Tuesday, September 9, 2025

7,000 steps

 







7,000 steps

brings good health—1 breath poems 

set you free



**



having learned the earth

was here for him, Stafford

followed words wherever…



**



words disappear

as spoken—


stop worrying



**



two black birds circle

the jutting deck 


I splatter the page—



pressing pen, gripping lines,  

the real gist winging away



**



having secretly planned

long walks in the hills, inch by inch

the body says no



**



cranes call out

to darkening skies

their coming home



**



the waters, the birds,

the drowning sun


gatherings at dusk



**



we wait, they fly

edges, wetlands, dimming light—

craned necks, one sky



**



a suite of crane-calls— 

memories stretched and fluttered

into syllables



**



water’s answer

to the calls, 


the splash



**



morning: 

dark stretches 

into reaching light



**



for Johnny


we sat that evening

in your great sadness

not knowing we’d never

sit that way again

over these sixty years’

distance, moments

of buried intimacies

revealed in running tears

as real now as then—we were

friends, we were…and

neither distance nor silence

can change that 



**



morning fog, high clouds


no shadow, no warmth



**



the student spirit

bubbles to almost bursting


each breath the one breath

pushing whatever’s next



**



writing tanka

in counted English sometimes

works—sometimes penned poems

sequence secrets

in empty space



**



same things not the same

day to day—difference is true


the window’s bamboo



**



through the window, dawn’s light 


sets the desk a'glow


 

**



passing light 

whispers of dust 

on the shelves



**



because counting

listens, each count 

cultivates… 


the way 



**



as for the poem,

if counting’s heard in the song

the poet’s failed it



**



the body

carries memories

the mind forgets—


letters to widows

never get it right



**



the deep red rose,

the altar vase


from here, 

no smell



**



one way or other

the bamboo outside the window

always speaks of breeze



**



waving tree-tops weave

what we can’t see, what limbs, leaves

and open skies tell



**



from the valley floor,

garbage trucks—


silent slopes



**



we lean in to point 

to contention—jays swoop in 

to empty branches


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