A tower of stone reaching to the sky
Diverts clear waters flowing past
For ages formed by ancient  forces 
To be a beacon to both birds & floaters 

A landmark sought to lead us past the 
Currents carrying soggy burdens
As some of us require a sign to point
Or lead to future unseen destinations 

Many along the journey seeking roots
In troubled, treacherous times & places
Must cling to a rock of blessings hoped. 
And dare to venture outside the norm. 

Last night the moon, waning for weeks,
shed farewell tears, and today

tiny lakes dapple the landscape,
waveless, fishless, but teeming with worms
and mud that transforms pedestrians' shoes
into Pollack paintings.
               
Children waiting for yellow buses
chase away preening grackles and jays
before the birds have finished their baths.

Boys splash girls and girls splash back
while neighborhood dogs strain on their leashes,
eager to roll on the sodden sidewalk.                   
Passing cars send sprays from the street
like champagne bottles improperly opened.

Later the sun will bucket the puddles
and store them in its golden garage
to later pour on an outdoor wedding,
a company picnic, a crowded parade.

Mountain heaves and rocks tumultuous sighs, exclamations.
Sky replies in odes and sonnets, sings calming exaltations.
Mountain impatient demands rain, for forests,
for animals four footed and winged, for Mountain Nation.

Sky blue and cloudless, sunny disposition, gives way to 
brilliant moon, floating in its purple mantle.

Sunrise to moonrise to sunrise, no rain, no water,
Mountain sleepless searches its deepest caves for the 
elixir, the potion that can save Mountain Nation.
 	
Mountain heaves and rocks tumultuous sighs, exclamations.
Brings forth into the world, water from its deepest core.
A trickle, a rivulet, a stream, a river upended, 
perpendicular to its earthen indentations. Precious
water, falls, tumbles, rumbles, with increasing force.
Gifting its life-giving sustenance with panache.

Waterfall commotion as loud as an ocean, loosens soil.
Soil particles like diamonds sparkling, fly to sky.
Waterfall moisture joins magical dust.  
Cloud formations dance minuets, join sky songs,
beckoning exaltations to stratus, cumulus. 

Cirrus ice crystals melt into droplets, heavenly rain.
Rainwater reclaims waterfall. Rain cycle so awaited
cycles, recycles, cycles, nourishes Mountain Nation.

Hot sand pushes up between my toes
as I zig-zag through a million bodies
 - splayed-out sunning on blankets
 - seated shade-tucked under umbrellas.
scattered helter-skelter to the horizon.

I envy those who can suck up the sun 
and produce a glorious golden tan,
while I am fated to burn, branded with
peeling patches of skin and a sea of freckles.

But tan or no, it's the ocean that beckons me.

I charge into the waves,
then race them back to shore,
over and over and over again,
pumping up enough courage
to swim out to the rope marker,
and hang there in deep water,
bobbing among lazy surface swells.

Cool and salty, the vast Atlantic
caresses my suspended body,
ruminating on the great journey
from Old World to New.

I bend down
my camera in one hand
spellbound
by the bead of water
as it quivers
on the lip
of hollow pipe,
drips
into the stone bowl—
a tsukubai
fed by water sleeved
through bamboo.
 
Not washing my hands
nor rinsing my mouth,
not preparing
for ceremonial tea.
 
Alone with time
slackened to a drip
of a drop
into pooled water.   
 
I click. Wait
with the patience
of a sparrow click  
for the seed
click to overflow
the feeder again—
for the click
droplet to dissolve
the stillness.
 
A friend led me here once.
To be fed.
I return—each time,
each click
a sacred cleansing.


(First published in
Origami Poems Project)

shallow tears,
improvised lump in his throat
his lips form patterns of prevarication
 
his eyes water with witless excursions
away from truths
into his own sphere of sinful supposing
 
but those who know him
beg him to sit back down
engage in some silently strained morality 
 
yet he stands, tall and straight
in stature, with a prosthetic heart
of his own imagining
 
says what he will
while gazing into cold, dark eyes
that return the blows with the patience of Job
 
knowing what he spews
is a whale of lies 
even Jonah
 
could not stand to live inside.

