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.
