Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Summer poems

For Paul

Hiking the Oakland hills

behind the grown son

--strong back and shoulders

the smell of dust

the high reach of redwoods

and the slow turn of greying skies--

breathing together

evening’s muted silence


As if the thread…

The end of August, September,

summer’s last burn to autumn

and the long reach to winter sleep

before spring dreams.

It’s the writing, the gathering of words

poems offer,

the sorting, shifting and listening,

the breathing and the watching

for that certain readiness and release,

as if poems were the thread…


Some things, are just left.

The rest, no matter the weight,

never a burden.


To be here, with this

in the hours before day break,

star light falling

in northern skies

in the stillness of meadows

under towering peaks

colored with night

in the mystery

of disappearing stars,

the returning lake

carrying sky-lit mountains

and silently feeding ducks,

the myriad questions

tracing the unseeable working

rising the darkened depths

to the surface

to be taken whole and relished.


Though the window might be better cleaned,

the the light moves smoothly down the morning sky

to the ridge tops

and across the many-housed slopes,

quietly, clearly,

announcing its return.


9/20/2010 and counting down,

or is it up?

With a birthday on the near horizon

taking me closer yet… to zero,

what can numbers really tell and about what end

can any direction ever advise?

But the poem, yes, maybe only the poem speaks

to how I am now

with the world at large.



In our eyes, the moon

Silver slivered light in the blackened sky,

premonition of certainty

Rising tides

within our very own hearts


So certain

the summer scents,

thick on morning air,

the mist hovering distant bay waters,

the salmon skies.

So certain, this urge

to make it somehow more


in the face

of the all-embracing silence

of the open page--

so certain a measure

of the true pitch of every voice,

I cannot but bow.