these hands, second page
these hands would be humble touching you.
these hands keep few secrets, like mirrors don’t.
red for my heart. luminous where stars are inside.
these hands are a map. all the sacred terrain, grown to this.
they have guided sails into wind. have given up coins when asked.
have rowed a boat. have been fish in the sea.
have felt water and wind and earth and sky.
they have scribbled poems on yellow paper.
these hands will find their way in the dark.
have held a dying mother’s hand. not sad.
they will guide you home. again.
these hands wrote their own history, so they say.
these hands have a mother and a father.
pockets. maybe that’s where I put them last.
they are the hands I have earned.
scraped, bruised, made to bleed, nearly broken.
they’ve met forever several times.
then you came along. rivers do bend.
alone in the sea
alone in the sea. what’s that mean.
not so single-minded as might seem. here, in this cove, he’s the only one, only harbor seal. head above the water. yet birds, generous company. and an ocean full of seals, seals and fish. so who’s alone.
me, I’m being some slow right now. no poem yet in a crib. yet I feel some responsibility, not leaving you alone, untended to. maybe thinking, does he care? he does. I do. so here, these sea flowers for you.
MBA webcam views of Monterey Bay used with permission.
please visit and/or support the Monterey Bay Aquarium.
they make the ocean more alive. us too.
please do enlarge the header image. else miss seeing what’s to see.
what I do when I write a poem
mostly. mostly, not writing. anything else.
maybe I look at fear, or empty-headedness.
maybe I play a game, watch a movie, read a poem
written by someone else, but that’s work too.
maybe it’s late at night. later. darker.
more quiet. less to pretend to care about.
doing nothing. that counts.
maybe I just feel lonely inside my skin.
maybe I wonder about you. how are you?
maybe I wonder about a word.
maybe two or three. that’s how it starts.
after all of that.
maybe just one phrase. usually.
when I remember, it starts from there.
although, only takes a moment to forget.
I’m good at that.
then again, I remember you. what I want
you to know. what I feel wants to become
more like Light.
maybe I sneeze. twice.
then, listening. that’s what I do.
trust.
the pursuit of happiness
in the midst of thinking, is this the end of me, trying not to be dour about it all, not be afraid, this mystery whispered to me, said, remember happiness.
can I make room on the bench for this companion.
Maneki Neko – Japanese Lucky Cat. Kind of in thought, the notion why obtain more “stuff” if I’m not going to be around. Not a bad notion in general anyway, however I had considerable energy on NOT adding more stuff. But looking at this whimsical creature, it became a statement for me,
I am here and there’s still room in my life for a Lucky Cat.
I know it can be hard (for many of us) when life seems an endurance test.
Sometimes “letting go” seems a reasonable choice. I understand. I do.
However, this existence is full with wonder of all sorts. Every moment, every thing, every person – precious, and I want to stay. Discomfort is less than the beauty of being here. I want this life given me. I remain as I may.
That’s what a lucky cat means to me. Lucky me.
As Kurt Vonnegut declared, Lucky Mud.
In Japanese culture (not Western) the upright paw indicates a beckoning gesture (not to be mistaken for a wave as Western eyes might see). The original white color is to get good luck and overall good fortune, while black is to ward off evil, red is for good health, yellow or gold is for wealth, and pink is for romance.
Maneki Neko will enlarge to a rather lovely big size if you so ask of it.
the pursuit of happiness
packing for mars seems the perfect thing to do,
more than over the moon, a fortnight at least away,
a perfect disunity letting the garden go to seed
turn your back and everything goes to rain,
falling deeds, erosion’s hoe, blankets scattering
soft sleep on a hard carpet floor
the preface, it fills one person’s looks,
meaning not what but how they see, you see?
riverbed pebbles being merely consequential history
we eat the world, a long long thread of it,
no body an island, yet water all around is the root,
real truth just as sprouting from an open palm
a hand sewn meal rising and tucking back
inside water’s shoreline face, constellations
we name as memories dot for dash
so we’ll lay in sweet socks and brimming full
only those delicate memories of no consequence,
just ripe for unknown harvesting arms
a bottle of breath, a loaf of shoes, a comb for
remembrance, an empty bowl for sleep, two hats
for heading east, pen and paper, words to map
come to my bedside at the end of all things
and I’ll tell you, unashamed, how it was to drink
and pass the cup, lips to lips, satisfied
leave the window open for me, please
2010
we touch another planet
James Web Space Telescope measures the temperature of an exoplanet.
when we think on this it becomes, yes, a pretty big deal going forward from here. I know we’ve learned to see more and more, however, now this feels different. for us, temperature means touch.
click on the image to link to the full esa website announcement.
Moog
Moog the cat.
Moog a Starry Night.
Moog the pre-historic.
Moog the flying dragon.
Moog not who you think.
Moog begins many dreams.
Moog she sits into your lap.
Moog might even be Chinese.
Moog a mystery, just like my nose.
Moog we beg, please call this home.
Moog who makes me wonder who I am.
Moog who makes a universe curled upon itself.
Moog could be almost anything she wants to be.
She came to stay a few days whilst a daughter was away.
Moog and I, we’re calling this home.
