the old poet—he’s up there
where the trail gets lost in mists
where words are swallowed
whole, is where he goes
**
while the weather people speak
of rain’s arrival, sky suggests
stories with less certitude
wherein facts of matter speak
for themselves, despite
presumed absurdities
native peoples hereabouts
might hear hints of coyote here
**
the passion vine chokes
the many branched almond tree
the way a single poetic form
could, might, rob a mind
of spring’s pledge to open growth
or maybe not
**
after dinner clouds
clear enough
for stars
to present night-fall
**
to be of help
in all endeavors
to make the world
a better place
—John Coltrane
**
11-11-17
—for Juan Carter
I don’t keep in touch with friends very well,
save an email here and there,
some poems now and then,
infrequent with the phone,
but do think of them
a thoroughgoing wholeness,
rim-full to a tear drop—
and now, one is gone
**
a tree falls in the forest
and no one is there
to hear…
well, whose ears,
which lips, anyway,
make a poem?
**
“rock-face prayer, in ink and water”
—-Jerome Rothenberg
make of me
what you will
mystery
**
poetry is the conversation accompanying
the words being spoken
**
rain throughout the night
quits its run when hillside lights
quit the quitting night
**
Psalm
There are the words, almost breathless
sounds I’ve heard, the curled lips
and dusted white of what we know
as wall flower, low to the ground
of resonant roots whose work
is the scent of perfume.
**
if giving all we have is the essence
of service, any direction everywhere
counts
**
In a small sliver
of un-curtained window
in our bedroom, stars
sometimes spend the night.
**
like the call of geese
coursing through our ears
sky does touch, and we too
touch back
**
The way light glistens
in running water’s play with rocks,
what can be said of the sun in this,
of the twist and turn of creek bed ?
**
If the teacher’s life doesn’t speak,
how can we expect the teacher to ?
**
The wail first catches the throat,
tears from there the sound
needed to hold the pain.
**
Fallen rose petals
lay among the almond leaves,
catch wintering mists.
**
And so the breeze stops,
haltingly at first, then done,
moon, unseen, rises.
**
Don’t let them fool you,
those Buddhist poets were not all
recluse Zenists—and even if,
who could tell,
after so much
not said ?
**
She doesn’t so much “shop”
as linger here to there
to see what calls imagination
out to play.
**
Translation: words
are the events our world
calls us with.
**
curled leaves gathered outside
the front door, crunch greetings
to all who pass through
**
Sleep-filled nights slip away
the way others do,
leaving fewer traces.
**
as if moonlit skies
clear the air for morning’s light
its own place to play
**
the real reason for a poem
is that it says
**
where the guiding principle
of this tradition lies
is in question:
**
small songs, each a breath
of the larger stream
leave little left to sing
but the next
**
seeing your short-comings
in light of all that holds you close
just the same
**
before morning dew
lifts its voice before
sunlit skies take hold
the day I hear
turns me that way
