Thursday, March 14, 2024

5 - 7 - 5, the process




Day’s last sunless light

chisels hillside houses clean,

scatters silvered clouds.



**



That paper-flick sound—


distinct from un-foldable,

non-scratching key-strokes.



**



Settled coffee warms

the wanting stomach—house-chills

wrap ankles and feet.



**



If one were to ask

about these little tellings,

less said is better.



**



healthy love re-fills


itself overflows each cup


more…never enough




**



bulb-flowers bobble

all the paths calling for spring


to just hurry-up



**



March means light meets me

at the door now, horizons

already past-tense.



**



light waves many ways,

often off the spread fingers

of those with no hands



**



after Nanao Sakaki


flames do re-ignite,

this we know; but it’s hidden

heat that knows the breeze

and passions that glow the same—

just break the mirror old man



**



Someone ate my leeks,

knowing before I the time

had come for harvest.

Cabbages are gone, roots chewed.

Only kale remains, tall and mute.



**



Ants roam at will.

I can’t seem to out-think them.

We seek different things.



**



Chilled air doesn’t stop

ants their long strings of tracking,

nor my following.



**



I dreamed I touched you,

your fingers    squeezed   in the night

I woke and dropped them.



**



When asked, and it is,

why this left coast, not the right?


Left is right for me.



**



Walking with Jesus?


Many friends and family do.

And I walk with them.



**



That I don’t like you 

says nothing of harm or hate.

We may become friends,

your bite become your humor,

your criticism helpful.



**



Those white cupped flowers

Mom loved so much, drip with dew

and last night’s rain drops.



**



How the quiet spreads

around pooled syllables, how 

the heart finds its rest.



**



What comes first—motion

or sensor—what of the light—

when and what it shows ??



**



Haiku single out

significance—the old sage

says so, conviction


double-underscored, the pen,

medium pointed smooth blue.



**



Drizzled-grey returns.

Glistening morning streets swish

with songs of headlights.



**



How many checks made

out to who for what—click-click;

again click. All done.



**



Takahashi said

time brakes, time breaks, for no one.


Coffee, and a sweet.


Sunday, March 10, 2024

each time the first time...





I was go-

ing to say


something like

the foolish-


ness of it

all—but no,


it’s more like,

no it’s just


me, my, our

foolishness


that offers

the only


real start:



**



Almond blossomed first

before plum petals reaching


to test for spring.



**



each step,

every

foot-fall


in place

earth takes

and holds:


when we 

fall, when

we die:


earth & sky



**



—after Juan Carter 

                and Allen Ginsberg


how to haiku


notice things,

tell about them, tell 

a bit more



**



sitting 


      still


         breathing


clearing breathing 

         clearing clouds



**



—if anyone asks of last words…


caught myself gently


caught in wholeness


all    ready     being


eighty now

teaching how

eighty is


here


now



**



in bed,

the blankets up


to the very end of this very day—


brimming lips needing 

not even 


a murmur



**



in window light 

pouring coffee  

 


steams glasses

and the cup


gurgles something 


about winter 

mornings



**



prayer perhaps it is

like morning moonlight touching

almost open blinds


illumined waiting hearts 

woken there 

in song



**



each time we ask

the electric kettle


complies fully until

that click


heard ‘round the kitchen

completes


the task at hand

begun 


with fingers



**



Whatever the answers thought,

either lost or forgotten,

I leave them there now

where answers go

and do my best to stay

right here.



**



By way of introduction, I tell

the small group of mostly young,

mostly strangers


I don’t remember 


what I did before 

retirement—that I these days 


justify existing daily by 

making hot coffee


for sipping while scribbling things 

looking like poems—you know, 


words strung out in lines 

not reaching the margins,


that leave lots of room

for breathing:



**



When in the light,

I’ve noticed of late,

I stumble less…



**



The moon

reveals itself today

directly west


above the hills

the sky 

holds—


nothing said


but what

the woodpecker says…


is then 

what I’ll say:



**



on day 29

February mists


deep wet fogs,

claims winter’s name

for this

extra 

day



**



so many these mornings spent

knowing I know no more

than this day’s sayings


and even that slips and trips 

over thought before question, talk

before hearing—


and yet, and yet, here I am,

nonetheless, here I am



**



Some ask what words

matter, others why

at all, all the while 

lifting those that do

they think and dropping

those they think don’t—not hearing


for all their talk, the living 

streaming through

it all.



**


after Sonojo…


yes, there was a time of and for

and now is another

outside any canon


intimations, limitations

daily parting light

revealing…


Buddha’s name from the lips,

poems from the pen, 


breathing in-between…