, 
their song fruitful, sweet 
and wild.

Everything's vast and luminous
here, like the awe in wide eyes
at sunset.

          Lie With Me

in this shimmering stream of stillness

where timelessness whispers then eases

into particles of spindrift

disappearing within oceans of sunshine

that sparkle and calm under waves cascading

into pleasing scintillas of rivering rhyme.

Christmas Morning

Three suns
blaze inside
the man’s
body. Tiny
breaths enter
each fire,

almost secretly,

even his tingling
feet start
to smile
on such warm
and friendly
ground. 

Walking In November Dusk

Tonight, clouds glazed
wild and orange
by setting sun.

Rising light
of golden

half-moon 

washes 

tenderness

over all....

a shy mother gazes
in secret

at her toddling
child.

     Sunday

Three pink roses peer

from a blue vase--

newborn stars

gleaming

morning light.

      Wild Taste

A shimmering stillness emerges 

suddenly, sensuously

within day’s fretting and toil and task,

juicy marrow penetrating the bones

and breath of our lives as all glistens 

and sings in outpouring radiant quietude --

body and world bathing in calm,

a buoyant space of allowing 

without judgement or speech,

where ravens, pepper trees, rosebushes,
stones, and people strolling or sitting alone
become fabric woven from light 
into this single carpet of shine....

no separation nor need for thought to dissect

this mystery of wholeness risen from root,

nor extraneous words, well-intentioned but paltry,

this attempt to describe and to trace 
an everywhere and nowhere of place 
in lines such as these--

faintly imperfect reflections birthed 
from one wild, wholehearted taste--

this ever present, freely given,
luminous foundational grace.

          Foundational Grace

There are times when a shimmering stillness

emerges suddenly and sensuously

from within day’s fretting and toil and task

like marrow penetrating the very bones

and breath of our life;

when all glistens and sings in a quietude of aliveness--

body and world bathing in all-encompassing calm,

a buoyant space of allowing without judgement and speech,

no separation nor need for thought to dissect

this mystery of wholeness risen from root,

nor extraneous words, well-intentioned but paltry,

this attempt to describe and to trace an everywhere

but nowhere of place in lines such as these--

faint reflections of luminous foundational grace.

                         Quietude 3

Seasons arrive when poems may burrow below line

of sound or sight like a shy boy beneath the bed;

a space where language hides under thickets

of birch branches to escape the frightful dream;

lies mute and mud soaked in tangled alder twigs

for months on end. All winter embedded in quiet

until the slow uncurling into light transformed

as mushrooms from buried spores in fragrant soil

magically emerge, as birdsong dances hungry throngs

of newborn beaks.

Or as a child begins that clumsy climb towards the larger

world and his unseen place within its evolving spiral.

Now after such lengthy stillness, image, rhythm, word and

vision stretch encrusted habits, their stiff well-rested limbs,

and breathing brisk air, unfurl riches bursting loudly

into morning’s open mouth;

again, their unseen source replenished, embodied awake

to what is growing ever new from that silent past, in fullness

standing strengthened and restored.  

And like a temple bell at dawn, poets’ throats and hearts vibrate

ancient song across the forest, throughout the pulsing city:

outpouring gifts of rain and sun and phrase to kiss the flesh

of quietude, to praise with sound the living thirsting earth.

            Diane and the Smokies

Afloat in a pond of July sunshine and mesmerized

by the waterfall’s pounding cascade onto granite slabs

below, there came a day when suddenly she stood up

in the stream of all of it, locked her freckled eyes

onto spruce treetops a mile up the mountain and,

like an ecstatic animal, burst into such laughter, such

utter freedom gifted by purity of water and rock

and wind, that three hawks circling high overhead

ceased their incessant hunt for this moment, becoming

points of stillness, love’s witnesses in the great sky

of her hard-won joy.

Cozy

Up early before milkmen and crows and cars, 
before the alchemy of night becoming dawn, 

discovered the furnace missing since last year, 
a mug of hot coffee and this tattered soft bathrobe—
gift from a kind girlfriend two or three lifetimes ago. 

Nothing to do but wait here, sitting in the armchair 
of ease like a seed planted in the garden
of last night’s dreams. 

  Quietude 2

Some seasons poems

burrow 

below line of sound or sight

where language hides in mud

under thickets of birch,

tangles of alder twigs

for months on end.

All winter embedded

in quiet until the slow

uncurling into light,

as mushrooms magically

from fragrant earth

emerge, birdsong

dances hungry

throngs of newborn beaks….

