children’s voices chime’
outside air—inside,
old legs rest
**
Oceanside—pier walk
into grey morning grey waves—
pelicans and gulls fish
with hooded fishermen,
wait for waves
with surfers
**
balcony clothesline
underwear hung low, hidden
from all but the sun
**
weekend getaway
feels like playing at being
here, but not really
**
poems
bring us
our senses,
catch
our attention
just so,
help us
hear
the music
**
singular blades shout out,
reach down,
but hillsides need be counted
too—wild, unpredictable
weeds we may be,
but not alone…
**
you
here
means
me
here
thank
you
**
energies ignite
energies—feet to the street,
a good thing, the trail
quite another—
indolence lurks,
time’s short—watch,
do
**
small birds, a dozen
gather in the barren tree,
won’t say what they see
**
the daughter’s quick note
gently notes her concerns—
children parenting,
parents children-ing—
adult games we love to play
**
one time
a long time ago,
solo hiking
Desolation Wilderness,
I sat on a grass knoll
along Aloha Lakes:
sunlight, blue sky, lapping waters,
is what I remember—deep nights
dark, lots of stars, big wind
and grateful waking
come morning
**
silently flying
outside my window, winged bugs
buzz for my eyes
**
each time we settle,
spring rains like winter—clean up
in the garden waits,
leaving me wondering
how much, if at all, I’ve grown
over winter
**
reading Santoka:
like weeds, give your living
everything—
**
early afternoons
the neighbor’s dog, alone, whines
and barks—just like me
**
hard to pre-figure,
the quieted mind pools still
before words find it
**
two clear sky days
of warm slow breeze,
then morning fogs
chill the ridge line,
run canyons,
cold-blanket
valley bottom grasses
that wet
the boots
**
dipping into the well
deep as I can, drinking,
drinking…
**
looking at the books,
even those pulled forward
to catch my attention
do not,
and I wonder what happened
to that passion, that intensity,
or even to passing
interest—has that too passed,
I ask…
and then flowers, red drooping trumpets
outside my window
say something I can’t quite hear
that draws from me a smile
**
that single bird,
distant valley drafts,
sun’s first touch
**
the benefits of hibernation
unfold without hesitation
when it’s over—step out
over the wreckage
**
—Owl Canyon spring—
long stretches of canopied trail
fold canyon quiet in shadowed spider webs
and surrounding rolling green,
where every weed and grass
holds years of names
of passing tongues,
how many of which
have listened
for weed-talk, paused to hear songs
the grasses sing…
