September, October, November

It’s not poetry as such,

though I’ve read some and will again,

but the poets themselves

and what they’ve become

through the search implied

in the poetic—

shadows of movement

before explanation, the curve of words

as formed in the wind

and the wonder and heartache

extended in lines

of questions never closed…

**

Reentering the world

from half-slumber into daylight

delights returning senses.

Awakened crossing back,

tenderness precedes every thought

and remembrance affirms

the resonant sky

with the gladness

of love.

**

It came as at the breaking edge of a restful dream

that just as morning makes its familiar way, I too

know how this is done—the ground of the earth

is always prepared, the air responds as asked;

light meets eyes, birdsong the ears

and myriads of skins speak to touch.

So let questions dance, let thoughts make their run,

for I too know how

this is done.

**

He leaned forward, just a bit,

you know,

like a little bow,

and said

in a soft voice

that the world is always giving…

**

Each morning, wading the stream,

the current’s ebb and flow, till evening

time to rest, 

like a fish facing upstream

into all it brings, ever watchful

of hovering shadows.

**

With gratitude

Often as not, I wake in confusion,

long-nursed doubts surfacing

refreshed, a’swirl.

But each day comes

not so much with a plan,

as with its own breath

that we ride, a’swirl in our dreams

or awake—either way is OK. 

**

Jet lagged

11/11 seems to have been misplaced somewhere

on the couch where I lay most of the day delirious

engrossed in speaking images graciously passing

the glowing screen—without pause.

This morning though, 11/12, is right where I’d have it

here under the pillow next to my head, waiting and ready

to roll over the edge to outside and in…

to the drizzle-wet streets

of proper coming home—everything in its time always

all we need.

**

Rome

Shadows spill across the page

and onto the floor—only to be wiped clean

by passing clouds.

**

Mallorca

Morning winds clear the way for light,

muscling clouds aside

along with the dark.

Free of the need to signal,

the last two stars

leave too.

**

Early night—early morning.

Dark, star-studded sky.

With Orion right there, how far

from home can we really be?

**

Casciano

Leaves on vines

in the orchard rows

have begun to yellow.

Burnt by summer,

weathered in passing rains,

some lean closer to orange

to whisper of the coming fall.

**

To Frienz

Hard to tell what’s being sung,

but railroad songs in any tongue

are as clear as the tracks are long.

**

Our method for learning

Rome’s bus system: confusion—we succeed,

get to where we got,

and back again.

**

Traveling through Tuscany with a GPS

named Emily, I become quite attached.

Over and over I ask, “Where am I?”

And over and over again

she patiently replies:

“You are here.”

**

Barcelona

Under the moon-like light

of the street lamp, the intersection

opens its silence

to the swaying shadows above

and a single

crinkled

leaf

lets

go.

**

Cordona—lighting candles with Marghareta

From the remains of the old Roman wall

overlooking the spreading countryside,

along the steep, coble-covered path,

muraled images

of the stations of the cross

leading the way,

the street-clothed priest

motions us in

to the sun-patched sanctuary—

leaving us alone

with the Sant.

**

As the conversation turns to “art”

I find myself thinking of people taking time

for morning coffee together

at tables at the edge of sidewalks

on traffic filled streets,

seemingly wanting to be right there.

That canvas.