The Kitch-iti-kipi is a magical spring,
Or so the story is told.
The crystal clear waters are forty feet deep
And quite a sight to behold.
 
Visitors can ride a raft to the middle.
The waters are deep emerald green.
Gliding beneath, as though suspended,
Fat trout can easily be seen.
 
Ten thousand gallons of water per minute
Gush through the limestone below,
Creating ever-changing shapes and forms
That challenge the imagination so.
 
Named "Mirror of Heaven" by the early Indians,
The spring is open year-round.
When you visit Michigan's largest spring,
True magic will always be found.

The relief of rain
promises innocence,
forgiveness after drought,

instead brings darkness
crouching to earth,
crawling on its belly,

sniffing the wind.
A sudden torrent
flows over the road,

a surging rill,
nearly invisible.
One must

decide to drive on,
or not,

the intrusion of lightning
a banshee springing
from the underbrush,

illuminating nothing
but the gray groan
of thunder.

Decide.


(First published in
Current Accounts)

Like a Sherlock, I track the secrets 
of a desert's hide-and-seek river 
as she stitches her long slender thread 
in and out, above and beneath 
moonscaped earth.

For 185 miles I trace Amargosa's spare signs
between her Pahute Mesa headwaters
and Death Valley demise,
finding above-ground clues at Beatty
and that no-clothes-required 
warm-springs enterprise of Tecopa,
then catching the trace of her spine that 
flash-floods to life in rare rainstorms.

But it's the river's riveting appearance 
as Mojave's last remaining oasis
that takes my breath. In that wild
incongruity of wetlands and desert
she shows herself as a turquoise spring 
whose bottom has never been reached,
as pools teeming with relic species 
of ancient fish,  a place for plants and 
animals found nowhere else on earth. 
Here, the secretive river rises
to surprise the desert with a kiss.


(Encore Prize Poems, 2019)

Coastal warm breeze
off Santa Monica, California
the sun turns salt
shaker upside down
and it rains white smog, humid mist.
No thunder, no lightning,
nothing else to do
except sashay
forward into liquid
and swim
into eternal days
like this.

Polar vortex invades Lake Michigan
Striking brutal waves over twenty feet high
Erodes Chicago's shoreline,
Nearby parks and homes, closing roads for days.
 
Bike trails attractions are battered,
Recreation is prohibited
Emergency safety closures and precautions
Initiated to prevent casualties.
 
Nature is reclaiming its natural shoreline
Disregarding manmade expansion used
Debris from the tragic 1871 Chicago Fire,
Remnants and other dumped materials.
 
Season changes, recreation activities resume
People enjoy mighty Lake Michigan again
Viewing calm, crystal blue-green water,
Feeling cool breezes, admiring skyline vistas.
 
During this six month peak seasonal usage,
Never forget the lake's other menacing side -
Summer storm waves, lightning, dangerous rip tides.
Always take heed to weather warnings issued.

One hour ends and another begins. Faucets leak arsenic and metal.
Farmlands turn to dust. We're slowly dying here, hour after hour.
A sky gleams like a phosphorous stone. Cracked black seeds rattle.
Rundown houses brood in noonday shadows. Our farmers glower.

Farmlands turn to dust. We're slowly dying here, hour after hour.
Crops click, click, click like old bones. They're twisted and brittle.
Our rundown houses brood in noonday shadows. Farmers glower.
It is noon. And then it's midnight. We dream, but our dreams nettle.

Crops click, click, click like old bones. They're twisted and brittle.
Seeds rattle on blanched branches. They rattle louder and louder.
It is noon and then it's midnight. We dream, but our dreams nettle.
Once we had enough groundwater; enough water to shower.

Seeds rattle on blanched branches. They rattle louder and louder.
The children don't want to drink the water. They say it tastes sour.
Once we had enough groundwater; enough water to shower.
Fine dust sifts through every room. Dust heaps like baking powder.

The children don't want to drink this water. They say it tastes sour.
A sky gleams like a phosphorous stone. Cracked black seeds rattle.
Dust sifts through every room. Dust heaps like fine baking powder.
One hour ends and another begins. Faucets leak arsenic and metal.

