sparrow-like birds
pecking almond blossoms,
pause and look up…for photos ?
**
clear moon, full sky—alive in the cold
**
how many times
can east-facing windows
catch first morning sunlight
and still be simply amazing…..
**
hours in the hills with the sky
watching, reaching, kneeling,
asking among glistening
grasses
**
and so many the turns in this life,
back to within itself, and again from there—
leaf to root, to leaf—water to sky
**
winds gone, morning cold
clears dark skies, holding moon
more south than east, well beyond
the closest word
**
as if earthherself
wants to speak,
chant rises breath-full
on morning air
—and this is how
we know
**
yellow blossoms
dot green hillsides,
dreaming spring
**
February breaks half-way,
mornings leaking light enough
for us to peek past winter.
**
Not to do only what you like to do,
but to like what you do—a simplicity
often accused of being too simple.
**
cloud-feathered skies
and bare branches
excite crows
filling morning air
well before they’re seen
**
dreaming grasses, deep hues of weave-work
so close to earth, singular blades can’t be stopped,
roots refuse regulation, flowers are always welcome,
rain or sun-filled skies always smile
**
just the woodpecker and me
and this empty sky
**
Poet
Layli Long Soldier says
“But
is a small way
to begin”
—so I do—
not and, but
but
there’s this looking
now, at almost eighty,
to let weight
that drags
loose,
leaving
what’s left
light—small openings
for new beginnings.
**
bare-faced sky watches,
thunder trails, clouds leave,
fence flowers dance
**
after days of restless resistance
to new limitations, sleep finally comes easy,
bringing with it that ever-surprising freshness
of an old fool finally letting go
**
more absorbent than the finest paper, this air—
even the slightest breath-brush
cannot be taken back
**
the poet’s posture
is a comma-curve
of listening intimacy,
judge-less caution—a quiet curiosity
that links, that strings, that extends
without binding—open-cupped
embrace
welcoming whatever
comes next
—comma, the realm of the poet
**
even without my glasses,
outside, the gladiolas
**
testing negative—so quiet
without the rain
**
oceans of streams of rains
on the TV—here, wet shoes,
damp pant-legs
**
I like to say I’m a simple guy, but that
complicates it.
**
for the life of me, can’t imagine
my own death—is it right there, behind,
or a step ahead—either way, right here just now
always is
**
this morning’s half-moon
declares the sky its own—my feet
settle on the streets
**
I walk in the dark,
I explain to the crow,
because we change the clocks.
Waiting, she nods.
**
soft-shift brushes
arise—
bird calls, not clear,
yet there—
mind says words,
fingers say lines—
heart says yes, yes
**
in the dream, indecision requires resolution
others seemed to find—waking,
I still can’t explain
**
Do what you will with the clocks.
Light finds its own way, dark demurs,
but eventually follows.
**
—I think I heard spring sing…
in my dream,
the fence-contractor, who in non-dream life
lives the next street over, whose daughter
is a model in LA, refers to the “sanskrit
of the hills”
and the winds of my mind
take these earth-cored words
for the sacred that is meant there,
turn all directions of remembrance,
then rest in rhythms of conversations
of original consciousness
and on waking in morning and walking,
there in the grass in breaking grey, Coyote,
trotting just below the trail, turns at the edge
of the ravine, looks right into my eyes
and is swallowed gone,
with the last whispered whiffs
of winter…
**
hiding under the hood of the poncho,
fingers numb with grey-turned light,
slowly thrilling to this familiar,
ever-fresh tasting
of living
