Connections....

 —Sunday to Seattle

Above the clouds, blue.

Below, passing miles count

the way northward.

*

Pacific northwest

rains take us in like old friends,

ready or not.

*

The timeshare’s quiet

and compact— just what we need,

asks nothing of us.

*

Rain or rain, we walk,

breathing streets to the Sound’s edge.

History speaking,

architecture answering—

how the city sees itself.

***

Maple leaves outside

the window signal silence

as rain drops its drops.

**

And when the sun comes,

clouds gather whiteness to watch

blue squeeze its way through.

**

—after the scholar’s statement

are religious qualities

in artistic pursuits signs

and if so what is signaled

a deterioration

of those qualities or insight

into deeper dimensions

or are both one and the same—

ancient messages of change 

**

Something in the air

celebrates—all passers-by

fellow travelers.

**

—Dale Chihuly

“It’s not about constantly searching 

for something new—new just happens.

I’m an artist, I just keep working…”

**

Gulls answering calls

this morning, any offered,

speak to clouds what’s heard,

not of rain, but of what’s lost,

what, but for calling, is gone.

**

Listening deeply,

more keenly to everything,

weakens grips and holds,

widening circles letting

trust determine friend and foe.

**

—Seattle, after Bainbridge…

It’s a Saturday,

the new place quiet and light,

spacious—trees, a yard.

Last night, young people.

University-charged air, 

brisk and energized

as the air in the Sound’s winds,

as air walked-in

on earth risen to meet it, sea air,

island air breathed in, 

each heart-beat tracing the taste, 

every step pulsing newness.

**

Under the left wing,

snow-covered mountains watch us.

Seattle—Portland.

**

The words curve

to the page

like fingers

to the palm

stroke

to unfold

the questions

the poems

reveal.

**

—the ”Buckman,” neighborhood, Portland

            

           above The Basement Public House

Standing in not enough light,

pulled on by a dangling chain,

not wanting to see too much

anyway, we say out loud,

we’re too old for this—and then,

set out to settling in.

**

—Portland to Jersey

Leaves cover walks

to porch-sitting pumpkins—here

bringing me back there,

to then—an old man’s childhood

never too far off to touch.

**

Language 

is the law of connection

expressing.

**

That voice that covers 

the hills vibrant with gold, tells,

tells me why I’m here.

**

The earth has said “No.”

With everything around us

listening, you’d think…

**

—The Heart Sutra

Streams of careful curls

and strokes of charactered thoughts

of living meaning

hang long on the quiet wall,

silk and rice and ink,

cherished sutra of the heart,

traced threads of human being.

**

The ever-clouded

light of knowing resting there

in peripheral presence,

the pen’s tears drop to the page,

quietly waiting, all aglow.

**

We can walk the hills

with friends or among strangers.

Names wait to be called.

**

Mid-October winds

remember for us, summer-dry 

hints of fire.

**

From the other room,

feint sounds of the TV, warmth

for a yard-tired body.

Pandemic has taken a lot,

old age it’s share too.

But this remains yet, we two,

different rooms of one life.

**

The counting of syllables

is the making of language—

there is no separate process

at work but meaning making—

process and form simply not 

the point.

**

Day breaks clear and cold.

Street lamps linger, speak of night,

breathing speaking living.

**

After twenty years, 

the crumpled-fingered floor guy

says, “you were young then.”

**

Following the words

where ever they lead, next moves

figured out later,

the poet sits in the bed,

traces trails outside the window.

**

Mid-way down the slope,

awareness surfaces, bares

morning’s shadowed lines—

confusion scatters, mountains 

clear, peaks round and clouds scratch pink.