You speak. I am silent.
I do not understand the language
you make:

all I know

is that my silences
struggle not to drown in your
flood of words.

1

Bang
from a waste dump 
she jumps out

my childhood playmate
who has played hide-and-seek with me
for most of my life

no rouge or lipstick
not wearing gold or jade
elegant and graceful
making my eyes and heart shine at the same time
A Slender Lady


2

thank you
for making me suddenly
young and serene
in these dark plague days


3

dark clouds in the sky
the haze on the ground
the fog in my mind
all are scrambling to jump into
the cosmic waste heaps

waiting for a great artist
to sculpt 
an eternal masterpiece 

 If you listen closely
You can hear 
The pines singing.

The wind sways the tops
And shrieks 
Through the branches.

Sometimes you can almost
Understand 
What they are singing,
But not quite.

The wind blows through
And plays them. 
 
It is as if 
God Himself is blowing 
Through the trees
Like a musical instrument.

Be still
And reverently listen  

From my part of the world,
I can't see polar bears looking
for enough frozen ice to rest on 
or catch fish in warming oceans.

Here drought-tinged grass offers
views of once green landscape filled
with flower beds seeking water
and shade from hotter sunny days.

Vanishing nearby wetlands
and forests no longer offer 
carbon filters effective for centuries
before asphalt became a common sight.

We don't always notice temperatures
rising or lakes receding, spotting
fewer fireflies or moths on sultry
summer nights.
		
Sometimes it's hard to envision
the planet far less abundant  
and predictable—
a maelstrom threading

its way to where we live 
on the edge of changing winds,
a global agitation so close
we can't recognize the truth.

A rainbow never followed.
A lover never kissed.
A favor never offered.
An opportunity missed.

A Quest without a purpose.
A day without a friend.
A lesson with no moral.
A crisis with no end.

A war without a victory.
A book without a cover.
A queen without a crown.
A soul without a lover.


(From his book,
The Winds of Life)

My(?) consciousness
a symphony of spikes
action potentials
that cohere in 
brain waves
from a trillion cells
a socialist civilization a thousand times
greater than that of the 
earth
yet 
in all those spikes 
we cannot find the 
I

"Me"  
a story I tell myself,
an image 
built over 
decades,
a thought,
convenient,
carefully constructed
from selected memories 
a paean to the past
often an enemy of 
being in the present

keep breathing

My(?) body  
home to
39 trillion bacteria
essential long-term visitors
more numerous than the residents,
who themselves are replaced 
every few years.
Are they all part of Me?

When I am in cosmic consciousness
I am a wave
spread over all space-time

at one 
with the love
and blessings 
of the universe 
a cosmic being

When I focus on a single object, a thought,  
a desire, a thing
the wave is absorbed and

collapses to
a point
called the ego
that makes its claim on
my consciousness

and My(?) story
resumes

Too fast with wishes too slow with acts.
Better to bluster against the facts.
Safer that way. Not a target.
Out of the woods one will forget
the monotony of growth hiding the sky
from any horizon that could meet the eye.
Panic in no moon at night.
Shadows uniting for a fight.
No name. No ground. No object to touch.
In the darkness of never too much.
Tell me where to go. Can't be on my own.
All through my life accident prone.
Don't know which sex from one day to next.
Speak to me drearily through text!
Slow down. Examine your corpus.
Was it delectable or just plain crude? 
Too much fun shocking the multitude?
Confess now. I am thus!
Top of trail remember lines.
The actor gods forgotten.
Leaving parts all over vines
springing into the Autumn.
Who stole my hat in the barber shop?
Come along and give me a tip.
Shine my shoes and cut off my top.
The caterpillar is in the dip.
What are you wanting to prove?
You can be wrong in a heartbeat.
Answer me this. Would I be rude
to point out my victory in defeat?
Certain things can't be true
Your number falls on a holiday.
Why exist if you're only new.
Baby you won't have to pay.
Ripen to rot on the tree.
You are so miserable.
Your responsibility is to me
How can I not eat at your table?

Winter geese flying
like jacks tumbling through the sky.
Frost gathers on grass.

The elder trees stare
at their icy reflections
in the frozen lake.

Surgeons beckon us.
We brace ourselves for the news.
Together we pray.

Momma's loving eyes
close for the very last time.
Our hearts are broken.

Traveling back home
thick fog enshrouds the dark night.
Deer herd blocks the road.

Where one world opens,
another world closes tight.
Deer flee. She is gone.

		"Clams have no eyes, ears, or noses...."

		~Richard Myrick, Clam Fun Facts
		
		
Mary Oliver wrote of the broken cupboard
of the clam, one of the few foods that breaks me
open, an unfortunate allergy. I pick up
the ribbed remains of a hard-shelled clam,
examine the gray and white growth circles,
turn it over to admire the purple patches
that hide inside. I think of the creature
who inhabited this broken cupboard,
how it lived its life with no eyes to see
the beauty of sunrise or sunset on the water,
full moon, sand art of the semipalmated plover,
or the approach of a gull at low tide,
about to grab it, turn it into a meal.
I think how it lived with no ears
to hear people, those human predators who come
to gather clams for chowder or other dishes
only allergies keep me from trying.
 
I think about my aunt, in a nursing home
after an auto accident—unable to do anything
except burrow into bed like a clam in the sand,
but with no waves to caress her. Her eyesight
and hearing mostly gone, she could barely hear
music turned up loud, could not make out a bouquet
or clearly discern the face of her daughter.
Nurses thought she was grumpy because she objected
to being sat up or lifted without warning.
Like a clam, she could not see or hear
who or what was coming, whether protector
or predator, her body a broken cupboard.


(Originally published in Encore, 2023)

My father once told me
"Don't be so gullible about people.
Remember, it was people
that killed Christ and
you're sure no better than He was."
My father had a heart attack driving home.
He was dead before he hit the steering wheel.
Police used a night stick
to break a window and
open the car door.
I called the police to thank them,
The officer said, "We had to.
A crowd was forming.
They would have stolen his shoes."
Now that he has his shoes,
my father can dance
whenever he needs to.

Hello solitude.
Many have chanted to you,
have written verses for you
Or cried in your arms too 


but at the end, 
they rejoice in your immortal presence,
the one that reveals what's within, 
the one that vibrates without shame
and makes the senses tremble and awaken 


Awaken, like a perfect hurricane does—
looking for answers in troubled times,
stalking for unfinished mysteries
...or dreams that guide to changes.


Hello solitude.
Many long for you and don't allow
the intimate moment of your shelter
to be stolen from them: It's always good 
to be home and rest too. I agree. I agree.

We wander through the forest
Where toadstools peek from under fallen logs...
Where thickets of trees hide crickets in mist...
Where white columbine reaches out from rocks
and hills rise and fall.
 
A blue jay watches and follows our path.
Where moss grows on stones...
Where skinks and lizards dart and hide...
Where sunshine warms us and breezes cool us
and water laps the shore below.
 
We pass the lookout and head down the valley.
Where winding stone stairs lead down...
Where overhangs shadow our steps...
Where caves abound and creeks trickle down
and waterfalls fill the grotto below.


(First published in The Colors of Life - 2003)