The books, so many
taking shelf-space—which of them,
at seventy-eight,
calls in ways that matter now
and how do I know
I’ll know now, when up till now,
I’ve known so little ?
That teacher, Fukuoka,
“do-nothing” farmer,
surrendered knowing, practiced
watching, and found his life there.
**
Fog lays on the streets,
deep in creviced hollows—
we wade our way, waiting
for sound to show us shadow,
thinking fog lifted will help us see,
hoping sight will touch the real,
then remembering
it’s the fog that feels.
**
Earlier, the clock spoke
of earliness, but now speaks
with coffee, of now,
which seems much more better than
then, which, right now, seems ok.
**
A flush or a twist,
the sump-pump motor vibrates
and jolts the house frame.
**
—He said…
“life itself has more
imagination than we,”
if we just let it.
**
**
**
—When adhering to traditional Japanese roots,
haiku written in English conforms to three lines,
the first, 5 syllables, second 7, and 5 for the third,
a 17 syllable poem, where less is always more.
in haiku, the form
examines experience
scattered with words
in haiku, the form
slows us down to consider
closer impressions
in haiku, the form
re-discovers differently
what we think we’ve seen
in haiku, the form
ripples life’s contours, surface-
seeking what life seeks
in haiku, the form
disturbs our self-involvement,
opens other views
in haiku, the form-
value is its engagement,
not an end result
in haiku, the form-
dynamic is count and sound,
vibrations of breath
in haiku, the form
invites human awareness
to fields of living
in haiku, the form
is energy’s own soundings,
feeling for itself
in haiku, the form
can only say in passing
that it has passed by
in haiku, the form
is the counting of pebbles
turning in stream’s rush
**
**
**
“And so, Poets,” he said—
he spoke to me—I knew
by the lilt in his voice,
the tilt of his head,
and his hands
as they laced with the words
in the air filled with awe
and the thought met with there—
and my feet touched the ground
where the world turns round.
**
Living with nature,
I take the stairs to the yard,
stepping on dry leaves.
Night air is chilled, moon halved—stars
sparkle dim, and a truck starts.
**
In the south, the moon
silver-gleams confirmation
of shared presences.
Softly, into morning’s chill,
my smile, and the sky’s glow.
**
Most places I’ve been
in the world I’ve been able
to find an OK
cup of coffee, or better.
My daughter-in-law
faults my standards, built upon
spooned instant Folgers,
but there’s room for discussion.
Believe me, I like
her coffee; but why standards
of “not this,” when there’s “this too” ?
**
In the midst of all
I hold on to for dear life,
that which can’t be held.
**
The weather people
again suggest drought’s grip.
Fresh winds can’t shake it.
**
ordinary life,
nothing more, but nothing less
and, thankfully, so
gracefully filled and filling
to overflow with poems
**
Here is always right
and on time—sacred names called,
are—it’s about voice.
**
Reading of haiku.
Rustling pages, printed words—
hills glisten with lights.
**
Planning the garden,
which seedlings like each other
and how that might help
that whatever that happens,
as days make room for just that.
**
a walk in the sunlight
flashing glints of bay waters
hillside windows blink
**
Light joining my walk.
A lone woodpecker pecking.
Steps-thoughts-words, and breath.
**
Morning light. Shadows
on sidewalks thin, Street lamps blink
to off. Chill lingers.
**
Along with light’s change,
loose-rooted weeds, willing earth
and almond blossoms.
**
Along with light’s change,
energy flows, muscles stretch,
tiredness abates.
**
Ebbs and flows, eddies,
streams and rivers, tides, currents,
waves, and sparks—light’s stuff,
life’s stuff, our stuff’s sustenance,
working its work, as it does.
**
in the air here now, flowers
**
and on the mornings
darkness is insistent,
why not just demur?
**
The physical therapist
told me to push it—I pushed
into morning’s breeze, looking
for chill, but found there instead,
toothless siblings singing songs
to spring,..
