First page poems

First page poems

                        June 2018

There’s nothing quite like first page writing,

the cushioned fullness of the journal’s endless 

possibilities pulling pen-point present 

into free-range future, without lifting 

from the page—both here and there,

then and now, this and that and whatever else

that sense and no-sense wholeness brings

into the field of living-into-dying reality we are.

The pen’s place, like the breath’s,

drawn by its own moves: 

**

This moment, yes, is all,

though its move into the next

is all the rest.

**

The last of the cherries from the tree

next to the fence next to the stairs

to the yard, were deep red sweet,

these pits, here in the bowl

in the sink in the kitchen,

a thank you note

to next spring.

**

Words find their way first, we following 

directions they take, our revisions 

the exploration of where we find ourselves 

then.

Intimate with their own roots, words

tell us what we think, guide us

to what’s next, better 

than we can guess.  

**

I’ve let go the news pretty much

except for what I get from voices

living in the air in front of me—that space 

the best to engage for me with what’s mine 

to give. Light reaches around the globe, 

but touches each thing where it stands.

**

Darkness falls without sound.

Complete in its self-telling, we understand 

without having to hear.

**

gold-dust morning sunlight

breaks over the bay 

fire-burst dazzle and day stars

blind, delight 

turn the face 

and steal its words

**

We swim

because

we trust

balance

a bike

because

arms a-

kimbo

make it so.

**

I’m at that age now where friends 

and acquaintances are dying. In the wake

and tracks left behind, each in their way

say what those old poets have said

all along—life without death 

isn’t being lived.

**

The sun wakes slow, coaxing, 

before its blazing, coaxing all things out. 

Even the deepest crevices turn their darkest sides 

into its coming—I’ve seen this 

even in the bleakest deserts—before the blaze, 

everything shows up.

**

Bahia de Banderas

Outside the closed curtains, 

beyond the coastal edge, 

the precipitous drop and depths

of bay waters answers the Pacific.

The perennial conversation

of the place of continents 

in a world of waters—how long

they’re expected to last.

**

Puerto Vallarta

At the Marina, the calls of the boat men.

I’ve wondered if the slower pace is more 

a function of a longer culture. Have you,

have you noticed the music air-born 

at the end of the strings of the Spanish 

spoken here—the pause, the lift 

the time continued beyond 

what outside ears 

can hear ?

**

I know the shadows back home

where you’ll find smooth-skin madrone.

And knowing now their red fruit to be

edible, clearly remember the leaf-strewn trail

that goes there.

**

His face is square, mustache chopped

like his hair. Blue shirt, strong body, 

he doesn’t look up as we pass, 

bare sidewalk silent as the winds 

between us.

I believe though, we don’t pass through, 

no matter how it seems, we don’t pass

without notice taken—prayers,

like this one, are given 

just for this.

**

What is it about aging

that only someone aging can appreciate?

Well, aging. Like when they took my face

and replaced it with that older guy. 

The eyes seem the same, but for years

I’ve looked through them, not at them.

It’s happened to my friends, but I’ve not asked,

for fear of seeming rude—though their eyes,

from what I can see, are indeed the same.

There’s something about smiles too

that clearly elude the grasp of this mystery 

among us, that makes whatever it is seem ok.

**

Tell me the distance is imagined, not real,

and I’ll believe, at least for a bit. For the least

is enough, for the while.

**

This early light touches without claim,

reveals what isn’t revealed without it,

asks nothing other than revelation.

**

In jungled foothills

streams always have something to say, 

but it’s the leaves who speak first

with sunlight.

**

for Paul—Puerto Vallarta

Returning from Old Town, 

they droop over the roadway

like moon flowers

planted in the median,

twin-bulbed blossoms

lighting traffic either direction-

flow through warm night air,

elbows jutting windows

turned down to face-catch

the breeze, cab driver

unaware of the treat 

he’s giving.

**

Mexico City—Coyoacan

In the garden across from the market,

bird song in the leaves, sparrows

flutter for grilled kernels scattered

among filled benches, emptying,

filling again—laughter, young voices,

traffic sounds, colorful aromas…

learning to fish without a hook,

tasting it all, the momentum

of the music, everything.

**

It rains late afternoons, floods the streets.

In Coyoacan yesterday, pounding hail

filled the gutters. Today, through the downpour

outside the window, an Azteca conch sounds, 

thunderclaps shake 

the Zocalo.

**

Home

Being ill at home is hands-down better

than being so away. I would die here well

too (he thinks)—looking out

houses scattered among trees scattered 

across the hillsides, under the clean arc 

horizon under blue skies

always anxious pacific fogs

and clear breaks of nighttime stars, 

the first always right over there

looking back, as it does, past

my pointing finger, right into 

my eyes.

**

It’s obvious,

at this writing,

that life hasn’t “left.”

How then

can its “return,”

its resurfacing,

feel so vividly real ?

**

after Jerome Rothenberg

to say in every possible way 

what cannot possibly be said

just as sun speaks clouds away

each word enters the world

opening in me