The fish

		which jumped out of the water
		struggled
		and returned to the water
 
	said to
 
	the poet
		who jumped in the water
		struggled
		but failed to return
Your world is indeed not livable

My mind returns again to the pool,
that steadfast slab of aquamarine
filled each year for the village kids
who descended on bikes to bare their limbs
in a frenzy of seasonal freedom.

Sensory overload is what we craved—
(is this why I remember it so well?)
—twinned smells of chlorine and coconut,
the din of splash, shriek and whistle,
that blissful rush of cool on skin
newly crisped by the exulting sun.

One best friend was all a girl needed.
Layered between blue water and sky
afloat on our backs, or eeling through forests
of glowing legs, our eyes open and stinging—
we swam and dived till we pruned,
then scurried over concrete to flimsy towels
laid out along the chain-link fence.

Lying on our bellies, chins on arms,
we'd gaze at the bronze Adonises
in the lifeguard chairs with idolatry
pure and unashamed.  Our legs—
(so small and unshaven) splayed behind us
like knob-kneed foals'—could jump up
on a whim to climb to the high dive and soar,
then touch bottom and catapult back into air.

Our nascent bodies, arms wide to life,
hang burnished in that moment—
where buoy ropes and Top-40 beats
reassured us—yes. This happiness is all
we'll ever need to claim or to believe in.

He smiled at me today
and I lifted my ragged skirt,
ran barefoot to the cool, luring pond,
lingering momentarily before still waters.
The wind had not passed this way
to quiver the hidden pond in quite some time.
I dipped my toe, causing a ripple,
but not drowning this time.
Just needing to see the ripple
forever changing the still pond with its influence.
I left shortly afterwards
and locked the secret garden for good.

After thunderbolts
have ceased their booming
and recede into clouds—

after lightning strikes
have been swallowed
by the firmament—

I listen to you pelting
on my metal roof,
as you sing-song me to sleep.

By and by you splash
and frolic sluicing down
my gutters in a steady

drip, drip, drip, offloading
in my wooden barrel
where birds and squirrels

take a drink. Can't say why
I love you so, but I do—
Sing sweet rain, Sing sweet rain!

I

The Lake is always in sight.
We move, it moves with us.
We stand still, its waves
fold and crest like the
gibbous moon, rising.

II

The Lake is everywhere.
We walk on grassy hills.
Fresh water meets 
the sky, like Hiawatha 
singing a secret song.

III

The Lake is within us.
Bordering pure rivers, 
pebble-rich streams, 
it is as vast as the ocean.  
We see clearly with its 
pristine vision.

IV

You are the Lake, tan boy 
running, angry waves
swirl around your legs,
algae and pike swim
in your skin.

V

If only we could stay 
as innocent as when we
first were born near fresh
water. Then we would not 
be separated from the Lake, 
nor from God.

	The pruned forsythia branch placed in a bucket of water
No sun, no food—only water
Yellow gems appear on the stem fed by water
The green leaves develop from the uptake of water
	Small wisps develop into long white roots in the water
Planted in the spring garden it waits for rain water

A miracle, the lifeguards don't see me
practicing mermaid moves in the deep end.
They shut off the lights and leave
me, the last kid in the pool on the last
day of summer.

I paddle on my back cross the cloudless
blue, spouting water through my teeth,
while overhead, the Big Dipper,
star by star, blinks on.

Just days ago summer had grown tedious, 
again, going to the pool. 
Now everything joyously urgent. 
One last cannonball, one final free sprint. 
 
I break rules just to break them:
skip round the deck, rescue tossed life
buoys, announce free ice cream,
kids only, over the loud speaker.

On top the high dive,
I make out lamp-lit windows of my house, 
over railroad tracks, up the steep hill, 
and faintly my brother yelling "not it" 
as the crickets' hum dips
before rising again. 
 
I stick my nose in the crook of my arm,
breathe in clean chlorine smell, 
and swallow before it's gone
this summer I rode no-handed, belly-flopped,
played Tarzan in the willow tree.
Then I grab my towel, and slip out the gate. 

One pleasant evening
I reclined in the old wooden fishing boat,
jawing with my mates, watching the gold orb
peacefully descend as we crossed the quiet lake.

Without warning, a furious, glowering 
windstorm surmounted the sun 
and assaulted our weathered vessel
with giant waves.

