No turning back

I’ve begun to realize how fortunate I’ve been

that my feet have known earth’s language for so long.

An old friend, once bedridden, once said if you can’t walk,

you’re dead. I didn’t believe him then and still don’t.

It’s in the language, I think; but of this I’m sure:

no circle is so small as not to be included  

in surrounding horizons.

**

Of all of them, the closest to me is the comma.

It costs nothing more than the distance

of our conscious attention—a pause, awake.

In return, window enough to see now 

in relation to its possible nexts…

all told of course by the words

surrounding it.

**

Plumas National Forest  

named for it’s Feather River, 

it in turn named for the earlier plentitude 

of feathers there used by original peoples 

who spoke to the river as Ya-loo.

Old growth conifer 

linking the Sierra Nevada 

with the Cascades. 

Ours is the southern slope of Smith Lake, 

nicely spaced Sugar Pine, Douglas Fir 

and Lodge Pole, 

looking across at sparsely treed scree, 

outflow rushing east.

We eat and talk, late, into the fire. 

Sleep comes easy.

Mornings, the lake gives stillness.

The fish know, the rocks, the trees, the hillsides

drawn to its shores to lay on its face 

with the sky. 

During the long darkness before the third morning,

coals from the night’s fire creep beneath the stone ring 

to ignite collected debris—padded earth, red glow,

coals, tips of branches, sleeping sticks and wakened signals 

of smoke

squelched only in the silent happenstance 

of rising together with first light— 

not by smothering, not by lake waters first offered, 

nor the second, but only three, 

with the fullness of three.

In the aftermath, the fish, as they do, 

ripple the inscrutable composure,

and we, we return, as we do, to the lake’s edge 

to be received, and once again to receive.

**

Well maybe so but

it’s those weeds, each one

and all together, that hold

that hillside where it is,

green turning to brown.

**

The fantasy of walls…

I dreamed last night, long,

of a mountain lake

that returned each dawn

its stars 

to unhindered skies

that sang their songs 

on wind and breeze, 

that preserved their words 

on the change of leaves

and the mystery 

no wall will ever breach. 

**

The sun, up, but still east,

buried above 

dense cover of cloud and fog, 

shouts broken shards of sheen, flings 

brilliant pools of blinding light 

scattering across the bay,

so precise, shadow 

has no place.

**

Re-sounding the center—

                  a personal story

She walked through the door

into my life

     and equivocation’s grip loosened

          right there,

me following her home

into marriage, making family,

     making home,

          and all else ever 

swirled, and swirling, around that

unequivocal center, made of its self-

     making wholeness, 

          its real-living stuff, 

all subsequent study, all self-searching,  

contemplative tools of appreciation,  

     of understanding of the wherefore

          and the what

of this singular human experience

and the all and every

     of its joyous

          sustenance

at work on the lift and whiff

of the sacred scent of love 

     at every door 

          ever since opened.  

      

The heart-mind, the human soul, 

     knows its own center, performs 

          its perennial, prismatic functions— 

                        

                      flawlessly

negotiates, gravitates, gathers 

       and refracts, even as we dance 

           its periphery, unaware— 

and the music, the music 

     when finally heard, finally recognized, 

          is the full re-sounding 

of everything true, for you—for you, 

     

the resonance of home, the gifted center

of vision’s strength, the quivering celebration 

     of world as spirit felt 

          in the depths of your bones.

**

Steep, the trail here is steep.

I stop at coffee berry blossoms.

The hummingbird takes to sticky monkey. 

And hawks circle with the sun.

**

Fogs blanket heavy and long this morning,

without descending the canyons, 

without chill—the first sliver of blue

just before nine, cleared sky well after,

well-promised heat delivered in full,

sitting here now, just sitting.

**

The heat holds something all its own

the dogs must sense, the crows

too making noise for reasons 

so thin or not there at all, something

swallowed by a nothingness

that nonetheless suggests 

something.

**

It’s not unusual these days that days slip by 

like tasks lost to forgetfulness, misplaced lists 

unknowingly swept away, discarded, recalled, 

then again set aside until tomorrow.

The old woman in the story too, old even when young,

couldn’t remember the feel of “wanting anything” anymore. 

Yet, quite readily, she met each spring, 

colors and papers in hand, met the coming spring 

at its chosen place, 

in its time, 

and followed through till earth firmed 

in winter’s grip.

The tall flowers in the front courtyard

stand today fully open and so utterly still, 

it’s as if air is simply not there—yet we call 

each other so vividly, I lean forward in my chair.

After the escape, what then?

Directions:

The groves spread thin at the top,

double-trunk oaks turn 

to open grasses and scrub, 

the trail draws the canyon’s upper arc 

to the other side, and the road there

takes you, either way.

**

So still outside

the open window,

pale pink petals

in tangled green,

glowing shadows,

the sifting fall of sunlight 

and in here, the page 

rustling whispers to the pen.

**

The second seriously warm day

carries early sounds of hammer-strike, 

the thin clack of framing perhaps, not heavy,

but rapid rhythms and stuttered breaks

of production, of satisfaction certain, 

of work at play on the air.

**

After days of burdensome heat,

cloud cover dampens the weight

of today’s sun, makes promises

we hope it can keep. 

A crow seconds helpful thoughts. 

Morning’s air carries the motion.

**

What makes a song

is whatever the music

heard—the tinkle of glass,

Ginsberg said, says a poem

as lovely as love does—so listen

and be glad you have.

