Saturday, October 18, 2014

But that was yesterday...





Even in Croatia, the day composes
the poet-scribe—and translation, well,
that seems to come of its own.
                                     9/1


**


The isle of Korchula—4 AM

The wife slips out of bed
to meet church bells.

One for each hour
enters the air-conditioned hum

to flicker unsatisfactorily.
Answers fail confused complaints

and sleepless dreams
surround the darkened waves

of empty space, everywhere.
Nothing touches of home.
                                                          9/3


**


Budapest—the date on my watch
rolls and clicks, so it must be so.

Through the lobby doors,
past the old men in the park,

crows hold place in towering limbs,
crouched and muted shadows,

shuddering rains.
                                             9/14



**


Prayer and gratitude—

and do I find them again
or they again find me

in heart-felt folds,
on lips and breath

that say yes…
             

**


Of current events

and where to turn
in a world such as this
today…but to that concert
of singular heart beats…


**


9/16

At home, after weeks away, fits
like skin rediscovered.


**


Looking at 71—even at this age,
startled by my own shadow.
                                                    9/20


**


Look long
into the night sky
before saying alone
aloud—and even then,
if asked, I’d say
OK to that.


**


Mists clear with the coming light.
Morning prayers, the soft rush of breath
made whole for the world at large.


**


As a young man, I didn’t fully appreciate
how the music moves on its own,
how despite misplaced apprehensions,
songs were there all along.


**


10/8

After Ko Un

Early autumn leaves.

Will I dance too,
when I leave?


**


Indian Summer

We watch each other
across the courtyard

in the front of the house,
the hummingbird and I,

where shadows
first begin to stretch

beyond the reach
of the day’s sun.


**


Why poetry ?

Because of the way the words spill
to leave in their wake intimations
of insights gleaned from where
they have come, from where
they themselves have been.

                                “…if poetry is life, and I believe it is…
                                           when the words come, I trust
                                               they’re the right ones.”
                                                                                Robert Lax



**


Krishnamurti believed
we should write
our own sutras.

I’ve come to see
how right
that is.


**


Simply, to communicate.
Not to argue, nor convince,
but to simply communicate, simply.

                                                           10/17

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