—allowing ourselves
remembrance heals
The moon
shone through the window
to the carpet at my feet.
Trust, it said.
**
prę-dawań poems say
things not so easily heard
over daytime din
ears clear, attention open,
earth sounds music just for you
**
—Anthony
given permission
by the wise young man, I’m free
to not say goodby
**
Early September
and already morning light
coming more slowly.
Whatever chill the air holds
is low in the hills,
soft pink clouds breathing themselves
into white, dark grey
rabbits paused before their hops
to disappearance—
and all these jumpy thoughts too,
even delight, just won’t linger.
**
Words freely spoken,
rhythmic syllabled
cuts of breath-like leaps
from a river’s rush—
whatever prayers we offer,
straight-forward insight is here.
**
—the haiku
human presence simply said
**
**
Unseen planes pass heard
from clear blue sky that lets breeze
eddy just bared skin.
Traffic streams, tree leaves rush
and non-rushed pulse just pulses.
*
Car door open
to sunlight, I sit, write,
words drawn
softly out.
*
Eucalyptus trees
hold place specific, reach high
for everything else.
*
What more might be said
by another sitting here
instead, I can’t tell.
**
**
There are rules, guidelines.
Pretty much given up now,
I follow humming
birds’-wings and the colors traced
in the fragrance of flowers.
*
Syllables aren’t rules
but the way breath meets
meaning-making.
**
(s)he tells = we, us all
**
The half-moon’s brightness
dropped below the horizon
blackens the night sky.
**
—after Joanna Macy
Legs tired from work
yesterday, today’s sun shines
gold into morning
streets deserted, ravines filled
with burnt rusted leaves.
Listen to it all, she says
—trails creasing the hills
call in voices that utter
underfoot the earth’s crying.
**
The way the fog leaks
canyon bottoms, to the bay,
funnels the Golden Gate
and on the peninsula,
in cleared skies, how we drink it.
**
A stretch and a walk
and poems made, with coffee.
What else to ask for ?
**
The pink flower “pinks,”
which is “whisper” in our tongue,
only “almost-voice.”
**
I didn’t day-dream
this morning who I might be,
just followed my feet.
**
The long-planned good-by
slips by unwanted, like winds
abated—who asks ?
**
Moon’s mountains—I watch
mystery’s shadowed brightness,
distance almost close.
**
Air so quiet, night
arranges day without a sound.
Even thought pauses.
**
That great scientist
Einstein valued mystery
over certainty
and the smiles of those close
over “uncalled for…esteem.”
**
In our current State
of affairs, just slowing down
might be suspicious.
**
In our tradition,
we follow our feet, or words
that follow the feet
on the breath that works the feet
in whatever work they do.
**
Living widening circles
leaves the self its star-
like limitations.
