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LYRIC POEMS
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Sonnet Counterpoint
Sometimes a circle is a fairy ring,
Sometimes a yin and a yang, sometimes a dome
Of healing, sometimes a cyclone of pain.
The seasons cycle with pine wind and chill;
Then manzanita bells ring in the rain
And blossoms blow in the sun’s golden will
As spring surges up with green once again.
Then geese fly above and our spirits soar
Till mud and shame sink our souls to the core,
So we trudge on or skip or run, swallow
Our pride or glory in the sun. Up, down
And all around, so dizzy as we go
Some dropping a trail of breadcrumbs behind
Some casting their kite in the western wind.
Sometimes a circle is a fairy ring,
Sometimes a yin and a yang, sometimes a dome
Of healing, sometimes a cyclone of pain.
The seasons cycle with pine wind and chill;
Then manzanita bells ring in the rain
And blossoms blow in the sun’s golden will
As spring surges up with green once again.
Then geese fly above and our spirits soar
Till mud and shame sink our souls to the core,
So we trudge on or skip or run, swallow
Our pride or glory in the sun. Up, down
And all around, so dizzy as we go
Some dropping a trail of breadcrumbs behind
Some casting their kite in the western wind.
The Year of the Dog
At last your year has come around again.
These twelve seasons
Have been a winter without a hearth,
A stew without a marrow bone.
How can I tell you how cold
My fingers have been,
How friendless every walk I have taken
In the pines?
I have felt a stab with every wind,
And no comfort in the dark nights
Of shivering dreams.
But with your return,
Dearest of all companions,
The sun grows more golden,
And loyalty,
Like a warm tongue on my palm,
Trots beside me everywhere I go.
February, 1994
At last your year has come around again.
These twelve seasons
Have been a winter without a hearth,
A stew without a marrow bone.
How can I tell you how cold
My fingers have been,
How friendless every walk I have taken
In the pines?
I have felt a stab with every wind,
And no comfort in the dark nights
Of shivering dreams.
But with your return,
Dearest of all companions,
The sun grows more golden,
And loyalty,
Like a warm tongue on my palm,
Trots beside me everywhere I go.
February, 1994
Managing
It’s the little things
That start to seem impossible--
Like making the bed in winter
When there are extra blankets
That all go awry,
Or cleaning the bottom of the birdcage
Which the canary has soiled
Far too many times.
Even getting the cans out to the curb
On recycling day can seem
Like a huge undertaking.
How did the big things ever get done?
Those cathedrals, for instance,
With their soaring spires
And their windows telling jeweled stories
Dazzling our eyes into otherwhere--
Did every worker imagine
That he was fashioning with his own hands
A gift for a lover
Without whom the world
Would revert to a heap of rubble,
To a tangle of thrown-away stones?
March 21, 1992
It’s the little things
That start to seem impossible--
Like making the bed in winter
When there are extra blankets
That all go awry,
Or cleaning the bottom of the birdcage
Which the canary has soiled
Far too many times.
Even getting the cans out to the curb
On recycling day can seem
Like a huge undertaking.
How did the big things ever get done?
Those cathedrals, for instance,
With their soaring spires
And their windows telling jeweled stories
Dazzling our eyes into otherwhere--
Did every worker imagine
That he was fashioning with his own hands
A gift for a lover
Without whom the world
Would revert to a heap of rubble,
To a tangle of thrown-away stones?
March 21, 1992
Easter 2020
For three years, at least,
These gangly leaves have lounged
In the crotch of a gnarled and brittle avocado tree.
Moss has crept around them; their color has always looked wan
Compared to the tree’s green leaves, as they burst forth, then fall away.
These crochety leaves neither come nor go.
They just sit there, leaning on the gray bark
Along with a few dead twigs that sometimes drop or blow away.
Salty trade winds, hurricanes, morbid heat, and indifferent
Lizards, birds, bees, cats, ants and humans pass by.
Gentle night rain and morning downpours just happen,
Turning the moss a deeper green,
Changing nothing on these old leaves.
Meanwhile, an invisible virus changes everything
For the humans who wander by from time to time.
They stop wandering. And the cars stop
Splashing mud on the stone wall just behind
The garden where the avocado survives.
Rain keeps falling in the crimson dawns and mauve twilights
As the humans huddle inside.
Then suddenly, for mysterious reasons,
On an April morning glistening with dew,
A glorious orchid emerges from the leaf jumble--
Creamy petals in a huge disorderly circle, trimmed in lace,
And in the deep heart, the sparkling yellow of moonlight on the waves.
Then deeper in the secret center,
A wild, throbbing purple,
Like lava, red as the worst wound, meeting
The bluest sea.
April, 2020
For three years, at least,
These gangly leaves have lounged
In the crotch of a gnarled and brittle avocado tree.
Moss has crept around them; their color has always looked wan
Compared to the tree’s green leaves, as they burst forth, then fall away.
