Thursday, July 19, 2018

Ninth July Poem

(Starbucks lost over a tea kettle from Amazon)

your mind is like space
so let them wait
no, slowly
and be good to everyone
treat them like your children
there is nothing else
sure, no one understands you
your visa changes
whether they are good or bad
if your mind is like space
you are the master
end over end
float through
your mind like space
no thoughts no memories no ideas
minute by minute
you are one with
(imagine stars planets moons into being)
trust everyone even if they seem untrustworthy
no sound track
without distraction
your mind is like space

if your mind is like space

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Eighth July Poem

Sonnet of Persuasion


You hide within mirage of fear -- no change,
no growth, just stay in one place. You falsely imagine
you’re safe that way. Stand pat, don’t reach, be still.
Outside those lines you’re loathe to stray. Day in, day out,
you lean on what’s familiar, tried, and true … and stale:
soul knows it, crying out with rash or tumor.
Define yourself another way. Be healed
by leaving behind dismay. Just rise, and walk,
to light, to strength, with even breaths
and thoughts of possibility, of life.
Let go the dark, the anxious wondering mind.
No force, just slide away, aloft.


  Gaze down
to where you used to be, stricken and stuck.
Gaze on to where you know you want to go.

Friday, July 13, 2018

Seventh July Poem

Incubus


Black bear, black bear,
Frightening beast of the dark wild night,
Take yourself away from here; don’t snuffle into my dreams.
Seeds are all gone; the feeder’s bare.
Let me sleep.

Thursday, July 12, 2018

Sixth July Poem

smoke signals


that which has no substance
a blueberry ripening
enters where there is no space
the fading note of a sad song
small enough, I could pass through a wall
an insect’s wing
even the wall between people
sheer curtains that lift in a breeze
teach without words or actions
rose petals drifting from spent blossoms
(says the wordy poet)
cool water slipping down the throat
gentleness overcomes hardness
a baby’s curls, a cat’s coat
sit quietly
a silken sheet
listen for an entrance into strife’s center
a soap bubble
where calm presence might dissolve
what we deem insoluble

Monday, July 09, 2018

Fifth July Poem

The Lilies of the Field


“Being is born of non-being.”  Laozi


No flowers are
on the table.
No thing is
on the table.
The thought, “flowers
on the table”
brings them into
existence, a vision
real as calla lilies,
which do not
last forever. They
wilt, they die,
they compost
in the field.
The sturdy cellulose
that swells tender
white linen petals
rots. Insects eat
all. Minerals drift
down into soil,
gases fly up,
even to clouds,
as if lilies
never existed, but
there they were,
on the table,
seen, recalled, extant.
Out of darkness,
from no thing,
all arises.

Sunday, July 08, 2018

Fourth July Poem

No Expectations


“Expect nothing; live frugally on surprise.”
 Alice Walker, American writer
“Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.”
 Stephane Mallarme, French poet
“That time then and once again, I’m bouncing around the room.”
 Mike Gordon of Phish


Such surprises: you start buying us shots
I start drinking them in between songs that surprise -- songs
I don’t know but play along with anyway since it is madness
to resist the fire in our fingers... no ordinary gig
but just what is the magic? We find your melodies
in our hearts, play them fiercely; you can
tell, you all can tell. You call out your love
for those notes vibrating in the same air we’ve been breathing.
We are renewed, we dance, we sing, bouncing around
the room on waves of love and music that shimmer
around us. The clock, at the end of the night, is yet
another surprise: we are all so rich.

Friday, July 06, 2018

Third July Poem

Homage


(to the French poet
disguised as a Buddhist:)
On the oaken dining
table where I seldom
eat, the bouquet of
flowers is missing. No
vase there, no stagnant
water, no dried fallen
leaves, no pollen dusting,
only my mind recalling
wedding posy, peonies, consoling
Calla lilies, even the
grocery store assortment at
five ninety-nine that she
sometimes brings as a
Friday morning coffee present,
sister to sister. I
ponder those blossoms, clinging
slightly to unfocused images
and my own joy
at their color, form,
fragrance and absence.