each time the first time...

I was go-

ing to say

something like

the foolish-

ness of it

all—but no,

it’s more like,

no it’s just

me, my, our

foolishness

that offers

the only

real start:

**

Almond blossomed first

before plum petals reaching

to test for spring.

**

each step,

every

foot-fall

in place

earth takes

and holds:

when we 

fall, when

we die:

earth & sky

**

—after Juan Carter 

                and Allen Ginsberg

how to haiku: 

notice things,

tell about them, tell 

a bit more

**

sitting 

      still

         breathing

clearing breathing 

         clearing clouds

**

—if anyone asks of last words…

caught myself gently

caught in wholeness

all    ready     being

eighty now

teaching how

eighty is

here

now

**

in bed,

the blankets up

to the very end of this very day—

brimming lips needing 

not even 

a murmur

**

in window light 

pouring coffee  

 

steams glasses

and the cup

gurgles something 

about winter 

mornings

**

prayer perhaps it is

like morning moonlight touching

almost open blinds

illumined waiting hearts 

woken there 

in song

**

each time we ask

the electric kettle

complies fully until

that click

heard ‘round the kitchen

completes

the task at hand

begun 

with fingers

**

Whatever the answers thought,

either lost or forgotten,

I leave them there now

where answers go

and do my best to stay

right here.

**

By way of introduction, I tell

the small group of mostly young,

mostly strangers

I don’t remember 

what I did before 

retirement—that I these days 

justify existing daily by 

making hot coffee

for sipping while scribbling things 

looking like poems—you know, 

words strung out in lines 

not reaching the margins,

that leave lots of room

for breathing:

**

When in the light,

I’ve noticed of late,

I stumble less…

**

The moon

reveals itself today

directly west

above the hills

the sky 

holds—

nothing said

but what

the woodpecker says…

is then 

what I’ll say:

**

on day 29

February mists

deep wet fogs,

claims winter’s name

for this

extra 

day

**

so many these mornings spent

knowing I know no more

than this day’s sayings

and even that slips and trips 

over thought before question, talk

before hearing—

and yet, and yet, here I am,

nonetheless, here I am

**

Some ask what words

matter, others why

at all, all the while 

lifting those that do

they think and dropping

those they think don’t—not hearing

for all their talk, the living 

streaming through

it all.

**

—after Sonojo…

yes, there was a time of and for

and now is another

outside any canon

intimations, limitations

daily parting light

revealing…

Buddha’s name from the lips,

poems from the pen, 

breathing in-between…