Saturday, November 28, 2015

Zihuatanejo, et al

Zihuatanejo, et al—poems


Forget sentiment—compassion flowers 
the concrete—the hand offers 
the sandwich.



Grace—simplicity undenied.


Morning prayers unfold life 
urging awake its own
first music.



The heart’s gestures, 
not so difficult to hear,

offered there 
behind touching palms.



Mornings tend lingering, allow potentials 
the peripheries, to mull meanings 
not ready to be pronounced.


Morning leaves hold 
breezes night held 
only by sound.



Old friend, it’s always been down hill.




High desert blossoms are tiny.
Birds smaller than sparrows

flit and drop
though budding branches

and chilled traces
of last night’s dreams.



That we can see 
that it’s dark

tells us of light 
we can’t see. 


on the oak creek road to flagstaff, 
an american buddhist history unfolds
in detail run through together

with the breath and sound and sight 
of all of its touchings—wrists here hold beads 
that sing of high country juniper



The moon—one mark 
of presence giving light,
even when shadowed.


Zihuatanejo, Mexico


Roosters are the true language 
of the tropics.


in the dawn sky

a bird clings

to an unfurled palm


Fire fighters here
wear navy blue t-shirts,
rise before the sun 
to sweep the drive 
and finger smart phones.


At the municipal beach, 
fisherman spread their catch on tarps
spread on sand under the palms.

Nescafe is sold from on open jar,
spoon and cups provided; locals
know the price.



Once asked how, at all, it has changed my life,
I could only answer that as I’ve aged,
I’ve come to feel younger.


old friends

in volumes
akin to

angels’ smiles—

what else more
could one want
to hear ?




Stepping to the side to dry off,
to more fully appreciate
the wetness.


Speaking quietly, the aging master said 
all he’d ever really wanted was to learn to live 
to the limits given—the rest had come of its own.


I don’t know how much,
or little, I can say

of that which gives rise to all
and everything, each occurrence

of every and all, except that
it so irrefutably does.



Gold Country

To the robbin and to the jay
that nod hello

there by the tree with red leaves,
by the creek,

whom I would not have met
had I not ignored

that second nag of a voice
that always says no

to the ever-affirming first;
to them all then, save none,

yes, good, it’s morning
with us.


Likely in winter a creek runs 
the bottom of the embankment
at the back of the condo where we stay,

looking down from the patio in the rear, 
table and chairs for four, coffee 
chilling in brisk air, likely 

many things have run these quiet hills 
over time, and will again over time, 
as our time too is done—the deer 

walking in the drive down the road 
told me so.




Don’t think that any one of us
has only one life, 

that the flowers will not return
to fields seemingly barren.

Even the three-year old knows 
people with flowers protect us 

from those with guns—we’ve not lost,

but we do need to be who we are

with ever greater intensity.