How to live
the time left.
He questions
himself, his
given worth.
How indeed…
as Buddha,
having no doubts,
meets him
right there.
**
pen’s been silent, books
remained closed—so many other worlds
still whirling
**
sitting counting one
syllable at a time—words drawn
drawing others
**
dryer-tossed clothes dry,
threads giving way
to giving waves
**
—Laguna Beach
Canyon traffic song:
rimmed sky, streaming stars,
waiting ocean
**
—May 31st
last-day shadows of rain-grey light
crease the wrinkled pages—
the pen’s scratch, wordless drops
**
—June 1st,
again
the blue cup: coffee,
sometimes wine,
water too
sometimes seeking that best first taste,
usually tasting just what’s there
**
plain-wood words
tumble free
as shadows
cast by sun
cast through dust-
filmed windows
on a day
beginning
barely clear
light laughing
clouds blinking:
day, day
**
—The way it is…
It’s not that poems
dry up, but that words often
can’t find the scent, can’t
discern their forming passing, and
lucky for us, can’t stop trying either.
*
How many remain, the times left
to sit in this chair
to watch my breath
draw me
on empty pages
spread at my knee ?
*
Don’t know who this is shared with,
just know echos say it’s so—
warm or cold
echos say
this is the way
it is.
**
Early, before sound wakes,
I remember yesterday’s
soundless streets.
Shadowed windows, quiet rooms,
that fractured, bewildering
sense of life come still
solely belied
by the quiet breach
of morning chill.
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