Icy, soaking whitecaps scaled our gunnels;
fierce, frigid gusts lashed our faces.
Sails and rigging rebelled; our bow shot skyward,
then our stern plunged seaward.
Our careening craft screeched her complaints.
                                    
Our seasoned fishermen wrestled grimly 
with sails and tiller; our scared non-fishermen  
staggered, clung to a guy wire, froze in fear, threw up, 
or beseeched the captain to save us; one of us knelt 
in prayer at his feet, as he awakened from his nap
on a cushion in the stern.  

His face alight with authority, he rebuked 
the rampaging winds and waves; they promptly ceased
while we marveled.  He pointed out our weak faith.   
Later I wondered, Surely the ruler of the raging
seas is always in my boat during my sudden storms,  
and he has the power and the desire to help me.

Water and fire,
good in measured doses.
Yin and Yang zeal for a life in balance.
We live see-saw today. Too much of this,
not enough of that.
Rain starved California ablaze,
rabid forest fires gobbling up 
parched homesteads
large and small.
Continent on fire; 
Koalas almost gone.
Scorched fur
and burns.
Call for cozy hand knitted sleeping nests;
babies without mothers.

Or dark skies opening up,
forgetting to turn off.
Deluge,
or days of steady downpour.
Water following
ancient paths,
filling forgotten
ponds and lakes,
taking over towns.

Homely local boats
rescuing neighbors,
bundling out of windows
and off of roofs;
babies, dogs, and cats,
clutched close
to sleepless faces.

We are in this together.
Nature, abused and angry,
has arrived in power;
to break our furtive grip on
my-me-mine.

after the opera . . .
listening to
the downpour

A post-breakfast walk
before mercurial rain
takes me up the road 
				
past the farm's
rolling land embraced
by folded mountains

walling in the little town
below.  Fading leaves
hang motionless

in a quietude nothing 
disturbs but my footsteps
and breathing.

It's harder to describe
the tender mew
and gurgle of a stream 

purling toward the river
pulsing each day with its
own rhythm and secrets

that flow to a watershed
where each droplet's 
outcome is assured.

the river barrels into the bay
mouth wide open
regurgitating everything 
it has gathered for miles
plastic grocery sacks
full of rich bottom land
wire-handled take-out boxes
bits of Moo Shu Pork
clinging to the edges
rotting rubber boots
snarled fishing line
murder weapons

the bay chokes
spews it all back 
in high tide waves 
infected by zebra mussels
alien sea squirts 
spiny water fleas

those who care 
call time out
draw lines in the sand
with litter fines
bubble screens
all bright ideas
come too late
too late

The ocean wears
a rippled silk
of blue-green elegance

and dolphins bear
upon their backs
the flash of radiance.

Beneath the stars, the Sun, moons 
encircling worlds that hold them captive,
clouds create a fluid wall obscuring
dream-visioned where and what might be.

Beneath the clouds, the birthplace seas,
and in the rainy space between, our lives, 
loves, losses equally defined by water,
by tears of joy and sadness, crying out.

Beneath the tides of woe, almost drowned,
we're awash, wash our hands or wring them,
and falling in each other's arms, lovers
or paramours, are sheltered in the storm.

The Munich McDonald's is mobbed,
full of eager hungry lunchtime souls lined up
for fast burgers, fries and shakes,
content to move inch by inch
toward the ordering goal while pondering
the lengthy letters of the German language
menu overhead, the sun's out, the huge
fountain outside is pouring its clear multiple
H2O arches in endless entertaining, lulling,
hypnotizing half circles that reflect the light
like a thousand kaleidoscopes,
putting people in a plush painting of a
Bayern afternoon in a big, bustling city with
everyone a moving or temporarily stationary
dot in a pointillistic canvas, incomplete and
ever-changing while pedestrians,
skateboards, camera-clicking tourists,
children and leaning lovers all add sound,
soul and personality to the colorful
Karlsplatz collage of life spilling out over
the crowded square like water from
Ponce de Leon's elusive, mysterious,
unobtainable fountain of never-ending youth.

Water ticks and plinkles,
hums the next door roar
of a lawn mower,
	ripple pillows my head,
	waves my limbs like hydras,
	licks my skin
	with currents cool and warm
till it puckers up in return.
It feels like mint.

