I am lucky enough to have two grand daughters who still take naps—their naps sandwich some shorter poems, all from July and August…

 

For Zarah

He once wrote:   right there,

 

mid-window, as I lie on my side,

right there above the roof line of the neighbor’s  home,

where the upper most arc of the fullest moon

shone to almost blue the dark night sky,

there, now in earlier light,

a lonely stretch of cotton-white fog

of tightly curled lines, now, the lowest marker

of the surest dust

of blue

 

and in the later lazy of that long summer day,

at the very same venue,

a nap, flat-on-the-back nap,

brown-eyed, long-lashed grand daughter along side,

straightest black hair and even straighter bangs

framing that clean and rested face

 

with its lips

turned up like a new flower—who

 

could even begin to think

 

white    or   blue ?

 

A handful of shorter poems:

 

Anticipating the sun,

overhead street lights click

off

* 

Morning—

dogs bark

at emerging horizons

* 

Crows chide

through open windows:

Fair weather friend!

 *

someone topped that pine

years ago it forked

more branches for birds

* 

Sitting

center street,

the cat ignores me

* 

On this side of enlightenment

morning fog rolls in,

revealing that we cannot see.

* 

tiny bits

of flying grass

on the trail,

grasshoppers know

where my foot will fall

* 

No shelter

for me—the winds,

such an advantage

for grasshoppers

 

For Kawayan

          I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,

            O suns….O grass of graves…O perpetual transfers

            and promotions….if you do not say anything how can I say

            anything?

                 

                                              --Walt Whitman

Putting the grand daughter down…

 

with just the weight of my hand

she stills her legs—slowly then her fingers

loosen to open curls—and then the breath,

which tells it all, falls

to deep rhythmed sleep

 

she’s on her right side, my hand on her left,

thumb crooked under the arm, fingers extending

most the width of her back

 

I close my eyes, and breathe

—but can’t tell

whose pulse it is