Wednesday, April 24, 2024

East facing slopes




    

    To me, to be alive is to write poetry.

    Writing poetry is nothing other than

    being alive.    —Santoka





At the crest of the hill

sky opens suddenly above


the bay, the distant city spreading


and this singular life seeing so much more 

of itself.



**



all through the night

waves of rain working their way

to morning light blue



**



Sitting quietly 

remembering Santoka 

sitting quietly.



**



What the real work looks like

can’t be determined


until already begun—going on,

or not, determining who


does it…

**



Dropping lesson plans, 

the poet counts syllables

with the eight-year-old.



**



Drop-in workshops means

watching people walking by.


In winter, fans wait.



**



The student-teacher link

is learning igniting the heat 

that never dies.



**



skin remembers moist breaths,

rain against the face, drops on the lips 

and chill between fingers 

bent round the cold—

skin remembers, stories unfold

and wholeness grows



**



To waken to fifty degrees

here is cold


not handled well

enough to satisfy


even the easiest among us

clutching our bodies’ complaints.



**



In the air above

the shadows above the yard,

cherry blossom scent.



**



Around the corner,

along the sidewalk, a rose

lives there—bright yellow.


Clear sky blue and cold,

uncertain spring does not stop

flowers from blooming.


The calendar works

its way—nature has its own,


like poems, like words. 



**



After the eclipse

the sun seems ok—the moon, 

no one ever asks.



**



Eclipse: all lined up,

all looking up, waiting 

for a shadow.



**



pawns are named so

in others’ games



**



Caught myself acting

the expert, but not before

the girl fell asleep.



**



5 - 7 - 5 finds

poems scholars can’t dream of—

let haiku do you



**



centered sharing means

teaching-learning goes both ways—


doing together



**



Doors clatter outside’s

lurking presence, but silence

holds the library.



**



Signals senders see received 

hit twice true, reach both, across


a singular voice.



**



All the words I’ve ever used have been borrowed. 

So, whatever legacy might be, might be imbedded 

in whatever touching was nonetheless managed,

however feint, like starlight, maybe—I hope, 

I’d like to think.



**



Old age—sometimes feels

like I’m fading faster than 

my aches and pains.



**



Doves, on the phone lines

overhead, overheard—tails

and good vibrations.



**



after the party,

rains left cold so hard

ice fixed puddle edges,

the coffee won’t stay warm

and toes can’t remember

what warm is



**



Wild flowers spark

wet grassy hillsides like stars

in oceans of green.



**



Pacifica—does

the ocean know we’re here—pens,

the paper, waiting.



**



Is it the writing

that’s silent, or the silence 

that writes?


Each asks its own way.



**



the sun, it’s touch—

the hand’s slow pulsed word play


tipping the pen

to the page



**




If then, narrative

speaks in waves, haiku glances

wind-sprayed rivulets.



**



Sky-facing needles

lift soft spring green to sky’s blue,


dark-limbed shade below.



**




TV reflections:

mountain, green grasses, blue sky.

No signal needed.



**



Walking in 

from walking


outside—light

pouring in


through windows 

throughout the now lighted house—


each telling a different taste, 

each singing its own morning song.



**



I don’t know why, I don’t

know why so much

these days—but I do believe,

I sometimes think, only touch

remains ours, our touch,

its inherent intimacies alone 

may hold the only signals of return, 

may, alone, make for a way back.



**



That which leads the senses which

propel imagination which explores 

before and after and beyond


and the myriad creviced nuance

of the burning human wish for things

and for names


for me could be 

what we call spirit


and yet to really know 

this is far harder than

to name it



**



The tap of the spoon

on the edge of the blue cup

spells morning, at home.


Grey light chill slips through

last night’s left open windows,

speaks of fog’s return.


When I ask if this

is all there is, it says look

at the red fuchsia,


see the bamboo leaves

that quiver the window’s edge,

the singing breezes,


hear the resonance,

the pulsing day-life surging,

flowering open.


Tap the cup again

in remembrance of the all

that always surrounds.



**



The old man shuffles

to his car—cologne follows,

riding chilled air.


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