notebook entry from under the bed

          even those thoughts disparaged in one moment
               are gospel in another

if I could see my whole life in one sight of knowing

if I could tell you every year and day and hour, knowing

if I could say, it would take every year, day, and hour

if I could that’s how my life would be, with you, with you

       beloved, my life, with you, one more time again
and if I could, I’d let it all go that we might begin anew

as if we could, for the very first time

          played against the backdrop of orchestral music

          if only I find you for the very first time

in good wilderness

in absence then, my heart will speak for you.

so dear the conversation, I cannot be away.

here, two legs, one for the each of us.

I am more grounded thus.   like cradle Earth.

good heart.   good sky.

thus was it made, and meant to be.

we are joined.

here replied.

making home.


two feet on high

she sat beside the lake,
was that a smile on her lips?

but it’s a lake, not the ocean,
he said.   foolishness stuck

to his skin.   like memory.

but see, how close the stars
are here?   one of heaven’s

gates.   her response.

yes, he said.   then lets us
be the moon.

how close can two stars be?

this much, two fingers close.

one to the other one, is one.

     ty wg   nov/pm

She wears one mask

She wears one mask,
and beneath blue sky’s face, hers
is more calm, a pacific tide dressing
waves that siphon sand from under
my feet.
She wears one mask,
contours her face embosses in the air,
with veiled smile, easy affection, like
some curtain drawn in warm embrace.
Eyes that linger do arrive.
She wears one mask,
and in the twinkle of her eye,
my gaze given way, she lets go
the chrysalis gauze, desire thus
draped, now undone silk by
silken breath.

She wears one mask,
lips like leaves she stirs the wind,
tucks me within hushed embrace,
till begins this apple bloomed,

       Am I leaf or wind?

And behind each mask unmade,
the one who wears us both,


thirteen ways to ride a ferryboat

it’s the bottom of a bowl
where things tend to congregate
like boats and water and people
and gravity, going over across the way.

you stand ashore, near the beach,
near the ferryboat dock, you watch, you be sure,
you see them come see them go, make sure
they’re for real.

secure the ropes, pretend your floating feet
resemble land. although you’ll never quite
cease from walking up-hill.
fish feet first is the rule.

there’s a long wide thread, invisible,
but you can see its’ shadow in the water
scuffed right astern your ferryboat shoes.
it’s where you’ve been but are no more.

surely… someone… on the other side wants
your company.   isn’t that one thought when
you trade your coins at the gate?

water is blue, but no, it’s pale sun green
turning to veiled face.   ferry is mostly white
but partly it is busting rusting orange.

when it’s really calm your ghost
looks more real looking back at you.

dogs hang heads out car windows.
humans gather on the paws of boats.
tales wagging.

pull that string tight.   speak loudly
into the tin-man can.   it’s important for
stories to reach the far shore.

it matters to know the name of your boat.
it’s a mistake to feign indifference.   else if
you get lost at sea, how will you make yourself
found again?

a ferryboat is where water and sky
used to be.   but they keep changing
their minds about where.

ferryboats float on grace,
which is another word for displacement
you see.

ferryboats understand flowers
the way snow understands moss.
in a former life I was a ferryboat.

13 (twice)
here’s a small secret:

when you’re crossing middle,
looks like you could be going either way.

image: Washington state ferryboat, Puyallup, two miles from my home.

post: a refrain in thanks to Kerfe and her inspired image & poem & music
           post.   beautiful.    Thirteen ways of looking at Living.

encouragement like this


sometimes it’s to look at a painted tree
without looking away

unblinking reveals what goes blind
while asleep

yes, maybe I’ll change my face
today, be someplace else instead
of me

another life, a different street.

all those memories will be
painted over.    forgiven,

water lapping against the hull,
left to drift free of lovings

not even Autumn would disagree.


here, write this poem

at least one ladle each.

write what you don’t want to say.

write what you don’t want them to hear.

decide who they are.   then really, who they are.

describe your mask.

what color, your eyes when they’re closed?

where were you born?   no, not geography.

be brief.   very brief.   write short words.

point to where you’re going.

move along


shadow play

          dragon awoke to see soon
          would be time for his parting

          as legends foretold, at first so
          the dragon thought,

          then realizing he was in fact
          a young boy waiting for
          his mother

          to return from market, then
          thought, no, he was seeing

          from inside her shoes
          as she wondered about
          carrots and rice

          and what her son was
          dreaming now, more

          than only her, but then
          suddenly she

          saw her son awaken,
          becoming a white butterfly

          in the Autumn garden.
          she watched him move
          far out of sight.

          Chō monogatari    蝶物語

          butterfly story, she smiles.   not a mask.

          when does it end?   she doesn’t say.

          who calls themselves, audience?

image:    The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun,
                 William Blake, National Gallery of Art

ocean inside us

there are tides that draw us toward the Moon.

father mother sister brother.   swimming near.

inside the ocean is our memory.   it moves
as do our thoughts, as our desire also does.

taste the salt that remembers us.

there is a cradle rocking us in our sleep.
when awake we see the color blue.   no reason

why that attraction is a familiar face.
we long for that embrace, those thirsting lips.

when the difference between inside and out
was no drought of imagination.   drink,

that was within reach of our stride.
be filled, be full.   carry the world in water,

in our two arms.