getting away...

 

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…