But that was yesterday...

Even in Croatia, the day composes

the poet-scribe—and translation, well,

that seems to come of its own.

                                     9/1

**

The isle of Korchula—4 AM

The wife slips out of bed

to meet church bells.

One for each hour

enters the air-conditioned hum

to flicker unsatisfactorily.

Answers fail confused complaints

and sleepless dreams

surround the darkened waves

of empty space, everywhere.

Nothing touches of home.

                                                          9/3

**

Budapest—the date on my watch

rolls and clicks, so it must be so.

Through the lobby doors,

past the old men in the park,

crows hold place in towering limbs,

crouched and muted shadows,

shuddering rains.

                                             9/14

**

Prayer and gratitude—

and do I find them again

or they again find me

in heart-felt folds,

on lips and breath

that say yes…

             

**

Of current events

and where to turn

in a world such as this

today…but to that concert

of singular heart beats…

**

9/16

At home, after weeks away, fits

like skin rediscovered.

**

Looking at 71—even at this age,

startled by my own shadow.

                                                    9/20

**

Look long

into the night sky

before saying alone

aloud—and even then,

if asked, I’d say

OK to that.

**

Mists clear with the coming light.

Morning prayers, the soft rush of breath

made whole for the world at large.

**

As a young man, I didn’t fully appreciate

how the music moves on its own,

how despite misplaced apprehensions,

songs were there all along.

**

10/8

After Ko Un

Early autumn leaves.

Will I dance too,

when I leave?

**

Indian Summer

We watch each other

across the courtyard

in the front of the house,

the hummingbird and I,

where shadows

first begin to stretch

beyond the reach

of the day’s sun.

**

Why poetry ?

Because of the way the words spill

to leave in their wake intimations

of insights gleaned from where

they have come, from where

they themselves have been.

                                “…if poetry is life, and I believe it is…

                                           when the words come, I trust

                                               they’re the right ones.”

                                                                                Robert Lax

**

Krishnamurti believed

we should write

our own sutras.

I’ve come to see

how right

that is.

**

Simply, to communicate.

Not to argue, nor convince,

but to simply communicate, simply.

                                                           10/17