Zihuatanejo, et al

Zihuatanejo, et al—poems

10/15

Forget sentiment—compassion flowers 

the concrete—the hand offers 

the sandwich.

**

10/16

Grace—simplicity undenied.

**

Morning prayers unfold life 

urging awake its own

first music.

**

10/17

The heart’s gestures, 

not so difficult to hear,

offered there 

behind touching palms.

**

10/18

Mornings tend lingering, allow potentials 

the peripheries, to mull meanings 

not ready to be pronounced.

**

Morning leaves hold 

breezes night held 

only by sound.

**

10/20

Old friend, it’s always been down hill.

**

10/22

Sedona

High desert blossoms are tiny.

Birds smaller than sparrows

flit and drop

though budding branches

and chilled traces

of last night’s dreams.

**

11/2

That we can see 

that it’s dark

tells us of light 

we can’t see. 

**

on the oak creek road to flagstaff, 

an american buddhist history unfolds

in detail run through together

with the breath and sound and sight 

of all of its touchings—wrists here hold beads 

that sing of high country juniper

**

11/3

The moon—one mark 

of presence giving light,

even when shadowed.

***

Zihuatanejo, Mexico

11/5

Roosters are the true language 

of the tropics.

**

in the dawn sky

a bird clings

to an unfurled palm

**

Fire fighters here

wear navy blue t-shirts,

rise before the sun 

to sweep the drive 

and finger smart phones.

**

At the municipal beach, 

fisherman spread their catch on tarps

spread on sand under the palms.

Nescafe is sold from on open jar,

spoon and cups provided; locals

know the price.

**

11/9

Once asked how, at all, it has changed my life,

I could only answer that as I’ve aged,

I’ve come to feel younger.

**

old friends

resonate 

in volumes

akin to

angels’ smiles—

what else more

could one want

to hear ?

**

11/16

Contemplation

Stepping to the side to dry off,

to more fully appreciate

the wetness.

**

Speaking quietly, the aging master said 

all he’d ever really wanted was to learn to live 

to the limits given—the rest had come of its own.

**

I don’t know how much,

or little, I can say

of that which gives rise to all

and everything, each occurrence

of every and all, except that

it so irrefutably does.

**

11/17

Gold Country

To the robbin and to the jay

that nod hello

there by the tree with red leaves,

by the creek,

whom I would not have met

had I not ignored

that second nag of a voice

that always says no

to the ever-affirming first;

to them all then, save none,

yes, good, it’s morning

with us.

**

Likely in winter a creek runs 

the bottom of the embankment

at the back of the condo where we stay,

looking down from the patio in the rear, 

table and chairs for four, coffee 

chilling in brisk air, likely 

many things have run these quiet hills 

over time, and will again over time, 

as our time too is done—the deer 

walking in the drive down the road 

told me so.

**

11/19

Paris

Don’t think that any one of us

has only one life, 

that the flowers will not return

to fields seemingly barren.

Even the three-year old knows 

people with flowers protect us 

from those with guns—we’ve not lost,

but we do need to be who we are

with ever greater intensity.