Now, after the long stillness,

image, rhythm and word

stretch stiff, well rested limbs,

breathe sweet air,

unfurl riches bursting

into daytime,

their source nourished

once again, embodied

and awake to what

is ever new from silent

past restored.

  quietude

Some times poems

Seem to burrow

Below the line

Of sound or sight,

Hidden in mud

And birch twigs

For months.

Maybe embedded

All winter before

Uncurling into light,

Riches fully restored.

       Listen….

Evening opens then falls

soft as rosebushes

into the scent of dawn

where everything gleams

like seed of pearl

once hidden,

found now by divers

on her silken skin

while she quietly sleeps,

like stars at midnight

and winds of tomorrow

rustling oak leaves,

burdock and sage,

she longs for mystery

for holding, safety

and leaping,

yes, she shimmers

she glistens,

pleases

displaces,

all the while teaching

remember to rest
into listening….

Walking In November Dusk

Tonight, clouds glazed
wild and orange
by setting sun.

Rising light
of golden

half-moon washes
tenderness

over all....

a shy mother
gazes in secret

at her toddling
child.

    After The Election

The television finally is mute.

Pundits and pollsters, vanquished

And victors fade from the screen.

Somewhere in Tucson or west Texas

A cherry tree applauds in a warm

Autumn breeze and bursts its fat fruit.

The sidewalk below opens

Its arms, smiling for the first time

In weeks as purplish juice and future

Trees carried in hard tiny pits

Land on its lap. We all

Begin to breathe easy again

At such sweet saturation, this

Completely non-partisan gift.

Dream Meeting

Concrete's cracked,

ravaged rough and dreary
by roots of birch, oak 
and loss.

Grief, that weathered sidekick,

tugs my leather wristband

with her strong and hungry fingers,

then turns back to look 

through bleary eyes

as we trudge and struggle 

along these ragged sidewalks.

Yet through the leaves above
we spy the silken moon;

she shines pure grace and mercy
upon our weary stumbling,

our scuffed and burnished boots.

Dream Meeting

    Dream Meeting

Grief, that weathered sidekick,
turns back to look through bleary eyes.

Then tugs my leather wristband
with her strong and hungry fingers

as we walk, talk and
struggle along these ragged

sidewalks. Concrete's cracked,
ravaged rough and weary
by roots of birch, oak and loss.

Yet through the leaves above
we spy the silken silvery moon;

she shines pure grace and mercy
upon our stumbling, scuffed 

and burnished boots.

Dream Meeting

Grief, that weathered sidekick,
turns back to look through bleary eyes.

Then tugs my leather wristband
with her strong and hungry fingers

as we walk, talk and
struggle along these ragged

sidewalks. Concrete cracked,
ravaged rough and weary
by roots of birch, oak and loss.

And through the leaves above
we spy the silken silvery moon;

she shines pure grace and mercy
upon our scuffed stumbling boots.

Hovering Over Coffee

a warm Autumn afternoon,

when one hummingbird
sizzling, flits across 

the Starbucks' parking

lot, flirts with everything before
it first tastes then guzzles
an orange blossom

all the while hovering over hot
concrete like cupid in disguise--

and, for just a moment I am
in this breeze swimming
with enchanted eyes

through classic rock songs swirling

into a Sea of Love
and must hear your answer

now--

Hey..hey baby

I wanna know
if you'll be be my girl?

Question Over Coffee

a warm Autumn afternoon,

when one hummingbird
sizzling, flits across
the Starbucks' parking

lot, flirts with everything before
it tastes
an orange blossom

hovering over concrete,

and, for just a moment I am
in this breeze swimming

through classic rock
songs into a Sea of Love
and must know--

Hey..hey, baby, will you
be my gal?

       Beginning

Ninety strangers step slowly,

Single file, through a Rocky

Mountain meadow. It’s six

On a summer morning, sun

Not yet up over the aspens.

Like one body they heed the signal

And stand still for minutes,

Breathing it all in as moon-glow

Soaks and blesses Red Feather Peak.

After a deep marinade

In the moment’s quiet

They turn back

On this narrow path

Looping past each other

With echoes of sweet

Recognition, open

Eyes receive the welcome

Of friends and dawn’s

Unending bloom.

Presence of an Absence

Grief, three feet ahead

Of me once more,

Tugs my leather bracelet

With hungry fingers

As we walk and talk

Along the uneven

Sidewalk.

