Thoughts

Sometimes I've a concrete block for a mind,
ragged-edged, cool, heavy, flat and formed,
still and stacked, grey and glued to time.
Sometimes its a python, king of the grass,
still for hours and then swift to its quarry,
gulping the fat toads in the landscape of its eye.
Sometimes its that flight of birds that turns as one,
black, silver and black, down, out, up and back,
carving itself out of itself into the self of the air.
Today I am a mouse, who lives inside my house,
wanting and waiting for crumbs of my bread,
that I steal when I sleep from the crust of my head. 

One More Thing

What was it I needed to remember?
To set out clothes, feed the cat,
write a note before sleeping?
That I have forty days of things
already planned ahead this year,
and forty more half-baking?
Or that I am breathing like a lark,
quiet and close in the arms of evening,
that trouble weighs nothing
when you are no longer a scale,
that my sister runs with blood like mine,
that there is no home in space,
but there is no lack of home either,
home is the calling of bees to flowers,
the rush of pink on clouds at dawn,
or did I forget the eye that sees
the thirst of so many
in my overrunning cup?

Hungry

A small thing winked at me,
plump, vibrant, not exactly square,
moist, ready to exude,
not wood, not steel, not glass,
I'm not sure if I smelled it, but I might have
(I'm sure I smelled you island girl
when I met you in line for the retreat),
and it touched my belly
(I mean right through the goddamned AIR)
and I salivated,
and I thought something vague
like dreams of little cheesecakes
or petit-fours being served
in the swirl of a big party,
or a piece of cheese,
cheese can look like that,
and this had a wet red stripe across the top too,
and camambert can be covered with berries
and these thoughts pulled me somehow,
but not enough, for I was in my kitchen
where food is plentiful unless you're really super hungry
which I wasn't, I had time to wait for your sandwich,
when I am really hungry, then I throw cans around
looking for tuna like I was a shark,
but I was OK.

I remembered it the next day, actually,
as I was walking in front of the bushes
by the hospital at noon,
and I thought of salad,
and I bent down
and almost rifled through them
to see if they were too stemmy,
too waxy, too bitter, or sweet,
tender and nourishing.
I would know what to do
because I am an animal,
caring for its owner.

Island

I am angry at the slow car in front of me
and the fast one behind.
I am angry at the ghost of fortune
which I chase unceasingly, 
and the ghost of decay
which chases me.
I am angry at myself
for my habit of wishing
and at the wind of those wishes
which blows my sails apart.

Tonight, my love smells of coconut,
my cat of seashells.
A small and distant telescope
looks at me back through my dreams.
Someday, I will watch my life
in one ebony moment.
I will laugh at my anger,
sew any regret into
the seams of a new cloth.

Just for tonight
I wade ashore,
tell stories
in the flickering firelight. 

Bearing Lightly

We are under the cross
of the children of our desire
who were born with a missing chromosome,
who scream and throw things all day,
who are legion.

We are meeting
in the living room over black tea.
We are being studied by the curious.
We are crying and we are holding hands.
We are talking of our bondage,
and we are laughing with black mouths,
which God is not allowed to do.

Morning

You miss your cat again,
your tears fall into the empty space
that everything good tumbles into.
You see her saying goodbye
in the sun, on the grass,
on Tuesday morning.

The face you remember
is now a mask,
much like yours
only upside down,
she is smiling and warm
and your mouth bends
like a willow.

Meet her in the forge of this day,
where a bluebird has flown into the window,
fox is easing through brush,
crow is tasting the newborn air,
and the holly brushes heaven.

Set down your masks.
Ask her what you look like,
just for the hell of it.

Bluegrass Tune

Rolling in your arms on blue ridge hill
when that evening sun goes down,
listening to the whistle of the evening train
on the outskirts of crooked creek town.

You quiet the clatter of my troubled mind
while the birds take rest for the night,
and your heart holds mine like a honeysuckle vine
in the glow of the pale moonlight.

The rush of your touch is warmer than whiskey
and your lips are sweeter than dew,
I'll be yours my darling til the owl in the pine
sings hoo hoo ahoo cooks for you?

Rolling in your arms on blue ridge hill
when that evening sun goes down,
listening to the whistle of the evening train
on the outskirts of crooked creek town.

Limerick

Bruce's cat can open a latch
and walk its hide right through the door.
It must be satisfying
the sweet prize of trying
to do what you're not designed for.

Spring Again

Everything is a little more leafed out,
darker green, thicker, and more full.
We'll have cool mornings and warmer days,
rain will drip gently off the trees
before finding the ground.

Soon it will be summer,
where if I am very lucky,
I will find the heavy absence of time
in the bee-crossed air
under high rhododendrons
on a trail in the Poconos.

I will remember then that I am moist
and cannot walk too far without water,
so that I can leave soft and grateful footprints
for another season.

