Thursday, May 4, 2023

Going and returning

 



Lisboa’s “Fado”


Portuguese coffee, black, strong, no cream,

mornings’ mist-slick streets 

open to all who come

with heart-song.



**



Third morning in, 

the first that sun intrudes— 


parted curtains, 

jet-lagged senses—


time to get up, 

ready or not.



**



Porto


the river holds darkness longer 

than the birds 


are willing

to wait



**



there on the slopes 

below the castle walls, 


lavender and white 

iris



**



the Duoro


days and nights go by

the way travel plays

at time—poems


coming and going, written

or not—ducks skim,

gulls glide,


birds twitter and chirp

at brush-rich edges—the river

saying whatever rivers say



**



Crossing the Rio Tijo,

just off geographical center,


south through the plains—olive 

and cork, rock and scrub.


To call this the heart of Portugal

works until it doesn’t—I see it beat


in the people here too.



**



In my own footsteps 

I find answers 


that carry no words 

ears can hear, 


settled breath can round off, 

sentences can say.



**



Edges 

signal space.


Each leaf, the sky.



**



Having nothing, really

nothing else, I choose now.

It always takes me in.



**



Reaching through the dark,

moon lays light on blinds

and half-open eyes.



**



Testing 


day four—waking

feeling better


does not produce

a negative.



**



Morning

waking


drips rain.



**



having lost count,

days simply turn

ordinary

revelations,


thinly shadowed

recognitions,

constellations

shaping just right


enough to let

presence unveil

simple wonders—


rain-sheen streets 

tell of home.



**



Tired of sickness,

not tired of the rest 

it brings.


Baking chicken,

the sleeping wife,

the ice clinks.


Never do shots, 

but do mescal and juice

to this new life:


Covid—all these years,

we finally really meet.



**



a ruffled crow

watches the moon


and the other

way around—blue


sky morning—one

clawed toe gripping



**



5 x 11

page tacked to the pole,


a stick-figure dog

with her name under—


looks happy



**



on the phone line,


a hummingbird—


listening 



**



because each thing is

an expressing of

the whole expressing


everything keeps count

because every thing accounts

for the whole



**



Today I liberated the rock garden 

against the stucco wall—winter’s cover pulled, 

edges and crevices gleaming—and was surprised 

somehow at the myriads of little creatures 

scurrying for cover, yet deeply satisfied 


with the process: the wave of a hand, 

a fisted grip, and gone, worlds 

torn asunder—I’m told


that during the “great” wars, 

people turned to home gardens 

for solace—or was it forgiveness…



**



I can’t explain

nembutsu life


anymore than poems


buzzing the ears,

running the tongue,


sudden 

lingering flashes


like hummingbird workings,


undeniably unpredictably here

when…here


like sky holding everything, 

even what can’t be seen,


always…


then, we do

see…


and say



**



we can’t “correct” nature, 

just adjust as it does



**



short morning walk,

another, longer, linked


pre-sun light bringing 

blue breathing skies



**


deep purple petals,

white edges, shadowed folds 

of green along the fence—lilac



**



returnings


sound before sight— 


heart beat, voice and flesh 

first


light not sight—word, warmth, 

refuge, trust 


    togetherness


        “why do adults just sit and talk,“


               my young son once asked…



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