Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Toward Summer

Through the thatch of bamboo,
a stuttered flash of spinning chimes.


Even dim light casts shadows,
the attentive ear hears the faintest shuffle 

and peace rests in the details
of the daily life

of those who take the time
without asking more.


It has its way with me, well before day’s turn, the moon,
pushing light through stained-glass, scatters

broken colors, dark’s dreams, across waking tides,
and I rise

in the secret air of first bird calls.

There’s no question of earth’s place at this time
of aloneness, as all and every wait

their proper turn in the palpable presence
of rightness—yes, it is this

that carries the entirety to fruition.


The slightest suggestion across the feathered breast
moves the world in ways unplanned, unsuspecting beings

we are, recording minutia of living-dying, what it is,
every nuance encoded exactness, passed on

to rise or not, occasion to occasion—hints on the wind
may alter our direction, influence how we go

about it, but make no mistake,
move to move, we choose.


The cabin at Calistoga

Before the birds, leaves stir, the branches
nearest the screen door, slow sunlight

follows retreating chill—not a whisper.
The door’s ajar, the key dangles its fob,

occasional cars, shrouded in distance,
place us safe, unseen,

together breathing.


For Nanao

I’m here, so I write,
here, thus I chant

and let this body-voice
chant me

welling tears—this moment
enough, each moment the point.


A refrain
returns to

So listen
well, listen
for refrain.

For refrain’s
home, calls you
back. Answer.


Waking early, with gout…

the displeasing wrongness
of it all so pervasive even dreams
message throughout the night

till morning still in darkness,
to wake with pain and wounded spirit
even as day has just begun

that floundering 
the slide of desperation,
at best lingering sadness—unless

until recognition,
recognition of limitedness,
of itself the unlimited recognized

as point of demarcation, horizon
of the truth of our living met
with working wisdom

a lighted point
of what’s true and what’s real:

that point where the poem is.

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