UNCLE OTAY

There he stands across the two lane road beyond the single ancient oak tree,  

and high above, portly yet well-muscled, avuncular and verdant under April’s ambivalent skies, rain one day, golden sunshine the next. He welcomes us

like a couple of errant nephews truant from junior high and eager to try out

a new slingshot and these cheap binoculars under the friendly gaze

of Uncle Otay, and what’s best, without threat of stifling rules or stern adult oversight.

Whispering with the wind down the canyon to our right, we hear his only mandate 

is to be safe, to wander freely, to take some chances when he might not be looking, 

to stick together here in his magic garden of meadowlarks, swirling hawks, Tecate cypress spilling down distant ravines, cougar prints embedded in mud, the scary 

but exciting possibility of rattlesnakes lurking now that weather is warming, wildflowers bursting like fireworks everywhere you look and huge hunks of granite guiding a secret waterfall as it tumbles wildly, noisily into a deep chasm engraved 

into Uncle’s almost infinite depths. And he wishes us to be enchanted often in our wandering.

Many hours later and after wolfing down cheese sandwiches and handfuls

of cashews sprinkled with raisins, we rest on warm boulders overlooking

the rushing stream beneath and quietly ponder this long day of roaming

with all senses deliciously ablaze. Now Uncle asks us only to thank the many 

denizens of his kingdom for graciously accepting our presence here and to please close the front door quietly as we step off his green slopes away from the thick meadows, these towering stacks of gray rocks and his uncanny calm, his soothing silence, past the gnarled leafy oak tree here at his feet and into our waiting car parked along the two lane road.

Removing our boots and packs but not our joy nor our well-nourished hearts,

our shimmering sturdy bodies weary, ready for home, we look back and up

once more and in the settling light of dusk we just make out our Uncle’s wink,

his easy smile, as growing darkness kisses his balding crown.

Dawning Truth

A steering wheel,

Two hands gloved in

Translucent blue

Plastic, a smattering

Of cars on this usually

Busy road near home

As the NPR announcer chatters,

Relaying the latest

About testing and spread

And PPE’s, and the knowing

Just beneath conscious thought,

As the orange sun rises once again

Over the great steady

Mountain on another morning

Of this day somewhere mid-week, mid-

Spring, that nobody,

Nobody now, not ever,

is actually in control.

The Way to Do Is to Be  (Lao-Tzu)

Silence below
silence, ground

beneath ground,
sky beyond
sky,

stream under
the stream,

feet on earth,
eyes upwards,

ears gently
placed

in the heart
of the heart,

like a toddling
child, fumbling

stumbling treading
water,

frequently falling,
almost drowning,
sometimes flowing,

stopping to breathe
easy, and yes, again
to start,

we learn this strange,
hard-won and wondrous
living art,

this eventual easing
into true seeing,

this believing 
in the seed
of all being....

   Across 

There is in-between

brain    and      belly

a chasm surely 

calling.  

If across you leap,

you shall learn

if space and air

can hold you. 

Until upon the further

shore, Mother Earth 

arising smiling

welcomes 

your courageous 

foolish feet, this

passion for endless 

scrawling..

now wholeheartedly 
landed on holy ground
your laughter echoes
across all rifts

announcing to animals
beyond and galaxies 
on high within

tongue and gut,

earth and vision, finally 

are complete. 

      Was

morning birdsong

coffee on the couch

dream-sharing

    with her

     Nourish

The mountain breathes 

Stillness onto morning 

Pours golden light 

Like a Sun

Into astonished 

Happy eyes 

TS Eliot After Listening To Billy Collins 
And A Day On Otay Mountain 

April is the plumpest month

When the nearby mountain 

Puts on pounds and pounds

Of wildflowers bingeing in every color

While wayward waterfalls,

Britches burst from rain 

And Prufrocked boulders,

Intoxicate this old grinning poet 

Waddling, wandering, wondering
What’s for supper and, of course
Dessert, over such fat 

And happy ground. 

                                              UNCLE OTAY

There he stood across the two lane road and high above, portly yet well-muscled, avuncular and decidedly verdant under April’s ambivalent skies, rain one day

and golden sunshine the next. We were welcomed like a couple of errant nephews truant from school and eager to try out a new slingshot or cheap binoculars under 

the friendly gaze of uncle mountain without the threat of stifling rules or stern adult oversight. His only mandate was to be safe, to wander freely, to take some chances when he might not be looking, to stick together here in his magic garden 

of meadowlarks, swirling hawks, Tecate cypress spilling down distant ravines, cougar prints embedded in mud, the scary but exciting possibility of rattlesnakes lurking now that weather is warming, wildflowers bursting like fireworks everywhere you look 

and huge hunks of granite guiding a secret waterfall as it tumbled wildly, noisily into 

a deep chasm engraved into uncle’s almost infinite depths. And to be enchanted often in our wandering.

After roaming with all senses deliciously ablaze all day he asked us only to thank

the many denizens of his kingdom for graciously accepting our presence here

and to please close the front door quietly as we stepped off his green slopes away 

from silent meadows, stacks of boulders and his uncanny calm, his soothing quiet 

and into our waiting car parked along the two lane road. Removing our boots

and packs but not our joy, our well nourished hearts, our shimmering sturdy bodies weary, ready now for rest, we looked back and up once more and in the settling light 

of dusk we could just make out our uncle’s wink, his easy smile as growing darkness kissed his balding crown.

 Would She?

If she were a star

would she spin wild

and strong 

through a transparent cosmos 

with her twin

or float alone

without turning for eons 

as slowly she burns

and yearns to be seen

by a boy with a crewcut,

his telescope aimed high

beyond blue-bordered sky?

Better Than A Dream and Better Than Netflix 

I want to drop

to my knees 

in red dirt,

kiss a great boulder 

at the base

of Otay Mountain

and wonder

where in this dome

overhead two hawks

might reappear

and if today

the waterfall 

crashes like thunder

baptizing a hidden

chasm waiting 

in silence below....

Helping others
   We help
      Ourselves
Because in truth
      Herself
   We are
     The others....

Stay- at- Home, Homecoming

Each irregular fragment

of these poets' worn and weary 
stranded souls, these pilgrims'

stained and strained-with-worry faces, 
stands up, stays put and still for long 
minutes, then slowly stretches stiff limbs, 
surrenders tense necks in late-day’s rising dusk 
as bodies start to awaken, tenuously
at first, now swaying with a bevy 
of red-wing blackbirds scattering together 
spilling like gleeful molecules 
onto the back of the sky 
and with those rippling breezes 
jitterbugging roundly, yes a concentric ring
of interdependence skims across 
the lake's silver skin towards the green mountain, 
eyes bright minds shimmering here
within this gathering fountain and 
wordless homecoming, 
yes here at reality's humble base, 
where everything beautiful 
and broken belongs.