it's coming from the sun

it’s fitting that I start from here 

the tale that I can’t tell 

just meditate and don’t relate 

you know the story well

 

 i’ll tell you what the prophet sees 

the things I can’t relate the thoughts you’ll twist into your toys the things you won’t debate

 it’s not what you expect you see that’s how we play the game we hesitate instead of flow as the world remains in change

 the greatest words I’ve written the wildest things I’ve said were sung by children half-asleep and wetting in their bed

 there is secret news I’m going to say it’s sleeping in your heart but take your time, it’s here with mine don’t leave before you start 

 it’s coming from the sun there’s nothing more than that the fire burns, heats the earth and here the poet sat while knock, knock, knocking the postman at the door brings coupons free, some for me and still I look for more 

 but there’s something that I’ve written the wildest thing I’ve read when world began in secret news the words some others said it’s not as you expect, you see that’s how the world does go we go about trying to learn instead of forgetting what we know

 while knock, knock, knocking the old man at the gate chases his hat, loves his cat and that’s more than he can take

 beyond the last tomorrow when the old man loses sight thoughts will rush like choir boys passing each by candle light 

 it’s coming from the sun 

  i can see it coming down 

what it is our words won’t say but there’s sure enough around

 it’s fitting that I say no more of the tale that I can’t tell 

after all, I’m only you, a poet too, as well

Roma Old and New

twenty-five hundred years
of lost objects, spit and trash
split and bashed,
devils and angels
corners and angles
ground under the firmament
by carts, tramping feet and chariots,
covered by layers of stone and tears
worn smooth, remodeled, invaded,
sweat upon, bloodied on,
beaten down, burned,
demolished, polished and paraded over,
made new again

into the boring years and motorcars
when time passes evenly, eventually
like watching a candle burn,
artisans , widows, beggars and whores
Publicans, demogogues, farmers and stores
teachers, dentists and shopkeepers daughters
make bread, make wine
tend the animals
keep them fed and in line

crushed stone rolls well and blows like dust
in the wind on the sweeping wings of time
theirs, yours and now mine,
clamor carries on forever
in the magnificence of proper order
the significance of restructure,
honorable poets, let us drink to life
sing songs with laughter,
chatter long and loud and stall the vandals

long hypnotic waves in motion

long hypnotic waves in motion
children play, birds will run
loving my Pacific ocean
at the shore, in the sun

walking through the long deep pull
reaching water to my thighs
crashing, breaking under seagulls
white wings soaring, summer skies

the water blue, and sand that’s white
run together beyond my sight
holding one against the other
one is son, one is daughter

here’s a balance for the world
each upholds the others space
one is still, one is swirled
both entwined in cosmic pace

meager thanks

for the first thought and the last dot of light
for the rain and the grain turned from the earth
for the intelligible speech, the perceptible sound and the colored sight
for the lasting sleep, the multifaceted life and the miracle of birth

for the total that has been set forward
for the mystery of what lies hidden
for the wisdom yet to be heard
for the sum of all that is written

for the total beginning
for the complete end
for all that is given
our meager thanks we lend

some august afternoon

some august afternoon
the great ember rolled
into evenings ensuing blanket
that flanks the sky's end, west
casting shadows in my lemonade
nodding the okay for a light wind
to bring on the cut-grass scent
three or four crickets
rabbits, squirrels and a toad
a pale white moon
blackening trees
star one, two, three
then countless
and the sound of partially melted
ice cubes knocking
as i tip my glass
to the night

Running Dog

my dog that ran away knew what he was doing
that’s why i didn’t go after him.
the cats that stay know where the handouts are
and the birds sing, and the postman comes around.
Neighbor kids cross the front lawn to and
from school. small airplanes make noise
when they pass over. my yard is dry, needs rain
the house is quiet, and neat, with little in it
i have a plant room for quiet meditation
and a typewriter for verbal contemplation
the piano awaits my next touch.
no tv, and the radio isn’t used much.
the shelves are not stocked, i have running water,
a washer and dryer that work once a week,
and my garden that reluctantly surrenders vegetables.
some outdoor flowers, strawberries and a small lemon tree
wind chimes on the patio, empty chairs, space to be
and i’ll moan into yesterdays or tomorrow
i’ll tip wine sublime, and smoke in sorrow
my heart will leap, my head will spin
the phone will ring, again and again
i’ll read some of the letters but won’t write back
perhaps tomorrow, for now, let them stack
three shirts, three pants, some boots and shoes
the rest are rags, no good to use
i go out for work, and the money comes in
i’ve lost some weight, but still not thin

and the laughing brown dog knew what he was doing
he set out to be the best dog around
he left to clean the clock of every cat in town
he could jump the fence, bark the bird and lick the dish
four legs to run, ears to flap, eyes to see, tail to wag
and he chased his tail
right out the front door
right up the street
running for all he can get
running for his life

