nothing much

 
 
when nothing comes, it’s an inhalation.   drink.

nothing is the sea within which we are afloat.

         bubbles, perhaps?
 
 
says the autumn trees,
back to bones.   again.   and the way we started,
         a simple spinal chord.

hidden inside is how I feel.   word by word.
 
 
 
spaces are as much the music as are the notes.
no space,   no music.

everything I see is a thread.   connecting.
some come from me, some from you.
         which ones are you?
 
 
when I first flew again after the 2001 collisions,
I recall, seated by the window, as I always am,
         looking out, the silver rivers, brown hills,
         dark grown lifting mountains.

         every curve.   every lift.

         all this perfect beauty.

         I recall the thought,
if You want my life right now, I have no complaint.
         no fear.   no doubt.   only beauty.
 
 
 
can I contain that thought?   right here?   right now?
         I’ll have to let you know.
 
can I see that in your face?   just this near.
 
 
 
here’s one exercise.   practice, you know.
to all you encounter, a simple pure acknowledgement,
 
 
 
         yes
 
 
 
         repeat.   without end.
 
 
 

more

 
 
which is more vocal this morning?   rain or wind?

for all the words I write, then lift my eyes above the page,
the world I see is

         more bright
         more gestured
         more reliant
         more tender
         more vivid
         more voiced
         more intimate
         more loving

         more simply so.

oh.   look.   there’s the shadow of you.
how does that also satisfy?   it does.
         how much of you am I?

why ever turn my eyes away?   I do.
a boat on the water alone.
 
 
eager autumn blows.
this water washed world blankets us.

as night turns, faces a single white sky.
some days you are all my eyes can see.

         salvation says,

when the sun comes through a break in clouds
it feels like laughter.
 
 
 
that…   that man, he lived his life with two angels
at the foot of his bed.   always.   he was light.

came the day, came the disease, time soon to go.
he lived dying the way he always lived his life.   full.

then nearer, one day he says,
I want to live.   I don’t want to leave this place.   any of it.

another day and he remembered himself.

another day, he changed.   away.
 
 
odd?   what I most remember was that brief desire
of holding on.   out of character?   to my ears he was
the most full person he always was.

         nothing held apart.   nothing.
 
 
         more bright

         more full
 
 
 

autumn could be

 
 
it’s been a fallow season for both snails and spiders here.

green bones, white flower.

on the landing outside our upper deck door.   the last gardenia
bloom is open today.   no more after this.

this morning the world is changing.   I am changing too.

the world and me, siblings at the skin.   sensitive to touch.
        your touch    most of all.
 
 
it, is the word for everything.   our bodies.   our thirst.

is, is the word for beingness itself.   Being is.   I am.

said another way,    it is.
 
 
Like a rule:   you go where your attention goes.
        unless it finds you first.
 
 
uncertainty, by another name is openness.   means
past is not projected as future sight.

        open and close.

heart moves breath,  open close  open close
 
 
he asked me if it was, the small red cover notebook
bundled with other folded sheets between pages, here
beside me on the bench, asked if it was my bible?

No.   Something else, my reply.

then a moment more.   I wonder, is it?
just first cast poem scratches.   is it my bible?   is it?

        if it is,    it also is – undone.    doing, always.

in these words there’s no ending here.

        open   close   open   close
 
 
 
your best self lives where you don’t yet know.   anything.
 
 
 

the best part of writing a poem

 
 
is it pen and fingers mapping a paper path?
how it begins.   thought becomes body now.
broad blue swaths of ink.   like rivers do.
folding in quarters.   a pocket next.   patience
while words arrive.   water on thirsty skin.
 
 
listening.      then.         what does it say?
 
 
then doubts.   then uncertainty.   knowing the
faces inside.   some speak.   some are fish.
            dare speak aloud?
 
            does it quench?
the thing about reality is.      it is reliable.
blessing when right words gather close.
 
 
 
            because
 
the best part of writing a poem         is letting go.
 
 

rhythm is the face inside the words

 
 
          for real.
 
now stand near.   close your eyes.
I’m doing the same.   imagine now,
me imagining you,   standing near.
 
 
          to share a space!
 
to walk the same floors.   and hand to handle,
orange juice on the left, milk on the right.   the stairs.
the groceries.   the calico cat.   some ants.   sleeping.
tending our garden.   I do the watering.   some of it.
          blessing is this body of life.
 
 
it’s not so much your visceral intent, mattering.
it’s that you align with the intent that already is.
 
 
the writing itself, pen to paper on my fingertips,
takes me a step away from my shoes.   from you.
 
 
          think of mother remembering.
 
soft towels around her arms to keep her from drifting
out of her chair and away.   she did.   they brought her
home.   well, that day, that home was a hospital room.
 
nothing familiar.   memories free to put up a tent.
back in San Francisco.   I was just there with friends
this afternoon,
she says.   she’s back to the boarding
house for her meal tonight.   says, I look familiar.
          she’s glad seeing me.
 