Stirring

Verily, I am tired of sleeping.
I have been with you so long,
under your tongue and behind your eyes.
Let me waken, take up form
between your fingers, be the difference
between your skin and the air,
come out past your stories and pictures.

Let horror and dream
flicker in the theater
and walk out,
into the cool night air,
which I feel
like a newborn's first bath,
where I want nothing else
but to bring you here,
let you feel
without wanting,
without time,
without measure.

Stillness

Stillness goes like this:

The restlessness of the body,
the gradual quieting of the body,
the particularities of breathing,
the noticing of striving,
the effort of watching more deeply
from some vantage point,
the end of wandering mind
and the remainder of breathing,
the ecstasy of unity of mind,
the building up of ecstasy
to fill the whole world,
the infinity of tastes, 
the peculiarities of existing,
the subtleties of craving,
the great fog of doubt,
the return to the investigation
of what is bound,
and the unspeakable allegiance to wisdom.

Cedar

Rumor has it that the guy across the street has died.
I didn't know him at all,
what with the quarter-mile driveway,
and no place to meet, ever.

Someone still cuts the ten-acre lawn,
with a four-blade riding mower and a big headset.
It's a beautiful property, and until recently,
I was wishing I was him.

An enormous cedar leans skyward,
halfway up the driveway,
while the house rests upon the hill,
emerging out of the forest.

I went out and had a chat with the cedar.
I was surprised to find that it cared.
I will never move, he said, and I can only hope
that someone like him will enjoy me, 
not cut me down for one more breath of space. 

First in a Series

Are there secrets in your body?
Do I feel them in your caramel arms,
the soft ropes of your middle, under stones
in the pool of your eyes,
and in little carvings in the cartilage
of your little girl knees?

I want to know them,
more than following X's
on treasure maps in treehouses
I drew with other boys,
more than putting my foot down
in the thin air of Everest
or a Mayan ruin snapped in photos
in my adventure books.

I'll be your boyfriend,
I'll fight for your honor,
help you find the will in the dusty box
behind a brick in the fireplace.

Later, you'll say no
when I ask to look in your diary.
I  will understand, hold you tight,
trace your goosebumps with my finger,
and give you something new to write. 

Risk

My son is going bungee jumping off Montserrat,
the rocky monastery in Spain,
home of the black Madonna.

I will be eating the entrée at the hospital cafeteria.

Random Facts and the Creator

One of whatever the tiniest particle can be
was out of phase when the universe exploded.
Without it, nothing would have bumped together and reacted,
all would be perfectly equidistant and lifeless.

Job was tested to see if he was
harboring some out of phase thought,
such as Light is born of darkness, or
Time is only the expansion of space, or
Faith is something God can never have,
and He can never make his creations
do or say anything totally expected.

The older I get, the more I praise God.
At the same time, I keep a little speck
under my mattress.

Quiet

I imagine my father dying again,
as still and as white as his sheets.
There are more things I want to tell him now,
about how it rains in my son's head
and floods his heart,
the boundless country my other son visits,
and the melody of birds I share
with my wife in the morning.

Father, I will hold you around me.
I know the pitch of the road,
and the quiet of distant sunset.

Crow II

A crow flies by with straw in its beak
to build a nest for his family.
I push my car up the hill, around the bend,
and through traffic to work.
I bring home dollars, trade them
for sheets, pillows and blankets.
I don't think crow watches me.
He knows his place and mine.

Why does he interest me so?
It is because he carries so lightly.

Dinner

I prepare simply,
set you, my children,
my work, the sun and the rain,
blankets and our cat before me
and eat in big bites.

I let my joy of life
grow like fat
around bare bones.
It wiggles in the wind,
stays cool in the sun,
and warm at night.
It keeps the nerves beneath
sheltered and calm.

I used to be foolish,
critical, and always hungry.

Spring

It is later in the spring now,
evenings and mornings warm,
sunlight shrinks the hours of night,
and stronger flowers and vines sprout.

I love the summer evenings,
the whisper of warm wind,
the blossom of our rolling embrace,
and the changes that bring it about.

Lyrics

The heart of time is drawing closer
if you will listen to her song.
She is a broken bluebird,
ready for her final rest,
yet she sings,
just like your mother
as she was dying,
when she told you
you were a good housekeeper.

We fade away from our tears,
push our anger out or deep inside,
we move anywhere but toward.

Yet this morning, she is on your doorstep,
flecked in stardust.

The River

The river is picking up speed as I age.
Perhaps I have stood on the bank too long,
collecting flowers, being careful of drowning.
I see the whorls, darkness, leaves turning under,
I see my son when he almost died.

I must walk in,
become wet with the rain in my heart,
litter the surface with petals of desire
for things to arrive or return,
let go the soft and settled bank.

Inside the river, there is no haste.

