water-skims
and puddles
on the deck
whisper secret
rain-dreams
as we sleep
**
One of the many ways to like
Robert Lax the poet is
at my same age now he continues
to scoff at notions of wisdom
in favor of the ancient practice
of patience,
calling all else fool’s games
of fancy names.
And showers persist into rain
two days through their nights
into blue skies, green hills
and two feet
led to the feel of perpetual promise.
**
ducks
two groups, two and three,
take what seems the whole
of the bay’s sunrise surface
to send silent signal-circles
of the living presence of
the bounties beneath
webbed feet
**
if you
have not
in spring
smelled lilac,
yes, do—
it’s spring
**
so often
I don’t see
then do see
the light light
the way back
to right here…
**
I do think
I’ve finally figured out
the fool’s smile: confusion
embraced
**
phenology, the study
of how nature changes
over time—my face
in the mirror
**
two clean
journal
pages
remain
before
the re-
cycle
bin takes
its turn
pages
turn too
do like
we do
turn like
leaves do
and fall…
letting
breath and
breeze turn
free
over
earth’s
turn
**
Searching
my mind
this day
seems
to mean
a sweep of eyes
over it all
finds no where
to land—
and if freedom
is the goal,
where’s the problem ?
**
I can’t know, can only guess
what the old learned ones came to know,
to see, of themselves, of the world,
except for what they might have said
that was heard
but I do know I can come to know
this moment’s coming to fruition
at the bottom of this
once empty page.
**
drawn back
to explanation,
I catch myself,
re-member, re-call
fingers pointing
to the moon,
its light letting us see
**
early dark-chilled streets take your breath
with a snap—no wimps here, what you get
is to breathe with those thoughts
that woke you—so, shut up
and listen
**
sun broke bright
orange flames
then lost itself
behind cloud-
claiming light
taking morning
for it’s own
**
—ji-nen honi
after storms, blue sky
wakes horizon’s reach
of greens and browns
to the sun for the day
as we lift our eyes
**
Spoons tinkle cups
in the kitchen—bells
of our quiet living,
or tolling
for nineteen lost
on Negros—darkness
falls on both.
**
Said softly, whispered
so as not to spoil,
the ache and fatigue
of aging hips and thighs melts
at the shift from street to trail,
remembers resilience.
**
the quiet of the room
doesn’t move like the leaves
outside the window do
but then, I breathe…