I don’t take memory personally.
 
 
it’s an ordinary skill taken to heart.   I try.
 
 
think of this wandering like a ripe apple.
          you know.   something sweet.

feeding ground

what sharp teeth may appreciate.
 
 
 
there’s the child who labored, figuring it all out.
maybe not so successfully.

there’s the man growing older every day.
he feels the unconditional heft of gravity.
 
 
 
imagine your life.   afraid.   and release.
imagine telling.   all your truth.
imagine knowing.   what’s the truth of that truth?

gather me in like driftwood.   I am.   the same.

put me on the shelf.   souvenirs from the beach.
all bleached brown and scattered white.

a few grains of sand speaking in native tongue.
 
 
 
it’s because you’re near that I remember you.
your after-shower, exuberant, untamed hair.

early morning in town.   it is all too beautiful to want
leaving.
   open eyes.   past due, observe.
 
 
palms on my seated knees.   my collar up but chill
breeze behind finds me anyway.   some minutes,
minutes yet before sun comes out from a green leaf
         eclipse.
 
 
I miss your book being in my hands this morning now.
 
 
sun is now on the right side of the bench.
I’m on the left.   slowly.   closer my way.

Oh, I need This,   is said behind my right shoulder.
was it really behind?   closer to me?

sun creeps astride my paper coffee cup.

now here.      now me.      except my knees.

despite the warm glance, I shiver once with the
change.       the brightness of the moon.
 
 
you and you, and you, are in this poem right here.
you veer from thought to ink.   don’t need names.
         we align by height, near and far.

now to ask,   Is the daylight sturdy in these hands?

it happens like this

          And it’s all that knowledge
          that conceals what a thing is.

               Derek DelGaudio
 
 
there was a man,

this man had body issues that kept him apart from
most sense of physical experience.   what could this
man do?   so the man learned.   he learned to cut
his skin just so much as to feel some sense of body
connection.   to be awake.   what he now calls

          pleasure,

in whatever way available to him.
 
 
seems like ample pain in this world.   real and imagined.
is there a reality where pain is received      in gratitude?
 
 
          just to be        alive.
 
 
the closer we look, the less we see of sky.

sailors say, some waves know your name.
many just ignore you, unless provoked.

if you don’t know how to do.   do.   allow,
allow not knowing to find its own way.

draw small circles from far away.   like we do.

which of these threads have only a single source?
to see a thread is to become that thread.   more.
          more than chemistry.

all this,
this is what I go to sleep with and,
and what I wake up with each day.

it’s not so much being brave about life.
it’s more about surrendering.     happiness comes.
 
 
like rain does,

          embrace
 
 
two surfaces finding each other.
like planets do when they begin gathering.
 
 
gathering home.     this could be me.

a journal of everything

 
 
when I was this much tall.   inches.   now, measure
goes by another name.   yet still, I am this much tall.
 
 
this is not like me
 
write down your sins.
no, those, those you don’t want to say.
maybe not even aloud to yourself.
 
some say the real meaning of sin is simply not ripe.
      not ripe yet.
 
 
here, right here, have it sit right next to you.   cousin, me.
 
here’s why.   she said, dogs have a clear conscience.   do we?
 
write.   write your list or paragraphs, not that you
ever need show anyone.   it’s process that makes change.
 
excuse me while I turn my back.   some lessons are big,
but most are small.   like this here.
 
 
here’s how you know when you’re seeing right.
how we got there I don’t know.   but it is,
 
      beautiful.
 
 
there are threads that say, who I am.
 
I am a child,   a son,   an aging man.
I am an observer,   a writer,   a forgetter.
I am willing arms.   I am broken.
I am shy on Mondays and Tuesdays.
 
I am alone.
I am forgiven, when the truth is said.
 
I am your friend.   possible.
 
you never see how many threads I really am
 
 
 
            As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not
            certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality.

                        Albert Einstein

            Language too, I’m wondering?
 
 

gathering momentum

 

 
casting a net:  I don’t know what this is.    I do.
fish respond:  I don’t know what to do with this is.    I do.

here’s a lesson, and it’s meant for me

take some small slices of pie, you know, like
those people those cars those crows passing by,
beside some bench beside some city street.

now, say thank you to so many each as you
can notice.    individually, I suppose.    saying,

            thank you      in your thought

no matter the face and shape.
sincerity counts.    but observe,

is your silent voice genuine?    you already know.

be the willing effect of.    everything.    freedom is.

notice what happens inside.    your own thought.
does gratitude know the way home?    it does.

to whom?    when is the universe not listening?

making thanks includes who and what I might
think otherwise to hold at arms length from

being close?    what changes?    where?

where does distance first exist?    who, you ask.
do we dare our feet to move?    each motion matters.

is there intimacy?    linger with that on your tongue.
a moment of intimacy is.    each one.    one moment,

            swimming far.

and when I forget.      remember instead.

appreciation arrives.    like air.    breathe.