March sunshine.
"A good painting,"
Jeanne said, "but
you could get lost
in the detail… "
the beautiful ends of rope,
the chipped paint.
Peaks Island
Vidya Niwas
The pursuit
of love, sex,
fame, money,
forgetting,
enlightenment—yes, as
Arvind said one night,
"It's all bullshit."
He was seeing clearly,
standing by Vidya Niwas,
wheat on curving
hand dug terraces,
leopards hunting,
snow / moonlight
high above.
Dharamsala
In a Yard on Island Avenue
weathered table
piled with pears
gray / brown / yellow,
four wooden chairs
evenly placed, one
holding a red scooter,
an orange flatbed
and blue plastic dump truck
parked by the pears
a sense of composition,
the slow music
of tumbling fruit,
a hand
on a child's shoulder
Quaker Ladies
The Peaks Island ball field
is green again.
In the outfield grass
behind shortstop,
tiny white flowers
with yellow centers
surround
the faded leather fingers
of a baseball glove
folded, palm down.
A chainsaw snarls
on the hill.
Beyond that,
waves curl against rock.
Kathie Walking Gwen
forward reach,
each step rising,
clear-eyed,
widening smile,
faint gray dazzle
around her upper body,
the dog pulling,
rapt with scent
back shore
Nude
the warm brave body
upright, muscle,
bone, nerve,
blood coursing
with star matter
imagination,
unbound by time,
the flower
in the vase
For Finn
Born forty years ago
this morning on a sunny day.
Driving through Zena,
bringing you home
on your mom's lap—
Dave Mellert by
the side of the road,
holding his mangled arm;
I told your mom to wait
at the store, got Dave
into Kit's old Cadillac,
did a u-turn and burned
it for Kingston.
"Caught in the chipper."
Blood seeping, Dave weakening.
"Hang on."
We ran some lights;
he made it;
they saved his arm.
Three months later in Buckman's bar,
he came over, "Thanks John."
You don't talk much
in the mountains,
but you remember.
SOS
O Love,
deliver me
to this moment;
let me be
with this bird
on a telephone wire,
heedless of the chatter
flashing through its grasp,
singing to its mate,
who also sings,
honoring the hawk
circling,
praising the red berries,
the blue waves
crashing white.
Peaks Island
Dive
The Acupulco cliff diver
leaps, feet pushing strongly
against rock.
He falls forward, arms wide,
brown in sunlight,
all eyes on him
as he straightens,
plunging down
to the wave
rolling in to meet him.
Lost from sight,
decelerating, tumbling,
he is held, embraced
in emerald quiet,
a moment before
a slow, peaceful,
kick to the surface.
Laird
on the 8:15,
big pickup loaded,
tarp and net tied down,
Colorado plates
autumn chill in the air,
be warm later;
he'll be back next summer,
nothing goes wrong
his horses raise their heads,
they know he's coming.
Peaks Island
In Fall, Spring
September shadows sharp
on green grass,
the migration begins,
the flow south.
Light returns to Patagonia.
We stack wood, gather
seaweed for the garden;
we will live by fire
through starry nights,
crystal pageants of the heart,
while gauchos ride
open-shirted, singing,
to their señoras.
for Shunryu Suzuki
Maria's Garden
House, fence, studio,
white, white, white.
Closely cut green grass.
Thirteen gray stones
in three groups
gathered
to comfort and beget,
shapes hunched
with tenderness,
a memorial
to Maria's love,
a blunt guide—
if we survive,
it will be this way.
Peaks Island
Birth Song
Trust begins
in another's arms,
opening to warm hands,
soft truths—
the sun rises, yes,
pulling you with it
out of the sea;
morning
is your birthright,
love, your
lifelong song.
Peaks Island
No Edge
Sea and cloud,
a thin line
east to south
faintly darker
through light rain.
A heron passes over
the wooded hill behind,
legs trailing,
steady wing beats,
seeing the other side:
the bay,
the small city,
the continent rising west—
hunting in a beautiful view,
part of it,
as am I,
and you.
Peaks Island
Parting
Sitting behind me
on the stairs, while
I put on my shoes,
bumping down a step,
surrounding me lightly
with your legs and arms,
your hair,
delicate and shaggy,
resting on my neck,
sad, quiet,
no hero ever had
a better farewell,
or left
so sure of home.
Waltz
When your love
cannot be there,
and The Vienna
Philharmonic plays
The Beautiful Blue Danube,
you can feel bad,
or you can dance—
arms encircled,
formal, tender,
turning together,
turning with the sweep
of strings, the hopes
of centuries,
turning and turning
together forever.
Sunset
Red sun
through birches,
>
winter whites & browns.
To the east:
a darkening
band of lavender,
Outer Green Island,
low, snow covered,
glowing upwards.
For Ginny
Smiling shyly over
her cooking—Thanksgiving Dinner
made in a tiny galley—
a straight dress for the occasion,
dangling multi-colored earrings,
amused, irrepressibly radiant,
the best looking grandmother
on the Indian Ocean
now breathes easily beside me,
watching the video as
the Atlantic rises in the cove,
and I find that I loved her
years before I knew her.
Sometimes
Sometimes you have to
talk of terrible things:
cry of terror, strangling,
wordless, helpless,
rigid body crashing to the floor,
violent convulsions,
a minute or more,
subsiding,
gray-faced, retching,
bitten tongue bleeding,
dazed, broken, reset somehow.