These crochety leaves neither come nor go.
They just sit there, leaning on the gray bark
Along with a few dead twigs that sometimes drop or blow away.
Salty trade winds, hurricanes, morbid heat, and indifferent
Lizards, birds, bees, cats, ants and humans pass by.
Gentle night rain and morning downpours just happen,
Turning the moss a deeper green,
Changing nothing on these old leaves.
Meanwhile, an invisible virus changes everything
For the humans who wander by from time to time.
They stop wandering. And the cars stop
Splashing mud on the stone wall just behind
The garden where the avocado survives.
Rain keeps falling in the crimson dawns and mauve twilights
As the humans huddle inside.
Then suddenly, for mysterious reasons,
On an April morning glistening with dew,
A glorious orchid emerges from the leaf jumble--
Creamy petals in a huge disorderly circle, trimmed in lace,
And in the deep heart, the sparkling yellow of moonlight on the waves.
Then deeper in the secret center,
A wild, throbbing purple,
Like lava, red as the worst wound, meeting
The bluest sea.
April, 2020
The Birds of May
So much happens in May--
Our heads spin, our breath catches, and dizziness takes control,
Like dancing the May Pole
Or trying to watch seven canaries and
Two yellow butterflies hover at once in the sweet breeze.
It’s a delicious overdose--
Crowds of crows call out in the leafy oaks,
Cottonwood seeds float as mallards and egrets take flight.
Doves in dappled sunlight and shade move across the moss
And pause in the pink rose perfume.
Over on the coast, gulls fly in a V, white light on their wings,
Wildflowers cling to the cliffs, and pelicans soar
As the soft fog rolls in.
We inhale it all, lifting up our hearts in gratitude
For the wings of spring.
Like a Low Sweet Flute
Like a low sweet flute
The dove calls from the warm oak at midday;
The geraniums gather sunlight,
Their red petals reminding us
Of the lava, fire colored,
In secret volcano crevices.
In each of us, there are reeds
Waiting for the summer wind
To make music,
There is a flower,
Powered by fire,
Waiting to bloom.
West Wind
At dawn, tiny droplets
Like holy water sprinkled
From an aisle away,
Touch us unexpectedly.
The West Wind’s breath rustles
Through acorn laden oaks,
And the sacred season
Is with us once again.
Long curls of bark from the eucalyptus
Settle in the rusty leaves,
And squirrels call out in ecstasy
High up among the woodpeckers,
Autumn’s rulers.
Holy wind, you have never failed
To bring October back in all her glory.
Blow clean through us, we beg of you;
Wash summer’s silt
From our slow-to-open eyes.
October 9, 1993
So much happens in May--
Our heads spin, our breath catches, and dizziness takes control,
Like dancing the May Pole
Or trying to watch seven canaries and
Two yellow butterflies hover at once in the sweet breeze.
It’s a delicious overdose--
Crowds of crows call out in the leafy oaks,
Cottonwood seeds float as mallards and egrets take flight.
Doves in dappled sunlight and shade move across the moss
And pause in the pink rose perfume.
Over on the coast, gulls fly in a V, white light on their wings,
Wildflowers cling to the cliffs, and pelicans soar
As the soft fog rolls in.
We inhale it all, lifting up our hearts in gratitude
For the wings of spring.
Like a Low Sweet Flute
Like a low sweet flute
The dove calls from the warm oak at midday;
The geraniums gather sunlight,
Their red petals reminding us
Of the lava, fire colored,
In secret volcano crevices.
In each of us, there are reeds
Waiting for the summer wind
To make music,
There is a flower,
Powered by fire,
Waiting to bloom.
West Wind
At dawn, tiny droplets
Like holy water sprinkled
From an aisle away,
Touch us unexpectedly.
The West Wind’s breath rustles
Through acorn laden oaks,
And the sacred season
Is with us once again.
Long curls of bark from the eucalyptus
Settle in the rusty leaves,
And squirrels call out in ecstasy
High up among the woodpeckers,
Autumn’s rulers.
Holy wind, you have never failed
To bring October back in all her glory.
Blow clean through us, we beg of you;
Wash summer’s silt
From our slow-to-open eyes.
October 9, 1993
Egret
An egret, tall at dawn on willow legs
Stands in sweet deep water,
Still, still and silent,
While white wisps trail through the strong sky.
In the dark marsh grasses,
Her pristine feathers
Clothe her in raiment so dazzling
One wonders if an archangel
May have slipped through the threshold.
Fall, 1993, San Diego
An egret, tall at dawn on willow legs
Stands in sweet deep water,
Still, still and silent,
While white wisps trail through the strong sky.
In the dark marsh grasses,
Her pristine feathers
Clothe her in raiment so dazzling
One wonders if an archangel
May have slipped through the threshold.
Fall, 1993, San Diego
Winter Solstice
I stand in darkness
Facing the winter sky;
The cold night seems stronger
Than the host of oaks
That have always been my guardians.
