Friday, September 21, 2018

Fourteenth September Poem

Zen Day Decisions


Sit like a ripe pear
on the corner of the bed
watching birds in the maple tree?
Exert my boundless sprawl
of ownership across the school work
and poems on the yellow table?
Spread fear throughout
the small ones in the south field?
Act as a jaunty lookout
on the porch railing pirate ship?
Drape over the soft sofa back,
lining it with magnificent
mink-like fur, a gift
for those who follow?
Survey the backyard
from the dining room’s
high vantage point?
Hide under the table on a chair
so She calls and calls for me?
Fly through the house,
upstairs and down, inflicted
with the madness that is Mouse,
or perhaps Catnip?
Curl up, nose out,
at open south window
to scent the world
on incoming wind?
Perch at the kitchen sink
to lap at life-giving drippy faucet?
Leap on Her lap
and embrace Her wholly
with my needle claws?

Thursday, September 20, 2018

Thirteenth September Poem

Shelter


Breathe in, as big
a breath as possible.
Exhale. There -- down at
the bottom of that
deep breath, every molecule
gone-- there’s the silent
room where we meet,
each of us beautiful
and whole. Luminous, we
greet each other. Not
heaven, but neutral space,
safe. No weights on
shoulders, no monsters in
gloomy corners, no looming
clouds, nothing waiting around
the bend to smash
our ease.

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Twelfth September Poem

Attitude Adoption


Distrust all: oneself, the teachings, the teacher, the whole
situation, as if trees outside your window need your eyes
to exist. Examine devil gods carefully. Test thoroughly: is it
truly gold? Ferret out self-deception, one of the tricks of devil
gods. Be skeptical, the one who always questions, “Why?”
amid the comments and snorting of others. Choose not to be
literal when the chocolate melts. Do not identify as self at all:
let go of ego, which dwells in this conscious material realm.
Do not celebrate momentary absence of thought, for celebration
resurrects ego, who can only throw confetti or string up streamers.
Banish all that as you clothe yourself in this new attitude
like a mantle of steel.

Eleventh September Poem

Declaration of War


Fear
of the body’s mortality
is the enemy.
Peace is the highest value
and this fear disrupts
that peace,
so hard to maintain.
Gravely, with sorrow
and compassion,
as if attending a funeral,
dress in black,
choose a weapon,
and enter the fray.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Tenth September Poem

back porch maple


the leaves vibrate
as if they have
just chimed in the
slight breeze, as if
I have hung them
there precisely
for that purpose.

Ninth September Poem

Grumpy Musings of William Carlos Williams
In honor of his birthday, September 17

Food hoarder! Expects everyone to leave her wormy fruit alone,
doesn’t share, eats it in secret, wonders why anyone would
touch it. She still calls it an icebox: such an antique word for that
gleaming silver gray monolith in the kitchen. We all really want
frosted flakes and leftover pizza for breakfast - that sugar rush,
that sodium bloat, so satisfying for our western appetites. Oh,
well, act first, ask for forgiveness later.

Dammit, it’s raining again and someone left the wheelbarrow out
again even though there’s plenty of room for it in the garage.
And the chickens are loose, leaving their s*%# everywhere.

Sigh

Friday, September 14, 2018

Eighth September Poem

unsure


a city of crumbling staircases
soon washed away
deep in your words I search for myself
exploded architecture at my feet
hyper-awareness of the mouth
invisible sheets of rain
suggestions of over-eager forecasters
my guitars are gone
one extra-long line in the sand
tension deep in the chest

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Seventh September Poem

Chatter in the Air Webs


Today’s tweet will be something about the crystalline
scent in the air after the last storm passed,
as the sun went down, something about clouds hanging
just above the treeline, wisps of vapor
tangling in the leaves. Or else it will be about
suddenly waking to the clang of trash bins in the darkness
of this fall morning. Maybe it will be about the rights
of all worker ants to peacefully assemble at the piece
of toast dropped and forgotten next to the sofa.
Or a tweet about partially ripened tomatoes grouped
in the sunlight that falls on the dining room table each morning.


Most of all, it will be about how much I love you,
how I can’t stop thinking of you, baby, baby,
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Sixth September Poem

Chicken Soup for the Dying Soul

I hope this little story will put a smile
on your feet and a spring in your ear. Highly ambiguous,
it purports to provide an uplifting anecdote while secretly
delivering the one-two punch of a depressant and a reminder
of everyone’s mortality. Don’t be frightened. It’s just
that I tend not to like any soup other than what
I make myself although I will admit
that my sister’s chicken vegetable soup, made just
for me, brought to me when I am sick,
can hit the spot and will do in a pinch. So I turned
down the soup special Monday night
almost reflexively which evoked surprise and curiosity
and the challenge to write this poem. Which I now have done.

And so it goes.

P.S. I hear that if I can collect up enough stories like this, I can
publish a book and sell it at Christmas time to people to give
to their loved ones when they have no idea what gift would be
suitable. Send your story to me via private message. I’ll have
my people get in touch.