Wisdom

It's a little like grappa or moonshine,
drink it in all at once and you'll black out.
Take a little and you'll remember
that the world and you are okay,
all lined up under a golden sunrise,
ancestors behind, children ahead,
your desire gibbous and real,
your pain just a piece of the pie.

It's like a summer field,
that time you accidentally did nothing,
and gold dragonflies, warm grasses,
and sweet wind surrounded you
and made you cry and laugh.
You couldn't package it, and later,
nobody listened anyway.

It is not such a rare bird,
although you look for it endlessly.
It is more like a finch,
drawn unusually close
to your plain invitation.

Under Blue Heaven

So much is found in this place,
a vast pipe organ of sound
on a stage set with twinkling lights,
open space, thundering bass,
lemon and honey in sunset's dust.

Here are the eyes of little children,
here are blue butterflies,
openings in warm earth,
cloaks of starlings around
purple minarets.

Here is my hand, take it.
I am not an actor or painter,
musician or director.
I am a herald of the Island,
where all is born.

Come, I will show you
the little glowing gears
behind the source of tears,
and the hewing of the Raft,
at the wellspring of years.

Things I am Afraid of

Lions if they are nearby and hungry
(I try to stay sinewy).
Plane crashes if I am on board.
Confrontation if criticized
(you know it all goes to my stomach).
Going crazy, only a little.
Burning to death (more painful
than freezing I’ve heard).

That’s about it,
so I’m planning a trip
to Kenya by way of Liberia.
I hope you don’t say
in an offhand way
There are good pills
these days for hysteria.

Practice

I practice awareness of things,
including my emotions.
I become dense, heavy, and confused
when pollen collects in my head.
I am short and defensive before morning coffee,
I am withdrawn when trying to sleep.
I have been a Buddhist for thirty-three years,
and I am unable to respond politely
if I am very hungry.

Still, I give myself some credit,
I mean, I can work with things.
This one guy came to meditation
and said that there was no path,
but he was so crabby about it.

Green Guy

The big pine outside is friendly

like a Saint Bernard,
or like my cat when she treats me
just a bit like I was one of the kittens
she never had.

The landlord is too lazy to trim it

and it rubs all over the house.
Ants probably march across it
and nest in the eaves.
I did not notice it for a year,
then for the next year I thought it was too dark,
but now I like it and the balance of shade
it gives our yellow house,
with a thousand dark dangling sprigs
that mutter on swaying branches.

I think of the sweet sap in the soft wood
under the bark of the tree.
I wish energy, nutrition, and strength
to flow through the sap.

I'm not sure the tree cares about all that,
but it's hard to tell, given that
I have trouble letting friends in.

Meanwhile, the Earth's Core Boils

Energy rises from the lake.
Cormorants fly, one by one,
a sailboat tips over,
we skip slate stones and kiss.
The forest flutters, gray and green.

The sky is thick blue glass
under our sovereign star.
Warm grass pathways
yield to oak leaf trails,
and we begin to tire.

Underneath, worms work,
above, two hawks circle.
Centipedes and owls
will be out later,
when the frogs and crows are in bed.

Deer hooves make cuneiform marks
while white waves crest in rows of light.
Somehow, I will learn to read all of this,
the signals and the runes that leak
the truth out of the crust.

Toll

Do I think they got out?
Of course I do, I mean
I have stepped on the path
past the flowered Gate,
I have tasted the fruit
that never dies,
with a tongue that does not want.

Today, I offer the annals of my mind, every writ,
and the stoic sinew of me
that has run a thousand miles
through a hundred seasons,
to the Watcher.

As if they were yours to offer,
whisper the pines
in the sharp April breeze.

Cherry Blossoms

I’ve almost figured them out,
now that they are blowing off,
turning lighter, curling, and falling.

They are there only a moment,
as tight red buds, then masses of pink.
They are garlands for the wedding
of time and space.

They were thick for a week,
perfumed bold blooms
bursting along spare stems.

They are beautiful for their short time,
it is tragic for their short time,
I love them, I will miss them,
they are like my life.

I accept the invitation
although I have arrived late
and I have nothing to wear.

Contemplating a Tree

I find the interest of a woodpecker,
but I cannot hold it for long.
There follows tiredness of spirit
like a crow that cannot find home,
and then the nervousness of cicadas
in the territory of crows.

I come to doubt the purpose of my task,
call myself a suburban fool
unfit for a noble hermit’s occupation.
I compare other trees more lofty,
more straight, or with more lyrical curves,
and then can hardly see the forest.

A journal of trees my life has written
opens and spills out, a swing somewhere,
Nanny’s apples, the pine barrens,
the Smoky Mountains,
and Charlie Brown’s.

I imagine that the tree sees me.
It is reflecting that it cannot move.
I offer a little joke about how
I cannot stay still.