“…language forgotten, we finally meet.”
—Cold Mountain
Clover-held dew spills
across your boots, crows call
you a fool,
but breath holds steady,
doesn’t hold back,
hums and sings the tunes
of the ancients.
.
**
This moon speaks “cloud-speak,”
all chalk, blurred edges drifting
beyond its own reach.
**
—of haiku
the five-seven-five
the sense of breath-counts listening
contexts re-membered
**
Beyond the window,
quilted fog—
the sun’s slow descent.
**
Winging morning skies
pass a bird’s belly, pull eyes
to half-moon watching.
**
You think you’ve ever
not been who your are—look down,
there’s those feet again.
**
Surrounded always,
everywhere here, the wife’s work.
Reasons not to leave.
**
Dark beer in a glass,
cold with a frothy head—
long day in the yard.
**
Morning chill, again
dancing with breeze at the fence,
showing flowers how.
**
—my mentor
he was a smart guy
without showiness—almost
too quick to be seen
**
immediacy,
simplicity, directness—
breath, pulse, perception
**
Home ground—how to learn
the way back from never-left ?
Pinch yourself. Harder !
**
Lean in, tip closer
toward sun-letting windows—
learning from the plants.
**
Indecision
and uncertainty
surround every step
except those taken.
**
Loneliness is false-
negative—quieted minds
open spaciousness.
***
***
—Morning at McPeak
*
Branch tips move—
the breeze-like weight
of small birds.
Sun glints the car’s hood.
*
Chirps, whistles and calls
open distance, thread
near to far.
*
The black-headed jays
streak and screech whatever space—
blue-lightening life-stuff.
*
Softly, hidden doves.
Leaves leave us the air we breathe,
hold sounds for our feet.
*
We talk over sounds
needing listening, cover
birds’ words with our own.
*
Hearing each other
in words not heard before, friends
breathing common currents.
*
Words, at their best
cross chasms with trust,
touch as strong
as any hand.
*
Telling stories lived,
air ringing, ears sounding
with pulse.
***
***
Neighbor’s chickens calm
the travelled body quiet—
home sounds are
home sounds.
**
The setting sun burns
smoke-filled skies orange, fog-banks
into silvered gleam.
**
Pink,
the sun through smoke
this morning,
dew in the clover,
stiffness in the hips.
**
Words say something
they are not, make meanings
running—stilled streams wither.
**
Softly, the hidden doves
arrive, white-spotted, blue-grey
wings flutter.
**
Issa and Stafford,
both said to be too simple.
Easier said than done.
**
Without my glasses
the flowers at the fence scrowl.
Bees are absent too.
**
Breathing so quiet,
I lean closer to sense life.
Old age is strange times.
**
The flowers dance
the hummingbird’s dance,
bob without the wind.
**
It’s the norm for me
to wake mid-way through my walk
to find myself there.
Lucky for me, streets and feet
have a way I’m a part of.
**
The wife, sick all day.
Soft moans from the other room.
Outside, wood chimes click.
**
Usually don’t, but did tonight
drink at dark alone over poems,
eyes closing in the silence, nothing
more wanting saying.
**
Brisk breezes bother
humid air, flowers dance, chimes
clatter—drought doesn’t care.
**
I know you know
and I know you know I know
you know
and we feel this and we leave it
that settled
and together move within that
kind of grace,
you-know,
and maybe don’t speak of it,
probably not, except
maybe like this.
**
Overcast and cool.
Energies returned at last,
morning poems sprout.
**
Small steps on the roof
of hell—I keep my voice low.
Who knows whose they are.
**
Fingers at the lips,
others pushing pen along
dreamscape—inked nothings.
**
Empty pages mirror
skies full to the brim with all
that might happen there.
