Poems

—the poet Albert Saijo says always travel light

         “OPEN MIND IS WEIGHTLESS”

**

I mean, it was nothing more than 

I liked the way

they appeared to be thinking

moving through the world,

what they seemed to move 

toward

and so

not so much followed as 

tried that direction too—

ya’ know…

**

Saijo lived on the edge

of a volcano, 

also said 

if you’re not

on the edge, 

you’re taking up 

too much 

room.

**

—from “Trip Trap”

a haiku

by my friend

Ananda,

who was Claude

before that

and ran with

famous and

infamous

beat nick guys

all around

the country,

one who left

this of his

on a page

in the book:

Ah the moon—I see it

in the wine 

I spilled.

**

—the way—it is

lying on the bed,

sitting on the couch

with the old woman

watching daily soaps

she loves as much

as she does you, whoever 

you’ve become,

for her,

still you, 

still here 

for her

**

owls,

from the darkened canyon,

a duet

**

February first

at the crest of the hill,

warm wind rains through 

fruit blossoms.

**

February’s first week opens

almond blossoms 

in the front yard, 

quiet white 

drinking drops 

reaching drinking roots 

urging limb tips to full fill.

**

Without a word, 

rains leave cold 

room enough

to move in, 

heater heat 

following.

**

And words

of course so many, too many sometimes 

not barely enough

finding us finding them, when neither how

nor where seems known: quiet, 

close-by presence.

**

inch-by-inch,

Issa knew haiku

find light

**

the new emperor’s clothes

can’t hide his belly which hides

from him how we see, where we walk, 

without which he’ll eventually trip 

and fall—earth, don’t worry, won’t shake, 

but will nonetheless take him in, 

just like it does all the other shit

**

Clouds gave me two miles

in street-lamp shadows, then

couldn’t hold it anymore.

**

Given the temperature

of these times,

I knelt close to the earth

before my whispered request

for citizenship here.

Because of the number of songs

already walked, I was grandfathered

in with open invitation to learn

to make clearer the singing 

already heard. 

***

Watershed:

rain 

waters

ocean

bay

waters

**

Hiking

watershed streams

with the grandson—

frogs chant

for recent rains

and blossoms bless all 

who find their way

along these slopes.

**

Stepping into night air,

looking up at the moon,

wondering: other than up,

what direction that might be said

to be, feeling lucky my feet

don’t seem to need to know.

**

Light

leaks

earlier now,

streets turn friendly,

warmer,

even when cold—

leaves

lean in,

green hills

beckon.

**

—dharma science:

existence unfolds

   unforeseeable unknown

      random variables

         unendingly—only change

            can be counted on

**

Willows, more willows,

always one of the first

to feel for spring.

**

In through the willows, 

past creek fern, sleeping buckeye, 

swallowed by moss-filled oaks, the hum 

of hummingbird sage and out 

to the break of the canyon’s rim where 

open sky grasslands 

hold small yellow splotches 

of wild foothill parsley: 

for my eyes, to see.

**

Last night’s storm litter 

across the courtyard,

stuck to windshields,

singularly white petals

of almond blossom 

songs to spring.