We are forever now.
Please please, do click and enlarge the Moog you see.
She’s more than first seen. Promise.
Moog the cat photograph taken by Laura, her friend. PoetryPix
Laura took this picture and many more you can see, Indoors – pet project.
Laura said it was OK to share this picture with all of you. Lucky us.
happy cat.
this is what I’d give, page two
- words shouldn’t ‘say’, they should ‘do’. paintings too. this does.
what kind of flowers?
imagine this woman, she paints. she paints a sunny Sun, all yellow
and bright. that’s a lot of appeal, big and yellow and bright.
Sun says Sun’s tale. she is doing what she was asked to do.
generous, that’s a word we use. more than a curiosity.
then she paints color. real color. no wait, they’re flowers.
I’m not so interested now. I am something else.
I am colored Light. I arrive, who I’m supposed to be.
and now I know, generosity. these flowers,
these best I render back to you. like a mirror. because
that’s the kind of flowers these are
part two of two
if you don’t have to be some certain-flavor-of-smart
then you’re free to see the simplicity of generosity.
painting: Bridgette Tales, #100DayProject: Watercolors-Week 4
I love what Bridgette does with paint. there is more than a brush.
used with her kind and generous permission. mine is gratitude.
please click to expand, a couple times. it’s big!
as the Dalai Lama might say, so simple and pure you might mistake it for a pebble in your shoe.
ferry boat in a bowl, page one
I stand on my best balance,
aligned between chair and table.
window-blind pull ahead to my left. reaching.
maybe a little premature. OK. not yet dark.
there’s the ferryboat Issaquah coming into dock.
we can almost see the whole length of the boat
from our happenstance. a glance.
right now. she’s coming home to our East Sound
shore. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the slightest drift.
not by scene, but by sight.
seeing the treasure of seeing what’s most-front.
just other side of our noses now.
I can’t close the blinds. I won’t.
when you see the perfection of seeing,
then setting-some-aside, it just seems wrong.
to this life I want to be one voice.
many words with one voice.
sharing with you is the answer to – why.
and I am.
part one of two
painting: Bridgette Tales #100DayProject: Watercolors-Week 4
image used with her kind permission.
remember to make the image big. maybe you’ll smile.
what’s the big deal about being true
sanctuary
- the truth, the whole truth, and Nothing but the truth
- is there another choice
my tongue, yea, made from stars
but what we deem consciousness
that’s the same as the space between the stars
meaning, the greater breath of the universe.
maybe Father’s hat.
I’ve looked at my screen of perception and
thought, what am I looking at, or, that’s a cow
driving a bus, what, oh no, a boy on roller-skates.
she wrote, In the late fall, the oyster mushrooms
look like lilies from a distance.
suppose that’s what iceberg sailors thought.
so how does the universe seem, from way out here.
behind your eyes.
remember, no question marks. why. because.
maybe because everything is a question, because
I’d rather you see them for yourselves.
in youth I labored to find the one true answer.
bright in the dark. but look, one nature of this universe
is illumination.
older I get the harder to choose just one thing.
sailor beware. what star casts judgment rather than
simply Light.
surrender being-wrong. remember, no more sin.
choose. which bubble are you. now
was that choice or observation.
image: “Contemplation”, part of the collection, Tidelands
Maureen J Haldeman, MJH Fine Art Photography
image used with her kind permission. and my sincere appreciation. one might ask which comes first, image or text? sometimes it’s more like two strangers meeting in a room and a relationship comes to be.
please give her fine creative website a visit.
somehow I think that old exclamation, it’s full of stars, applies right here. amazing universe in every detail.
I’ve assumed I’m doing this wrong
was I wrong.
for a long breath of life. living like
nothing matters. especially the root,
meaning me.
what compass bearing is that choice.
some say first question really is.
eyes closed. eyes open.
clouds broken, language shapes itself.
I am not a question of pretty, not pretty.
I am not a question of smart, not smart.
is this good heart. not soundlessly asleep.
trustworthy.
not a matter of wise, not wise.
yellow daffodils begin to bloom in the garden.
but it got cold again, so now they’re hesitant.
blossoms aren’t about time.
blossoms are about, here I am. this is me.
see the difference.
how much is language a raft. what’s connecting.
generosity, acceptance, compassion, hunger,
thirst. leaning the other way from indifference.
expression, a place to roost any day of the week.
like otters in the sea. being afloat.
being companion. grace arrives.
in all the universe nothing matches the sense of touching you,
nothing. kin of a thousand choices. you move with my
fingertips. life, it’s true.
I’ve thought to be wise about not being here.
I mean, what we call alive. no rules apply.
although,
one might make for greater ease. let go.
consider. maybe dead is still some thing.
does a rock feel any the less for being a rock.
imagine we’re both wrong.
imagine there’s another life.
side by side, past, future, whensoever.
you choose.
imagine this is that one speaking to you.
beloved.
that’s the message. is that enough.
nothing has just one answer anymore.
if I have to choose, I choose everything.
- yet in ending there is one shadow kept,
this measure a mystery, one shy ounce thus
make tomorrow more bright than regret.
wordswerepoemsfirst.com 