Far above, the puzzle fits,
clean-edged pieces of the day
overhead banner green, white, blue.
	I am a patriot
	whose lashes fan a salute,
	whose eyes issue an anthem,
	whose breathing whistles and cheers
like distant crowds or choirs
in my own ears.

It kept raining hard,
sounded like hail on my gray car roof.
Staring at the hundreds of headstones,
I imagined I saw the rain sink
the ground deeper by each,
as if obeying the biblical injunction,
to turn us back to dirt,
it was trying to reach each buried soul.
Water was washing the artificial flowers
to a fresh brightness on this rain-cloud day.

Sally loved the water.
Her gift was to sing during picnics by the lake.
In her cabin by the river
she would warble pretty as a sparrow.
decades ago she survived Missouri River floods,
last year's Platte River deluge couldn't dominate her.

Here she was, leaving us in this heavy rain,
pouring down nourishment for our roots,
feed for the flowers we've grown into.
I didn't mind the rain soaking me,
our last gift from Sally.

Some
raccoons
grew friendly 
with barnyard cats
result: Catoons who
swished their kitty bits in
water, hissed, swung from curtains
carried dolls on backs Then they heard
the cluck sounds of busy layer hens, 
nearby, so they leapt in to enjoy lunch.

There is a special kind of water
That's sprinkled by a daughter
The evil one is afraid of this liquid
This water cleans the soul in love
Thus the spirit is made new thereof
It burns the Father of lies and deceit
That haunts Mankind seems to repeat
Through history from the Great spirit
Father who manifest from holy Spigot
Is golden in color as Holy Water flows
That provides protection from the evil
Plague of the World in a Viral level
The Mystical Rose intercedes for all of us
To combat the Coronavirus of Belial's dusk
The Tower of Ivory views in their direction
Of the Serpents to force their dejection

What is water?
A love between
Two atoms of Hydrogen
And one atom of Oxygen
Can hold up the sky
Transparent and odorless substance
Flows as liquid in rivers, streams
And ocean
Creating many new paths
For boats and ships
Acts like a mirror
Expressing the beauty
Of nature
Quench our thirst
And cool us down
 
It is everywhere
Appears in the form of
Pearly morning dewdrops hugging
The flower petals
Solid ice and snow
Renovating the mountains
Mirage in the desert
Raindrops falling on the ground
 
How blessed we are
To have water
On our planet earth
It is an essential fuel
World's first
And foremost medicine
A necessity of life
Without it
Humans, animals and plants
Won't survive

Let the ocean behold
the reflection of the heavens,
then—refute the misconceptions
of it being soft and tender
with Cesaria Evora
or the sounds of brasiliero,
be absolved now and forever,
of attempts on soul collecting,
as it's wedged into horizons
as an optical illusion
of all those who gazed and wandered
through the waters, being mortal...
It is not a panacea,
nor is it a cleansing being,
but it rather is an owner
of all those repeated errors
by those self-absorbed fanatics
who were always so certain
at the end appearing blind...
Let the ocean behold
the mundane understanding of nature,
on the hope that it isn't vindictive

Ubiquitous
 
found In all forms and places.

Stagnant ponds and
swimming pools.
Bathtubs full of 
water and splashing children.

Ice cubes clinking in a glass.
Water beading up
on the shiny hood of a car.
The drip from a faucet.

Snow clinging to telephone wires.
Fog and Mist and Slush and Steam.
Still quiet ponds and
roaring waterfalls.

Salt and fresh water.
More than seventy percent of
our blue planet 
covered with it. 
Life itself 
emerges from 
the seas.

They enter the party
chatter about who's who.
Some have partners
hidden in dark recesses,
away from bright light
whispering pretty words.

Through the hushed laughter
they hear someone talk about water
and how little water there'll be in the world;
how the lakes and rivers are drying up.

They hear how silly that sounds
from a woman's voice, an octave higher than most.
This woman wears black
turquoise earrings hang from her lobes.
Her jewelry comes from New Mexico
authentic, the real deal. 

But back to the water.
There's a water problem
but people don't listen...
they continue to drink
with childish greed.