and i may type by an open window
but i never looked up for him again
not once did i wait
before he left he let me know what was up for him
and i let him know he could run
and i’ll wait inside typing, outside working
back and forth with cups of unsweetened tea
another shower, a song from the piano
something to hum and a searching, walking mantra
about “let’s see, let’s see” and i look for it
while this goes on, i hang out with it
i drink what’s going on, eating today, singing now
pulling it up, and laying it out there
putting it down into words, cleaning it up
tightening it up, cutting it short and letting it run
working it over, taking it in, seeing what goes on
then playing the rinky-tink roll on the pi-ano
hit it. let it flow and go and blow

and the faster i go, the slower it is
and the slower i am the more that gets here
and it keeps on coming out
more from the mailman, more on the phone
more at work and with friends
it keeps on and on a coming in the window
rising with the sun
setting on the end of my bed
playing with my head
and i stand up to fight with it
and we roll on the floor
i grab my chest and gasp last breath
then rise to heaven where saint peter
takes a swing at me and i knock him on his ass
and he tries to tell me to go to hell
so i push my way in and when god sees me
he isn’t pissed at all
we sit down over pizza and tell dirty jokes
mine are better than his, and he knows it!
he introduces me to his old lady
she’s ten million years old but still foxy
and she wants to ball me, but i’m chicken
god and i shake hands and i split
back to my window to see if he can make it rain

i don’t hold my breath
i make a sandwich and drink some wine

a lifetime forever

to live a lifetime forever
on a mountain under eternal noon sun
with sweet wine touching lips that touch mine

where the omnipresent fragrance of soft flowers
and gentle green
caress thoughts
and cradle in your mind mellow notions

the only sound being
two hearts playing
the softest lullaby in creation

the hundred facets

the hundred facets of us each
some we take and some we teach

all the talents, all the joys
all the girls and all the boys

are represented by just one
the hundred facets are the sum

and every jewel in every place
is seen in only partial face

and so we have our multi selves
changing always where one dwells

forming different combination
never reaching destination

and many of the gems we see
are, a little bit, like you and me

in wood times

in wood times i've spent walking
gathering colors, tasting sounds
by ferns, tall grass, and animals
under the forest canopy, making rounds

flushing pheasants as i go
they streak off in a line
then to stop, a place i know
amid green berries on the vine

wild white rolling clouds above
reflect the light, contrast the blue
in nature's time i touch the love
and symmetry by which things grew

the wind plays light and sweet
with mint and closer scents
honeysuckle and wildflower complete
the multicolored firmament

at a small creek bank i pause to drink
and there, witness life within
a small plant reaches water's brink
the shoots are young and thin

where hours pass i cannot say
the sun marks shadows on the land
little voices beg me to stay
i promise trees, i'll come again

sand

elbows, butt and heels in the sand
neck bent upwards with face to the hazy sun
an occasional wave can reach me
my son in the sand can teach me
it's june and i'm having fun

birds picking trash in the wash
i'm following them walk the line the waves make
just watching in a half-cool light wind
as our sand castles crumble again
tuesday afternoon and there's nowhere i have to be

some other time, tomorrow and yesterday can't find me
i'm buried to my ankles in the sand
the waves repeat the ten thousand things
that, and the wind, makes my ers ring
jon is pointing, but i can't hear what he's saying

one holy

one holy, totally dark night
when the crickets stopped
as wind gave out and chilly dew grew
under billowing clouds that moved low
i turned the lights down, then sat up to wait

not the car, nor the plants, nor the house
budged. air and matter, visible and unseen
were at one and waiting with me, quite still.
any picture, an motion would be conjecture
and there were none of these happening now

no music played, no words were spoken
the magic place was space unbroken
a motionless dance sans time unfolded
between eternity's alpha and omega
perfection and illusion smiled through me

dawn poem

near june dawn
one damp
brown leather foot
after another
crept through the woods
to a lake and canoe
where two
set off as few would do
to pursue the climbing amber sun
(not yet in view)
and jumping swimming fish
(deep in the blue)
the deer and bear and birds

what they saw
no one knew

most all asleep

when the city sleeps it can't hear me
creeping about in my pajamas
when standing by the window
i listen for it

only the clock moves
in absolute defiance
to the silence of the night

an appliance
and electrical wires
hum on for me
forever a subtext

a lone plane passes over
a car door closes
a voice down the street

fractions of the day
still awake
complete
even the cats are asleep

since man's

since man’s meager time on earth
a period quite concise
we’ve sought to find our collective worth
and never are precise

it seems that none who’ve suffered birth
have been able to entice
knowledge to enter at full girth
or, to take one’s own advice

the buffalo

some rainy, foggy, chilly midweek
when secretaries call in sick
and postmen wear goulashes
go to the zoo and take in what’s left

splash along the water-covered concrete
past occasional trees bent, looking away
from the wind’s lick

see the muddy, mucky, peanut-shelled patch
where there stands the buffalo
knee-deep, with dirty, unkempt, matted hair
his eyelids closing out the drizzle
shoulders that held up america

clothed the indians in a montana mountain snow
fed starving wagoneers not quite to the promised land
mark of the plains
symbol of an era

it is fitting that he be visited
for his eyelids are closing now, america