It’s not poetry as such,
though I’ve read some and will again,
but the poets themselves
and what they’ve become
through the search implied
in the poetic—
shadows of movement
before explanation, the curve of words
as formed in the wind
and the wonder and heartache
extended in lines
of questions never closed…
Reentering the world
from half-slumber into daylight
delights returning senses.
Awakened crossing back,
tenderness precedes every thought
and remembrance affirms
the resonant sky
with the gladness
It came as at the breaking edge of a restful dream
that just as morning makes its familiar way, I too
know how this is done—the ground of the earth
is always prepared, the air responds as asked;
light meets eyes, birdsong the ears
and myriads of skins speak to touch.
So let questions dance, let thoughts make their run,
for I too know how
this is done.
He leaned forward, just a bit,
like a little bow,
in a soft voice
that the world is always giving…
Each morning, wading the stream,
the current’s ebb and flow, till evening
time to rest,
like a fish facing upstream
into all it brings, ever watchful
of hovering shadows.
Often as not, I wake in confusion,
long-nursed doubts surfacing
But each day comes
not so much with a plan,
as with its own breath
that we ride, a’swirl in our dreams
or awake—either way is OK.
11/11 seems to have been misplaced somewhere
on the couch where I lay most of the day delirious
engrossed in speaking images graciously passing
the glowing screen—without pause.
This morning though, 11/12, is right where I’d have it
here under the pillow next to my head, waiting and ready
to roll over the edge to outside and in…
to the drizzle-wet streets
of proper coming home—everything in its time always
all we need.
Shadows spill across the page
and onto the floor—only to be wiped clean
by passing clouds.
Morning winds clear the way for light,
muscling clouds aside
along with the dark.
Free of the need to signal,
the last two stars
Early night—early morning.
Dark, star-studded sky.
With Orion right there, how far
from home can we really be?
Leaves on vines
in the orchard rows
have begun to yellow.
Burnt by summer,
weathered in passing rains,
some lean closer to orange
to whisper of the coming fall.
Hard to tell what’s being sung,
but railroad songs in any tongue
are as clear as the tracks are long.
Our method for learning
Rome’s bus system: confusion—we succeed,
get to where we got,
and back again.
Traveling through Tuscany with a GPS
named Emily, I become quite attached.
Over and over I ask, “Where am I?”
And over and over again
she patiently replies:
“You are here.”
Under the moon-like light
of the street lamp, the intersection
opens its silence
to the swaying shadows above
and a single
Cordona—lighting candles with Marghareta
From the remains of the old Roman wall
overlooking the spreading countryside,
along the steep, coble-covered path,
of the stations of the cross
leading the way,
the street-clothed priest
motions us in
to the sun-patched sanctuary—
leaving us alone
with the Sant.
As the conversation turns to “art”
I find myself thinking of people taking time
for morning coffee together
at tables at the edge of sidewalks
on traffic filled streets,
seemingly wanting to be right there.