White Horse

in the unending quest for attention,
a white horse calmly grazes
in lush fields for hours,
all the while knowing
its true food
lies obscured
behind forest
and rock
on the rugged
mountain,
there.

OLD MAN, SATURDAY

He straggles
into the coffeehouse,
one bad leg half limp,
eyes turned down
towards floorboards
and drags strong
on his cigarette~
for friendship
for solace
for nicotine's
trusted zing,
then opens
the screendoor
where black coffee
awaits his
small bird's body,
something to take him
under its wing.

Slowly, morning's
dim eyes
begin to see again,
then sipping to drink,
they flutter,
blink,
engines of soul
fire right up,
surprised ourselves
we hear
his percussive mutter
awakening us
as well as himself
to be here
embodied
together,
and with one
dawning voice,
risk losing
false separation
‘tween us and him,
beneath surface difference
we’re aroused
and enlivened---
somehow united
and peopled---
to feel
and to sing.

Night after Thanksgiving

Sitting still
after multiple
tasty slices
of Luigi's thin
crust pizza ---
ricotta melted
topside ---
from just down the street,
followed by fresh green salad
tossed at home,
with my daughter cozy,
home from college
this first Thanksgiving,
across the small room
from me,
her dad.

She's donned
a lemony yellow
sweatshirt, perched
on the brown chair
circa (around) 1960
from my parents'
disappeared
Russell Road home.

She's half-hidden
under canary bird
cotton hood,
intently texting
new and old friends.
The moment creates
a light of treetops inside
living room sky,
a leafy quiet
seldom heard
in the din
of my often loud,
anxiously
sturdy self.

I desire to raise
my voice in silent
song of gratitude
for daughters and fathers,
friends and lovers,
neighbors and
each and every
denizen of high rise condo
and wooded cabin,
for everyone fat,
comfortable and
pillowed asleep
or partly awake
or today thin
and stranded
in unwanted solitude
on our difficult
abundant earth,
so they and we
may from scalp to sole
be blessed and birthed
for all time golden,
re-created,
shining with gleam
of radiance
durably healed,
thus enduring,
we are completed
and in this dear moment
deemed made whole.

ART

Take thick gobs of paint,
rich and streaming,
a’swirl in hot tongues
of burnished oranges
and browns,
and find a swerve
mere to the eye
where curve and circle
rankle across
long fields of vision
and clear headings
of silence…

And then all shall go down
into hues of autumn
where serrated leaves
mosey on water.

We the artists,
your riders on air,
are pushed and pulled
further along
by curbside waves
where sit and wait
the masculine streets,
difficult,
murky and dank
as old stone cities
and strong white highways
of cold wedded
memory.

Li's Voice

Li-Young-Lee's voice
is like listening
itself,
a small soft bird
alights,
just touches
golden plum
liquid amber leaves
with his feathers.

Honey mellows
and clarifies
the moment
in songs
of sorrow
and such loss.

Parents straddle continents
of feeling and memory
with imperfect courage.

Apple blossoms float
within an eastern breeze,
as the rascal sleep
enters
a small room
where two boys
through an open
window
dream of clouds
and skyscrapers
and hot dog
carts.

Li's First Voice

Li-Young-Lee’s voice
is like listening itself,
a small soft bird alight
just touching
golden plum
liquid amber leaves
with his feathers.

Honey mellows
and clarifies
the moment in songs
of sorrow and loss.

Parents straddle continents
of feeling and memory
with imperfect courage.

Apple blossoms
float within
an eastern breeze,
as the rascal sleep
enters a small room
where two boys through
an open window
dream.

Last Poem of My Sixth Decade

These few lines
comprise
my final poem
of six decades--
these years and months
of plenty and drought--
a plump pillow
composed
before sleep's
fat restful magic
transforms these 59 years
onwards, upwards,
over the hillwards....

I'll go to bed quite soon,
awaken in the same
square room,
yet will know in
these old/young bones,
I'm sixty exuberant
years' old this day,
singing this semi-bright eyed
fresh tune,
woven from
shadows,
fragrant pears,
and notes curving
towards greater silence
on silver morning's
thrice enchanted
floating loom.

Fog bound,
tongue tied
or clear headed,
I'm still me.
A man often
in flux,
non addicted
to spending
big bucks,
I'm mostly true
as can be
to myself,
a smiling weaver
of surprise,
solace and sorrows,
thus, I'm free!

PETER'S BIRTHDAY SONG

Becoming older isn't all bad,
now that I'm 59 plus
a hefty tad,
there are myriad options
I've never had.

Discounted movie tix
tickle me glad,
while the thought of AARP membership
makes me quite sad.
On the other hand,
age spots and all,
senior transit passes
come so cheap now,
it's grand,
this abundance of benefits
is completely rad!

Yet this turning 60 isn't merely fiscal,
other facets matter,
mental, social and spiritual,
as well as the physical..
truth is most days I feel 17
or at most close to 40--
as per my dear daughter
sometimes I act too youthful,
frenetic and kinetic,
and can be embarrassing
in my frisky cavorting.

I've noticed this as I wend my way
through decades and places,
we're on this adventure alone
and together,
touched by all times
and multiple spaces.
As we mysteriously travel,
if we can know ourselves well,
be loved by a few,
love others too,
forgive without forgetting,
let go with a glimmer
of grace
and live with real purpose,
mere aging cannot
our souls unravel.


So thanks for joining me
here at David's tonight.
You help make my lifetime
shine golden bright.
My wish for all of us
is a life richly a'glow
with family and friends,
small acts of pleasure
and kindness
on which the strong
open heart,
vibrant and benign,
may forever depend.

Golden Hill Gleaming (Yes), November 4, 2008

I met two women in line today
at my neighborhood polling place.
Ana from Mexico City shines
when she tells me this
is her first time voting
in America
and she is hopeful,
she is scared,
she worries
that Estados Unidos is losing
its middle class like her beloved
Mexico where the thin sandwich
of wealth and stealth
from the poor
is the main meal.

Yvette from Vietnam,
clarifies that her parents
are Chinese,
she sparkles like moon
on black ocean
and tells us her dream
for our sad lost country
which must drop down
onto its knees
and dissolve the crust of arrogance
within and without
so the cracking world
can breathe easy and slow
with its heart full, vulnerable
and brave once again.

I listen to these strong clear women.
I sip good coffee from my neighborhood coffeehouse.
I am grateful walking forward
in the November morning,
dropping my ballot
through the narrow slot
inside the plebian cardboard box,
my voice resting on all our voices,
as I thank God
for these women,
these fellow citizens,
this dawning of tomorrow’s
sweet fragile possibility.