Moonscapes

           

           —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.