They know the West Antarctic is melting,
ice floes dance on the surface of the seas
its odd shapes are devoured by warmer waters.

They ask, "if New York and California are
in the path of rising oceans,
how can the water be drying up?"

The woman with the high voice answers,
"It's not our concern anyway."
Her trawling at the party
has to do with finding Mr. Real Deal. 
"The water will take care of itself—
like it has for centuries."


 

Lord of the ocean, Lord of the sand,
God of creation, before You I stand.
The night here is sacred on your dimly lit shore
As I talk to You now 'midst the vast ocean's roar.

I pause at this beach where mirrored I see
Just one silhouette—Yes, Lord, it is me.
As couples stroll by, I remember romance.
Soft music is playing. Yes, life is a dance.

You've given me strength, You've given me grace
You've let me return to this beautiful place
Where two of us walked, not knowing that day
Just around sunset you'd take him away.

The veil is not lifted, but Spirit is here.
Oh, Lord of this island, please make it more clear.
I've learned a big lesson that in You I can trust 
As surf meets the sand—yes, trust You I must.

It seems wherever I go, I see You expand—
Oh, Lord of the mountains, Lord of the land.
Your mightiness fathoms beyond that of the sea
Yet your Spirit's wherever the soul calls to Thee.

Each wave is a promise of the strength that You give
For each of the moments in this life that we live.
Your arms hug this island where land meets the sea.
Oh, breath of Aloha, please reach and touch me.

Please dry these tears with Your spirit of love.
Bring me Your peace, send me Your dove.
And as the tide rushes in with its frothy white foam,
Please cleanse me, Lord, as here I roam.

With this altar around me, I've no reason to wallow.
I'll watch for the rainbow. Please bless me. Mahalo.

Oh Sun, why are you hiding today of all days?
This is not the time to disappear behind
the stormy sky. For ages, I waited, waited
for this day to bathe in your blood-red glory.
Oh, Sun, this was to be the day of the walk
with you as you hovered ten degrees above
the horizon. You were to saturate every cell
of my body with your crimson shine.
 
You might say — this visit was not for you,
but for the majestic, wild ocean, swelling
high because of Neptune's angry wrath,
but the ocean is the garden where lovers
come to keep promises, to raise chalices
to the future. This journey was long.
Onboard this rocking ship, I shall return
with frozen river inside, devoid of your embrace.
 
Oh Surya, oh sun, there may not be
any future visits.

Two-thirds of the world is watery,
calling the vagabond, the troubled,
the adventurous, the meditative,
to come to the shore and beyond,
 
to sail out into the deep,
the gull and albatross overhead,
and beneath feet which play the deck like a drum,
teeming villages of dolphin, shark, squid,
and thousands of other species, many still unknown.
 
We've learned to love remnants
of the flood, what flows between continents
and up estuaries, waves that foam,
climb the air and fall,
the white sapphire sparkles on the surface
in moonlight or sun.
 
Scientists say the ice is melting,
the flood returning.
When the waters don't recede
and whole cities sink below the crest,
you and I will play the role
of Noah's neighbors.

 
From Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick,
by Wilda Morris (Kelsay Books, 2020).

A tiny drop of salt water,
rests for a moment.
Sparkling,
on the crest
of a giant splashing wave.
Before it becomes,
once again,
lost,
diluted
in the foaming brine.

You cry your first in your mother's arms.
The water trickles down the drain.

You soon grow into a toddler's knowing.
The water flows beneath the streets.

You attend your schools for diplomas, degrees.
The water enters a nearby stream.

You have your wedding, children, career.
The water joins a seaward-flowing river.

You make mistakes in ethics; health goes weak.
The water reaches the peace of the sea.

You retire from your career to savor life.
The water now is one with all the seas.

You suffer through precursors of mortality.
The water feels a need to rise.

Your body quits, and you leave it where it is.
The water rises through a mist into a cloud.

You enjoy long bliss in the space of Light.
The water joins a darkening cloud.

You feel a longing toward the physical again.
The water rains down and seeps into a well.

Your vision of the Light has faded now.
The water is drawn from the well for drinking.

You feel confined and utterly doomed.
The water breaks.

You cry your first in your mother's arms.
The water trickles down the drain.


(From Fireflies Don't Bite)