Lying beside her, touching,
touching,
touching, together,
after a blow from the ax.
Dawn
across the gorge,
palm tree silhouettes,
charcoal on gray
cinnamon-rose
brushes one high cloud
a rooster crows;
another follows,
then another
tiny white-breasted swallows,
climbing, diving,
take their breakfast
on the wing
Ubud,
Bali
Out Of Recycled Parts
Two black circles,
a turquoise triangle
pointing down,
pedals at the tip,
Cole's bike,
single speed,
practical, fast,
cutting through
confusion.
Peaks Island
Gunnel's Delight
passing us
upright
on your bike,
head turned back,
eyebrows up, amused,
delight
shining through
the thinner sunlight
on the shore,
celebrating / sharing
love's no age
Peaks Island
On the Road to Dharamsala (selections)
Surfing
In the darkening harbor,
turning back,
up, over a wave
before it curls
against the breakwater,
glimmer of silver
draining from rocks,
brown skin, black hair,
knees bent, arms alert,
again and again,
until night—
one red light, one green,
the Pacific,
stars.
Nawiliwili,
Kauai
At Akiko's Mochi Pounding
“Good House has another meaning
in Japan. Means: in a better
part of town.
Maybe, Blessed House?”
“Yes.”
“O.K.”
Shigeko becomes calm,
brush held straight
above the paper.
Her first stroke,
slow,
establishes proportion.
Wet black lines
follow faster,
idea infusing ink,
ink becoming sign
alive with
heart and mind.
She pauses—
tapered bristles
lower, flatten, draw out,
and lift,
characters and moment
met.
Wailea,
Big Island
Pidgin
In the Kohala Diner,
“Dat buggah jury rigged,”
“watering the weeds,”
“horses dey get da good stuff,”
“he is more to me
than my other brothers,”
“you have him
a little longer yet,”
“My boys going to Iraq.
I tell them: do your job
but don't turn your back,”
words rising, diving,
wheeling like white birds
at sunset, baring
the meaning above
the meaning,
this music
sung from birth,
laughing, judging,
forgiving.
Kohala
for Dane
Rust black a'a, so jagged,
you throw a piece,
twenty minutes to pick it up.
A single line of gray stones
undulates across,
wave smoothed, chosen
for a flat side,
passed hand to hand
from inlets
battered into sea cliffs,
each one carefully set,
large enough
to bear a foot,
bear a load,
for centuries.
Ka'u
Petroglyphs, Ka'u
On this pahoehoe,
dark, weathered, cracks
curving along least resistance—
I speak with straight lines.
Until this island sinks below
the water, or Pele angers,
you will know how long time
we live here, how many were lost
to the fighting, to the sea.
What I say is: how beautiful
are our women, and today,
I have a son.
Praying with Tiapala
Sweet smoky incense,
golden Buddha overlooking
offerings of fruit and flowers,
Tiapala chanting, face
like a mountain
above tree line,
a lifetime, a thousand years
intoning prayers and sutras,
as a dolphin leaps or
a cloud drifts,
singing the way.
We join and follow,
swaying slightly in rhythm,
becoming slowly
what we pray for.
Tiapala strikes a gong—
pure sound vibrates
into birdsong, evening,
the deep welcome
of Mauna Loa.
On Mauna Loa
Earth trembling,
water every side,
brown rock pure,
so high,
clouds upslope,
green below.
Momentary
dipping line of red, a cardinal
flies deeper into
macadamia orchard.
Three locals,
truck and chainsaw,
steal koa from
haole newcomers.
Across the valley,
a temple bell,
struck by hand,
calls us
to compassion.
No Need Say Goodbye
Soft May morning,
spent clouds drift
to sea,
birds singing
in trees,
on telephone wires.
A roadside bank
of nasturtiums
glows red and orange.
Cows graze
far up the mountain,
tiny dots—
how can you say goodbye
when all things
are changing?
Roads. Faces.
Only the deep heart
is constant;
and to that,
no need say goodbye.
Ka'u
/> Shannon & Clara
breastfeeding at 4000 feet,
gray spired rock,
Douglas Fir clinging
to the ridge.
Sunlight on a fallen trunk,
moss, dark bark,
rotting sapwood
salmon red,
mother & daughter
three weeks old,
breathing in
the breath of trees.
Mt. Pilchuk,
Washington
Trudi 1941-2003
Across the stream,
trees, gradual climb
to the ridge,
snack at the lean-to,
steeper scramble,
smell of balsam,
thin clear air,
the Ashokan
blue below,
behind:
green valley after valley,
your ashes, you—
the long sweet silence
of the mountains,
summer and winter.
Pilgrim
Ice grains spinning,
swirling, filling,
scouring brick, leaving
nothing untested. Walk
or freeze
or stay inside.
The panhandler with
an artificial leg
lurches slowly
up the sidewalk. Usually
I avoid him.
Today, I
take off my gloves
to find a dollar;
he takes off his gloves
to receive it, grunting,
a warm sound
blown instantly away,
restoring
my own begging heart.
Portland
On The Road To Dharamsala
First light.
Goat bells: muffled,
low pitched.
Quick high whistles
in thin air, cheerful,
spontaneous—
a complete music
unscored, for
goats, herders,
new pasture,
cliffs, sun &
melting snow.
Himachal Pradesh,
India
Goods Carrier, HP296054