fragments

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.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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.

 
 
 
 
 
 

my hands have always been a source of mischief

tearing things apart.   unneedfully.

rubbing things the wrong way round.

being the instrument of their own hurt.

happy tales included being shy.

        negative space, I suppose.

sculling in place.   be the better heart.
 
 
there’s always a second start.   again.

a bowl leaps into my lap.   well, one leg.

        well, might have been a cat.
 
 
by these palms no outside harm arrives.

palms splayed.   one handprint wide,

        a fallen leaf.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

gravity because


gravity loves.   each and every one

       of us.    no hesitation.

gravity makes earth breathing.

gravity guides waters into the sea.

gravity teaches ocean how to make legs.

gravity walks then floats then flies.

gravity joins earth and sea.

gravity navigates inside doors.

gravity sees almost forever.

gravity smiles when listening.

gravity lets you know how tall you are.

gravity sleeps with you when your eyes

       are closed.

gravity knows the word, embrace.
 
 
gravity and I are close friends.

like a shadow is.   you know.

sewn together at the heels.
 
 
a perfect thread.

 
 
 
 
 
 : )
 

moose mask undone

               one breath can begin Anything.
 
 
it doesn’t mean anything.   it’s a moose.

that’s not me.   there are stacks of things not me.
someday, maybe, I’ll be each one of them.   we
take turns.

this time, me.

although rumor is, I’m on my way toward
becoming something else.

might be asked, who’s spreading that rumor.
          confess, maybe me.

a moose has four legs to tell the truth.
I only have two.

yes.   I am somewhat unreliable.   unpredictable.
 
 
I buy books I cannot read.   too tired, when
they arrive.   no focus.   not that a moose
would care.
          more unquenched good ideas.

I’m able to forget almost anything you say to me.
 
 
did you know a gathering of sea otters is
called a raft.   no moose knows that.
that’s why they do.   so they won’t.

won’t drift away.   apart, like me.
I should’a.   see?

no water.   I ain’t that smart.
 
 
abundance is a word that applies to them.
not to me.

more words won’t make better.   but not the point.
wrong font, seems to me.   so why.   because She said.
          because, I do.
 
          here, these words on my tongue.
 
 
maybe a moose is smarter than me.
better landscape anyway.
 
 
               I think a poem can carry one breath.

               what does this breath begin.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
image:   © Delphine Margau,   Delphine Margau Art Photography, France
this image is part of her chapter/series, Under The Woods of Childhood.
kind permission granted for use of this © image.   with our thanks.

yes.   you are seeing double.   same moose as recently.   why?
here’s why.   cause the moose said, I have something different to say.
will you.   will you let me speak.   I am symbol for you.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

breathing water

low tide means the entire bay is lower.      imagine that.
                 that’s a lot more than me.
 
 
like salmon do, I’m spawning for home.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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.