Afternoon in the Smokies

The forest awaits

Your steps, sure-footed

On stones as you cross

The stream roofed

with moss.

Then a sudden stopping

In this rain for day’s

Welcome burst on

Your upturned face.

Hear water’s plop and patter

On leaf and fern

Amidst whispers of mist

And moon as memories

Start to shimmer

And shout,

They’re strung like flags,

Bound in fog

Along an elusive

Mountain top.

A hollowed-out log
stretches into a meadow
noisy with lupine and yarrow.
A single mushroom born
from decay shines
in damp darkness.
As day awakens
a trio of squirrels scamper
inside as the dead spruce,
bathing in birdsong, Summer
heat and a battalion of ants,
smiles down in its core
as the party begins.

Golden State Awakens

This morning as we scampered

along, stepping without thinking

into early light,

the grasses were woven into sheaths

that glowed and kissed the river below

with joyful thoughts of contented times.

Breezes carried the tops of trees

whispering good fortune,

pleasing all who stroll along water’s edge

where children stumble and tumble,

laugh and shout, and hide in twos and threes

behind fat oaks; they’re holding

hands and in their glee and supple bones

know the truth of each moment’s

buoyant speech.

And the golden grasses, trustworthy

witnesses, start to sing their wild prayer

as day deepens into its dance

of color, its wild, intricate design.

Theology Lesson

A suddenness of hummingbird!

then spinning away scrawling

another name for God

'the great giving'

in airborne

invisible ink
before,

like Amelia Earhart,

drifting out

disappearing,

over the blue lake.

  Her Armpits

These twin earths,

hidden

holy lands,

where you, dear sisters of quiet,

read library books

underneath a dark

stairwell,

while in hungry times
this pilgrim's tongue 

returns like an overdue

thief night after night

to lurk and to linger

in your fields

of dank tobacco

of jasmine blooming,

listening for clues.

And your moist lips,

sweet with tea,

wordlessly moving

in secret, together.

      Next….

Sometimes the necessary

step to take next

is to stop,

not to step at all,

but to recline on cool grasses

near the lake’s edge

with eyes closed, listening

to clouds hovering,

tasting the articulate wind,

resting in earth’s cradle;

or to stand at an arched doorway

next to a tall stranger,

a woman with short brown hair,

where together in the shy heart

of stillness you face the unseen

interior of an ancient church

for as long as it takes--

until in the uncertainty of refraining,

Silence whispers her delightful language

and you both begin trembling,

footprints swept away, erased

in floodwaters of surprise

by a river of fire arising

from that which birthed this church,

rousing every cell, sinew and desire

of your bodies’ once quiescent futures

towards whatever happens next….

        Dream of Two Women

What an idiot to marry a second time

And then be told within the hour

That I don’t love her but am just here

For security! She knew and I knew she knew

Even before I knew what she said was true.

We were living outside separately and I don’t mean

Outdoors. Two countries that share

A well bordered longing whose citizens

Cannot migrate into foreign land. No undone

Demarcations here. Uniformed guards know

Their jobs.

A spade is a spade is a spade. We were digging

Stone again, a horizontal wall inches underground.

Flinted sparks, clang of iron, bleeding knuckles

Soon.

Earlier, that sudden kiss

Out of the blue with a woman I’d only just met.

Delicious, tender, a brief wet meeting in time.

Tasting each other’s soil, borders inside that moment

Easing, melting. One language spoken: lips, tongue, face

                          Eyes

The present depth our unwalled security, we become

A single gate. Who is she? In this breeze hair wisping

My hungry cheeks….

What country warms her untamed mouth?

Waterfalls and Other Gifts

It took this mug of morning coffee,
a hunk of time, and sitting quietly
in my easy chair
as another day of heat wave unfolds

to know that even the ever increasing
grumble of the garbage truck
pounding past the window

is like standing naked
underneath a waterfall, refreshed
and sparkling, encompassed

in surprise of sensual baptism
on a Summer's day....

       Animal Truth

If I were a cougar, and deep

in dark soil of night I often have been,

I would not eat a shred

of trump’s fetid carcass

face up on this log;

instead I’d watch and rest, then saunter among boulders

and oaks in the cold.

I’d leap over his body twittered with flies,

flick my tail at the layers of rot,

those infinite lies.

I’d pass by his stench no matter

the weeks since my last kill.

Let the maggots crawl out to feast,

finally give him his due

under the joyous gold light

of the moon and of all

that is true.