Monday, August 17, 2009

I am lucky enough to have two grand daughters who still take naps—their naps sandwich some shorter poems, all from July and August…

 

For Zarah

He once wrote:   right there,

 

mid-window, as I lie on my side,

right there above the roof line of the neighbor’s  home,

where the upper most arc of the fullest moon

shone to almost blue the dark night sky,

there, now in earlier light,

a lonely stretch of cotton-white fog

of tightly curled lines, now, the lowest marker

of the surest dust

of blue

 

and in the later lazy of that long summer day,

at the very same venue,

a nap, flat-on-the-back nap,

brown-eyed, long-lashed grand daughter along side,

straightest black hair and even straighter bangs

framing that clean and rested face

 

with its lips

turned up like a new flower—who

 

could even begin to think

 

white    or   blue ?

 

A handful of shorter poems:

 

Anticipating the sun,

overhead street lights click

off

Morning—

dogs bark

at emerging horizons

Crows chide

through open windows:

Fair weather friend!

 *

someone topped that pine

years ago it forked

more branches for birds

Sitting

center street,

the cat ignores me

On this side of enlightenment

morning fog rolls in,

revealing that we cannot see.

tiny bits

of flying grass

on the trail,

grasshoppers know

where my foot will fall

No shelter

for me—the winds,

such an advantage

for grasshoppers

 

For Kawayan

          I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,

            O suns….O grass of graves…O perpetual transfers

            and promotions….if you do not say anything how can I say

            anything?

                 

                                              --Walt Whitman


Putting the grand daughter down…

 

with just the weight of my hand

she stills her legs—slowly then her fingers

loosen to open curls—and then the breath,

which tells it all, falls

to deep rhythmed sleep

 

she’s on her right side, my hand on her left,

thumb crooked under the arm, fingers extending

most the width of her back

 

I close my eyes, and breathe

—but can’t tell

whose pulse it is

 

In Whistler, British Columbia, we speak with a young woman

native to these parts, who weaves designs from her grandfather’s blanket

(she points to its photo), itself woven for him with prayers and songs

and stories, by her great grandmother—“I come from this blanket,”

she tells us, “and weave only its designs.”

 

In our loose way, we use the term “sutra” to refer to Buddha’s teaching,

which over time came to be woven into words, on paper.

Pulled from the ancient Sanskrit, “sutra” is derived from the word for “thread.”

 

**

 

Victoria, British Columbia, May 2009


At the bus stop on the harbor 

watching flags wait

glance and plume in morning sunlight 

there gather so loosely

only to again fall

and fall again

to waiting


** 

 

Saw somewhere written

that the universe is a restless place.

Ah yes, and magnificently sloppy.

 

 Whistler, BC,

Home to the 2010 Winter Olympics

 and millions

of whispering aspen leaves

 

 **

 

Wade deeply early sunlight

in aspens’ layered leaves

--so still

the glistening glow

 

 **

 

Straight lines and shingles lay where lighted sky used to play,

a place ill suited to the fullness that is real;

trapped, flat in shadows sharp with longing,

breathless and shallow, watching 

passing breezes eddy.

Openly wanting.

 

**

Coming again to quiet possibility,

the place, lighted, as before,

only angles differing from what they were.

 

**

Brief as it seems,

most days the work begins

in pause.

 

**

 

Crossing from Horse Shoe Bay to Nanamo on a full, Saturday ferry.

Bumping waters, a haze of whitened skies

and the flow of padded shoes; muted moves

carefully tended by turned heads and dropping eyes.

Time shared in place passing

us each, and alone, along our way.

 

**

A poem, for me,

I’ve come to see as a suggestion

come upon,

then visited with, for a bit.

 

**

We sleep at times a bit too long

and dregs remain, slowing it seems

even the pull in the veins

a dirge like call into darkness not letting go,

and we slip there with it

below


where all are allowed to speak

and thus, to make our peace

or not

 

and the praise that might make poems

is what I chose, careful

attention to all that comes

 

appreciation

mingled with words

 

Namuamidabutsu