Ordinary days....

Along the top

of the metal front-yard fence,

three small birds

glide to flutter and perch,

a woodpecker’s distant work,

glances of light

of the rising sun, clear blue

and cold, cold fingers

and all that comes of that.

**

Seems I’ve gotten serious lately,

finding reasons, explanations

for all kinds of things: this yes, that no.

Then out of the blue, for whatever reason,

I find myself reciting, no, bubbling

Buddha’s name…like my life 

just wanted it…so there it was. 

Like that, lips remembering 

for me.

**

In the garden in evening,

just as dark begins to make claim,

air too crisp for insects, sky too hazy

to show the stars, I pour beer

for squash-loving snails, 

just one of the many ways 

the world turns under human feet,

these in particular below the legs 

of an old man worrying daily

over seemingly precious leaves

and who mumbles to himself 

time to time,

of some seeming wisdom found 

in old Lu Yu’s old poem line:

“An old-timer is just a worn-out child.” 

**

Feet to the pavement,

pen to the page, poems

do come of these,

let no one tell you different,

nor anyone ever say

the poem can be caught

either way.

**

Take care to not take too much care, 

a friend once told me, that too much effort

often shrouds what’s already being done.

Ego’s slippery slope, leaning toward itself,

freedom’s likely the other way.

**

The old man in the photo

stands with hat in hand in a field

of high grasses in wind, thinking,

as we two have together 

for years now, never feeling 

the need to speak.

**

A dove rises from the sun-lit bush,

clean-grey fluttering wings

waking me from a dream

—asleep on my feet.

**

—a day-song

long-standing routines lose grip

like wind-stripped leaves, 

like early spring jacaranda 

making way for lavender bouquets