I turn my head toward the black space
That stretches into otherwhere.
My breath,
Like incense rising
Or the smoke that floats
From votive candles
Filled with desperate winter hopes--
Moves up toward the angeltrees,
Past the breathless leaves,
And on through the year’s deepest night.
I see the vapors that have come
From the candle within me;
My mist seems to touch
The farthest star.
I stand in darkness
Facing the winter sky;
The cold night seems stronger
Than the host of oaks
That have always been my guardians.
I turn my head toward the black space
That stretches into otherwhere.
My breath,
Like incense rising
Or the smoke that floats
From votive candles
Filled with desperate winter hopes--
Moves up toward the angeltrees,
Past the breathless leaves,
And on through the year’s deepest night.
I see the vapors that have come
From the candle within me;
My mist seems to touch
The farthest star.
In the Woods
…nor can foot feel, being shod.
From “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manly Hopkins
If we take our shoes off now,
We will cut our feet.
Unlike the dogs, whose paws have toughened
Running each dusk and every dawn
Over stones, through thistles,
Into clumps of grasses, dry like knives,
We have wandered too far from the woods,
And now on baby feet
We must learn to walk again.
…nor can foot feel, being shod.
From “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manly Hopkins
If we take our shoes off now,
We will cut our feet.
Unlike the dogs, whose paws have toughened
Running each dusk and every dawn
Over stones, through thistles,
Into clumps of grasses, dry like knives,
We have wandered too far from the woods,
And now on baby feet
We must learn to walk again.
Tide Pooling
There is nothing here, you say--
Nothing to look at,
Just a sort of brown and soggy place
Here by the dunes--
Uneven rocks, hard to climb on,
Bumpy under your soles.
Then this nothing little pool
Stranded by the tide
Stuck in the sand and smelling salty.
Nevertheless, you crouch,
Wobbling a little, and peer in.
Nothing.
You were right--
Except, what is that anyway?
Oh, not that but those--
Are they little fishes?
Lots of them, small brown beings
Darting into dark corners.
And what?
Those feathery things,
Swaying as the tide laps lightly--
Sea urchins? Anemone?
Marine worms?
There are thousands of them on every rock
Waving to one another--
Or is it to you?
You stare amazed, and then you spot him--
The hermit crab, sidling sideways
With someone else’s shell atop him.
He makes his way past coral shrimp
With their striped arms.
How could you have failed to see
Those vibrant red beacons
Flashing in the shadows?
Are you the kind who would miss the spirits
Shouting in the sky?
There is nothing here, you say--
Nothing to look at,
Just a sort of brown and soggy place
Here by the dunes--
Uneven rocks, hard to climb on,
Bumpy under your soles.
Then this nothing little pool
Stranded by the tide
Stuck in the sand and smelling salty.
Nevertheless, you crouch,
Wobbling a little, and peer in.
Nothing.
You were right--
Except, what is that anyway?
Oh, not that but those--
Are they little fishes?
Lots of them, small brown beings
Darting into dark corners.
And what?
Those feathery things,
Swaying as the tide laps lightly--
Sea urchins? Anemone?
Marine worms?
There are thousands of them on every rock
Waving to one another--
Or is it to you?
You stare amazed, and then you spot him--
The hermit crab, sidling sideways
With someone else’s shell atop him.
He makes his way past coral shrimp
With their striped arms.
How could you have failed to see
Those vibrant red beacons
Flashing in the shadows?
Are you the kind who would miss the spirits
Shouting in the sky?
The Mustard Seed
Gabriel
The Shepherd
It was rocky on the hillside where David sat
Under an orange sapling in the hot noon.
The sheep grazed in silence;
Some knelt to rest beneath the silvery leaves
Of the olive trees.
The smallest lamb came to rest at David’s feet.
He placed his long fingers in her cloudy wool
And felt her holy heart.
He thought of his father
And his handsome brothers
Gone to the temple without him.
Here he was, an equal to sheep.
He looked up through the glossy leaves
Toward the heavy sky.
A golden orange was centered
Between his eyes and the sun.
They are the same size, he noticed,
An orange and the mighty circle of light
The other tribes worshipped.
David turned his gaze to the sacred eastern hills
And lifted his harp in his ripe hands.
It was rocky on the hillside where David sat
Under an orange sapling in the hot noon.
The sheep grazed in silence;
Some knelt to rest beneath the silvery leaves
Of the olive trees.
The smallest lamb came to rest at David’s feet.
He placed his long fingers in her cloudy wool
And felt her holy heart.
He thought of his father
And his handsome brothers
Gone to the temple without him.
Here he was, an equal to sheep.
He looked up through the glossy leaves
Toward the heavy sky.
A golden orange was centered
Between his eyes and the sun.
They are the same size, he noticed,
An orange and the mighty circle of light
The other tribes worshipped.
David turned his gaze to the sacred eastern hills
And lifted his harp in his ripe hands.
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