Little Brother

Even a pandemonium of crows

erupting from morning's quiet

cannot disturb this clear pool

of sky rippling gently

across memories of you Chris,

wearing your new crewcut

courtesy of our pops' barber clippers

on summertime's patio

and grinning through corncob

teeth as you dip your whole fist

into the cardboard box of Wheat Thins

like cherished treasure here 

in our postage-stamp backyard

blooming with dad's roses and mom's 

clothesline and that wall of dusty ivy pilfered 

from Jefferson's home high on a hill

in a place you'll never visit 

called Monticello.

Pieces and Holes

To make peace with the hole

we believe death creates

we must,

(yes, must)

make whole these pieces

our life does take.

A Wish For You

May the white rose

of your fragrant

body sleeping

dissolve moonbeams

in the lake

of tonight's sacred

dreamscape.

Wandering Boy

three wet stones in the lad's pants pocket borne home like a secret between two chums, two forever treasured in his desk drawer, the desk his dad commissioned a carpenter to build for him alone, and the shiny oval jasper carefully placed here on an upstairs windowsill where wonder and wandering meet, these mottled and motley, silent friends.

 OH WILD LIFE

Oh Wild Life,

please take me

as your lover.

I am clumsy, yet

for your lessons

I do hunger.

Undomesticate

these tired bones

and melt the strings

of efficient habit

that entrap

my tender

heart

and have bound

my soul to roads

of ruts and dust

where sister

death herself

does not exist

and my feet

forget to touch

blessings freely

rendered here

on such green

and holy ground.

Gray

a somber quilt is this Irish

sky, quiet comforter you

are far from me, from

perfect far and yet

your promise

of wetness streaming

everything green

brings smiling

to these tired eyes,

gray warmth 

beaming

against the chill

of far too many

leavings.

 How I Wish To Live

 

Bathing daily in birdsong

Seen by stones wherever they find me

Cherishing my children, respecting their gifts and listening well

Laughing with friends, holding them close

Lavished with skies, blue and gray-clouded

Soaking up storms showering my bones

Smiling with Spring’s cobalt-bloomed iris

Amazed by my grandchildren, chasing and giggling, kissing their cheeks

Received by the substance of Silence, the givens of living

Awakened by a lemon tree bursting plump fruit

Penetrated often by beauty, by the wonder of love

Contented with the ache of my heart’s longings

Relishing breath and body’s great wisdom

Sitting still as a stone in precious morning

Satiated and nourished by sureness of feet on the trail ahead

Open-mouthed in delight when hummingbirds appear

Befriending spaciousness of simple unknowing

Laying down in meadows on thick grasses often

Belonging to life like the oak, the hawk and the toddler, 

the cougar and boulder on the broad mountain

Enfolding my lover in her every weather

Bathing in birdsong, again and again

REALITY'S ROOTS

 Entangling up

and tangled

    down

slowly we learn

that all now

    all here

is hallowed

ground....

The Return

I unhid the golden

star so bright

inside. Stood still

right here, then felt

the whispered beckoning

of time and tide

to river forth

through forests

of birch and oak,

over great boulders

of granite and shale,

across what was

and is and ever

shall be.

The light within

shall shine me

home.

This light within

is true home....

Morning's Tree

 Black muscular

branches and trunk

speak what's thick

and bold.

Leaves are coins

that encircle

the dawn

with shimmering

songs of gold.

Wandering In Wild Prayer

Rain wheels off the great mountain,

spins in dervish gusts at canyon's

bouldered mouth, drawing me

upwards in this gnarled streambed

through stands of pungent juniper

and bushy poison sumac bent

by potent breezes. With a heavy

hunk of granite in my left hand

and this stout walking stick

in my right, I wander higher,

further into a moist aloneness

where edgy thoughts of a silent

cougar stalking and such joyous

exploring are dancing naked,

really whooping it up

to the wind's rhythm 

in my soaking wet, 

wild mind.

9 O'Clock Mass

The priest grouches

at a skinny altar boy

for screwing up

the Latin response.

The old man's reddening cheeks 

and boozy breath

weave into his mumbled

praying over the sacred

host while the blonde kid

in the 14th pew yanks

a pair of pink fancypants

from her shiny patent leather

purse, holding the cotton

underwear above her curls 

to show the entire congregation,

many of whom were absentmindedly

watching Father Smedley raise the host

above his balding head in a consecration

of consternation.

Her older sister nervously 

tickles her sweet philtrum--

that tiny bobsled track

running from a quivering

upper lip to the ivory floor

of her turned-up nose--

and wishes she were anywhere

but here in the 14th pew

as she makes the sign of the cross,

kicks her sister in a bony shin

before telling their mom she needs

to go to the bathroom NOW.

The Table

At the center of all our selves,

those infamous multitudes

named so well by Walt,

is a long gleaming table.

Look carefully and you will see

it breathing, radiating

awareness, helping each personage

shape the forming plot of their life,

know and explore their uniqueness,

find a true voice, sure purpose, subtle

qualities, textures and values 

in a paradoxical choreography

of clarifying separation and deepening

connection among the many seated

at her side where a silent aliveness

reigns, making whole all

that does comprise us.

Death

 When we know

in our innermost

     bones

that to be

apart from

is to be

a part of,

     '

     then

no matter

how lost we

seem,

we're already

       home....

What The Doctor Suggested

Be as a stone--

smooth oval--

almost weightless

in the sometimes

murky, sometimes

clear, pond

of your living.

Nothing to do

here

but drop

deeper towards

the whispering

silt, this strangeness

beckoning

from your life's

bottom. 

Incarnational Theology

 Elegant skeletal

template

of the transcendental's

descent, messy

temptations and hard-won

learning transforming

tissues, reforming

hearts.

Replenishing After The Second Vaccine

Her tasty lentil soup, happily

slurped, but never sipped,

pushes the pout

off his poet's lips.

Later, with a mischievous

grin, aching arm and 

twinkling eye, 

the emptied bowl 

he'll give a lusty lick!

Dawn is 

a fullness

of tree

bathing

in birdsong....

Hiking Sycamore Canyon

Noontime is

a wild 

man

bathing

in greens

of dream....

each stone

on the road

shapes the foot

that meets it.

Seek to become

a stillness

of stone

in sunshine

and storm

where unknowing

is norm

and no seeking

is needed.

What Sky Tastes Like

fragrance of blue

kissing

texture of pink

Labor's Love

Dozens of flat stones,

each eccentric, angular,

mottled in earth tones, many

cracked or worn smooth

by time's erosions

and ordeal's fissions and fusions,

line a 50 foot concrete block wall,

this cast of characters perched

nestling in precarious

congregation, covering like puzzle

pieces a long brief life somehow

finally coming together to complete

a unique evolving shape,

bringing ease on the wings

of the softest breeze

this late winter's morn, this time

of belonging fully to my own life

where the surprising speech

of andesite, granite and schist

carries the fragrance and weight of silence

through canyons of sky burrowing

into moist soil amidst wildflowers stained

with tears and waterfalls of laughter booming--

ahhhh, such an unplanned late,

imperfect blooming....