**

The Pacific floats random splotches

of white, rolls altered shades of grey,

holds slow breaking waves

and thinly strewn shadows,

all of this making way 

as we make ours.

**

Ketchikan

We dock in light rain, grey skies

over forest covered hills. A free shuttle

idles just across from public restrooms, 

a coffee shop on the far side of Water Street.

The town, five blocks long, scatters 

early traffic, but mostly just waits

**

Skagway

I’ve seen before

snow covered peaks, 

canyon hanging clouds

and deep harbor blues.

But Skagway is so much

its own, I’m almost afraid

to ask how long its light 

has been.

**

poem as poet—poet as poem

the heart-mind, feeling-thought, 

seat of intentions’ resonant center,

presenting through words

**

Open ocean reminds us

sight goes just so far

and maybe just far enough.

**

It occurs to me

while walking this morning

that while I often don’t know

what the next step is to be

in this life, these feet do.

**

Lights across the valley

sneak through cracks

in the blinds, remind me

of the looming hillsides

hiding now as darkness,

their ruse given away

by the unhindered innocence

of sparkle—I turn my eyes

to the night skies.

**

The building guard grimaces

a tight-lipped “second floor” response 

to our restroom request, later managing 

half-smiled eye-contact, in return 

to our departing waves.

**

Morning sunlight finally finds the window

letting to the carpet, spreads about 

my bare feet as readily as patio shadows

drink illumination, open petals glistening

crescents on ripple dappled leaves—

quiet workings, so close, so intimate, 

so easily missed, unless not.

**

The poem, then, is something happening

in and of language itself

that catches our attention just because

it does—the poet’s role, to touch

by listening, so as to share the continuity

of consciousness there—self-expression

but one part of the whole heard,

attentive readiness the preferred posture.

A poem then, if we open to the occurrence,

shapes us as we might think to shape it.

**

Laney College, Oakland

At the edge of the community garden, 

the lift and catch of airborne water, the estuary 

plays in breezes enwrapped in the constant run 

of freeway songs, sifting nearby trees and slow

collecting aromas of sun-baked hay.

The campus feels of these things as does a home 

the voices that roam unhurried there—murmured stories 

of student commutes, bird calls and leaves, passing traffic, 

children’s laughter, the staccato cries of lingering geese.

Laney

**

The blinds

The blinds in the room where I write are raised to cover the upper quarter 

of the window, but are never fully closed. I peer through angled slats and 

the underside of the wooden trellis just outside, enabled to sit hidden, doubly, 

from whatever eyes perched on the neighbor’s balcony, yet still exposed 

to filtered sunlight and the full press of happenings in the front yard.

The window opens from either side with horizontal pushes that create vertical

rectangular openings. Breezes in spring and summer come in strong gusts, trees 

and bushes jump and wave and bob and whoosh. But for the blinds, only the far ends, 

exposed to narrowed passing streams, quiver. Like aspen leaves seen in the distance, 

resonance un-sounding, echoes lost. Yet, voiceless transmissions received. 

The mute and resilient interior looking out over silence. 

Breezes know their own...

Breezes feel their way with blossomed branches 

and bamboo leaves alike, gentled ripples

of morning after-light, soft-breath arrival

in the wake of a storm-spent night.

**

And the words, collected lettered sounds

relating; heard, envisioned, rhythmical waves, 

suggestions of meanings, always just there, 

just beyond; the collectively held, holding 

the collective—we. 

Even when alone, we.

**

After dinner, gulls glistened over the bay,

low sliding flashes on differing shades 

of blue—later, at home, in the back,

the darkening crisp of ridge line 

in night coming sky.

Startled by perception so bereft 

of periphery, I reach for the pillow, 

fold my legs, and hope 

to not chase it away.

**

After days of heavy rains, 

I can’t tell if it’s the moon

that’s naked, morning’s sky

or finally my mind.

**

A plan emerges, of sorts, 

settling occurs and suddenly

the coffee tastes better.

**

Though larger this morning, the moon

goes before day break behind the ridge,

a close horizon that determines much

of the feel of our days here—

I can’t say it dominates, neither does it 

hover; it’s more a presence-ing, 

an attending, a quality—

like how real personality offers, 

just by being.

**

Bottom line, I know nothing of poetics,

or of poems for that matter, except 

that I’m here, I write, and sometimes

some groups of words catch my attention

just so.

**

And despite all that’s said of gentle closured acceptance,

of warmed inner connections, it often comes down to 

you, me, alone, if not gasping, alone and dissatisfied,

unable to discern, unwilling to swallow—yet, and yes,

yet again, all this, nonetheless, this moment’s nourishment.

**

Light enters freely 

through wide windows,

leaves just enough corner-room

for dark to linger 

long enough to share 

its poems.

**

canyon songs

—from an outcrop seat

at the edge of town looking down

grasses and scrub waking to the sun 

clouds that part and lift the pale

ancient songs 

from distant lands

and the resonant calls  

of wind-swept walls—

for my teachers

**

of things that cannot be owned—

of pause, of quiet, of desire, 

of movement, and the continuity of moment 

shared there

**

so easily lost

as to be dropped mid-breath

yet so readily there

as to be retrieved

in the catch

of a finger’s twitch

**

Given time, whatever it is

this time, passes too.

**

Spring zazen—open windows,

passing planes and crows join in—

to think it’s only breath is to miss 

too much of what body-mind 

is saying to the world

saying…