Friday, January 30, 2009

Finding a Passing Year



From Hilda Morley’s “Sea Lily 

Words voiced. Flamed human resonance

emerging, ever-arranging-


both before and after, flowed over

of color and heat, each a cup

             of fullness


            from whatever passes


            itself away.




On reading Hilda Morley’s “Butter-and-Egg Weed”

I wonder this morning, early in the dark before light,

if William Stafford knew of the poems of Hilda Morley

and am certain he did, and reading quickly, as was his habit


Listened closely, so as not to fail to learn

a better way of living, given freely there

of abundance both knew


Coming to know one completely new thing

daily, a necessary thing, perhaps, or failing that,

some new thing one might simply delight in





This is not indifference


Rivers lap, as at unlatched doorways

in darkened morning passages

of tomorrow come,

hushed shuffle and brush,

most not heard heart-call,

irresistible current-flutter

of unmistakable intent toward

oceans of bruise-held kisses.



Talking with Billie


Having reached sixty-five,

nearly wrapping up the prologue,

the introduction looms, inviting,

slow sweeping beckoning, softly receding edge,

always opening…






Limitless, the arc and reach,

the farthest sky’s embrace within which we hear

Buddha’s call that we are heard


Our tears’ resounding response

echo heavens’ warm wishes of well being,

raining blessings of clear-light.





I have not known exile

nor the endless pain of prolonged separation of hearts,

but once in youth for a time seemed eternal

was swallowed whole in torment of broken being,

glaring, un-moored, fearsome aloneness,


was when you came, wrapped in the certainty of moonlight.



in praise of change


it is not ever

that change enters once again


our lives are change


the only constant

the only possibility

all possibilities


calling   pushing   cajoling

goading us   to learn anew

let go the old   liberate




within endless   boundless   potential


all creation






Unquestioned visitors


Who knows how or why.

Scholars ponder. Ryokan though,

he just wrote his thoughts.


So much flowing grass.

Waters or winds, just the same.

No tangles, no bind.


His arrival then,

here and now, is no surprise.

I nod, push the pen.