“The strong lean upon death as on a rock.”
—Robinson Jeffers
Jeffers points to the permanent for poetry,
the things that last, have lasted, will last,
like the tides, earth’s winds, seasons,
granite
and I’d hope too, the flotsam,
like the waking aging body,
midway through the night,
a hundred years hence
will still make sense
in a poem.
**
and from Jeffers again, “…a drift of light rain…”
water-sheds of words, sweeps of waves
of rippled-runs of tongue-wrapped winds
that break and scratch and pull the page
to the rhythm-syllabled songs at the outer edges
of oceans of unknowns,
feeling their way beyond their fields,
lifting with breaths the veils
of abiding silences
**
The teachers I’ve listened to,
the many, it seems, have told me
all that’s truly needed has always
been here,
and with aging, that steadily fulfilling
press of living that sets its own terms,
I’m learning how little I’ve actually heard,
as the truth of it all whispers away
in my ears.
**
—Solstise
Morning holds its own.
We are allowed, more so embraced,
but morning holds its own,
our presence or not—and our presence,
if so, is given its all to receive, the fullness
of the day into the day and on into the dark,
whether we notice, or not, ours to do,
or not—as with yesterday’s unmarked arc,
less an arc than a lean, of summer
toward the fall—unannounced,
understandably unnoticeable,
but for the glance of gold-burnt leaves,
the tanned grasses of the peripheries,
the quiet lengthening of the hours of dark
and the quickened life of those of light.
**
I’m thinking, wondering, if turning seventy-seven
is movement toward the eighties, simply seventies
signaling a time to stop, or neither,
in the wider scope of things,
wondering how insignificant this musing is
in the face of the immediacy of the day.
The ancients I believe, prodded us toward
deeper appreciation for individual irrelevancy
—that is, a personal relevancy, if even measurable,
measured as no more and no less than all the rest—
in order to allow more room for awe.
**
—Blessings
It’s as quiet a Sunday
as are ever talked about,
sun’s gold a’glow on the hills,
the wide spread of deepening blue
certainty, sky empty
of any given direction,
yet very much present.
**
“…life’s value is life…”
Robinson Jeffers
“…the continuity of life is its meaning…”
Robert Lax
**
Giving yourself to the whole,
you get all the parts,
and then some.
**
Metaphysics, for me, approach
weight, texture and tone of wider implication
than the ordinary, such as
the heft of hummingbird wings
or a leaf of bamboo, the touch of shade,
color of shadow, the sound of granite
warming to the sun, the lilt of joy
under appreciative eyes,
the refuge given and received
in the offered word.
**
The second day heat-wave sun
is in the west
behind the house behind my head,
reaching over into the window
across the street,
ricocheting its intensity into my face,
here in the shade.
That this too will pass, is the song
of fence-climbing blossoms
lifted in fingers of just come breezes.
**
—The surveyor’s work
it’s not so much about centers, as points
along the way—any point might do, but a point
understood, a point true, counts differently,
for with that point, from that point, all the rest
takes its place where it lay over time.
Like when you finally come to such a place
and its just right line-of-sight for your life.
**
—October
Even morning’s moon
is burnished with smoke’s haze.
The pines demur to darkness.
I too, try to divert my gaze.
**
Hearts beat
heart-beats,
each one
its own,
no thought
beyond
the beat,
that beat’s
song sung
brim-full
with beat,
lived then,
lived there.
Timing,
precision:
body’s
issues.
Hearts beat
heart-beats.
**
—Report back
We have large windows and a deck
facing west, the neighbors too—awnings
hide us from the heat this time of year,
this year catch the ash from the smoke
from the north.
