WORD PLAY

       WORD PLAY

Acquire a choir,

Mormon Tabernacle will do,

with its sacred sounds,

Vienna Boys will not,

with it pedophilic overtones. 

From axon to dendrite

without a synapse between

as we circle the sun in summersault.

Hark, hark, a quark,

millions of them

orbiting your protons. 

The spin is in

as well as out,

unbeknownst to the masses

immobile and seemingly safe

in their too, too solid flesh

as they chant Noel in unison. 

Herd melodies are sweet,

but autonomous tunes are sweeter.

    November 13, 2006

SOCIAL UPDATE

   SOCIAL UPDATE

The sun slides subtly south,

the moon’s a vagabond.

Constellations hold their shape,

Orion wins for best design;

the planet prize goes to Venus,

the diamond fleur-de-lis;

 

among the stars,

Sirius captures first place

for her breathtaking blue.

 

People, one by one,

can be a spark of energy divine,

en masse, they are

an army of ants in disarray.

      November 9, 2006

BEDROOM WINDOW

BEDROOM WINDOW

Narrow window wide enough

to hold the morning star,

spider diamond Venus,

then ribbons of  pale rose,

harbingers of Sun’s reappearance

when Earth tilts that way again. 

Nature is amazed

that man creates with words;

aghast that man destroys with  bombs.

   September 28, 2006

AUTUMN SUNRISE

   AUTUMN  SUNRISE

Mire, look, at those colors

clinging in pastel to the eastern rim,

cinnamon, plum, and peach

in hues that do not come

with your box of crayons.

 

And then that fireburst of orange,

contained completely

within its  own circumference,

but fades to blinding light

ascending into oceans of azure

striped with sandbars of silver. 

Look  away now from the window

to the room’s opposite wall

where Mondrian has been designing

rectangles of lines on light. 

Time to get out of bed,

write down these words,

preserve these images

in jars of silent surprise

for someone’s breakfast table.

     September 25, 2006

NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE

NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE

How lovely is the rain

after all these days of dryness. 

Nature knows how to blend her elements:

sunset and tsunami, gentle breeze and hurricane,

diapason of Beaufort and Stafford-Simpson. 

Human nature struggles to achieve

the same kind of balance:

war and peace, greed and generosity,

aggression and nonresistance. 

Love is an onus for a youthful humanity

that still is out of kilter.

            July 11, 2006

LEAF RUST

                                               LEAF RUST

              Leaf rust,

              leaf curl,

             the orchard

              is ill again. 

             Leap years

              leap frog

             one another

           beyond decade. 

     Tomorrow is yesterday

         turned inside out.

Only the master of nuance knows

   that each breath is different,

      onset of multiplicity,

       plea for harmony.

           Listen to it

in the deep silence of the universe:

pianissimo, adagio, crescendo.

      June 26, 2006

MY TAKE

       MY TAKE

Nothing in itself is essential,

only the rhythmic balancing

of the inessentials,

dance of the divine,

intercentric communion,

song of easy laughter

when the pieces fail to fit.

Your long walk backwards

through the smeltery is over;

you’re in the clear now.

Do you dare, at last, 

to live what you believe,

not what you were told

that you believe?

   June 22, 2006

OR NOT TO BE

          OR NOT TO BE

“To be or not to be, that is the question,”

the most famous of all questions,

which every schoolboy knows,

but few can remember the answer

because the author switches theses

toward the end of Hamlet’s soliloquy:

“to be or not to be” becomes

“to do our not to do”

as currents turn awry

and lose the name of action.

Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

our feckless hero chooses not to do,

which is why he wishes not to be.

    September 14, 2005

PERDIDO NOON

                                     PERDIDO NOON

Across the bay

another shore

not known before

bright white line

brought into being

by the sun at noon.

Midwater a black stump

looks like an antique turtle

swimming feckless

against the waves.

While on the deck   

festoons of light

and shadow interlace

as sweet birds of repetition

chase each other

                                    in preparation for progeny.

Catechism instructed us

to confess our sins

and then defined them for us,

but forgot to mention

this cleansing sacrament

of nature at noon,

this diapason of simplicity.

                                      June 15, 2005

APRIL SKY

APRIL SKY

On the far shore of afternoon

a chain of yellow sails,

some solid, some striped in red or green,

under dumplings of cloud

that stumble over each other

in a lazy southern sky of unsure hue

until it climbs the dome

and sinks into a blue so deep

no painter’s palette

could ever hope to say. 

And written word must be lapidary

as though in diamond carved. 

Anything less needs a human voice

to sustain it in its plainness.

      April 30, 2005

AGEING

      AGEING

Ageing of the self,

easy to deny,

even when the hair begins to thin,

easy to ignore

this companion of a lifetime,

born when we took our second breath,

until things fall apart in profusion

and then the mind can crawl

under the covers

with this cascade of crumbling

or can recognize it

as no more than a downbeat

in nature’s ninth symphony,

invitation to adagio,

evolution and revolution,

circle and circumference,

crescendo to the grand finale.

   March 29, 2005

THE LAST DAY

     THE LAST DAY

This is the last day of your life;

well, it could be. 

So order the best thing on the menu

and don’t take home a doggie bag.

And do not tell anyone;

it would ruin all the rhythms.

On the way to that final supper,

make up your bed

and straighten the house,

but don’t fix anything that’s broken.

 

Listen to your favorite symphony

for the last time,

and check out patterns

of light and shadow

as though for the first time.

Notice, but do not try to name,

all the shades of blue

the sky can wear in one day. 

And by all means,

seek out any friends

who can make you laugh;

their energy will be the fuel

that you will need

for  the journey 

you are about to take.

    March 24, 2005

AMAR SIN MENTIRAS

  AMAR SIN MENTIRAS

Driving the country roads

of south Alabama

in late February,

cusp of spring,

old gold and green fields

rolling backwards,

grazing animals roan and brindled

tiles in a barnyard mosaic,

clean sheen of neonascent light,

luminous and numinous,

shifting shapes of clouds

like ghosts playing haunted

house in skies of unused blue.

Who can espcape unscathed

this underworld of images?

   February 27, 2005

TRIPTYCH IN GREEN

TRIPTYCH IN GREEN

Nuts

Pecan trees of early May,

I don’t know about the nuts,

          but

  the new green leaves

      in noon light

         explode

on canvases too rich

for Sotheby’s to afford.

Inside Out

Inland window at dusk

  frames sylvan scene

    of new fire

      not red

  but pale green ,

    florescence,

  incandescence;

variations on a theme

        by 

 the parting sun.

Picket

     What is it

        about

a white picket fence

   edging fields

           of

green, gold, and rusty red? 

Lazy wind and wave

of geometric patterns

     in bone. 

Man and nature

   concelebrate

in rustic revelry.

                                                                                                May 8, 2004

WAKING DREAM

  WAKING DREAM

The conscious mind

moves in a maize of

stop lights and stop signs,

performs on a stage

of acts and scenes,

of curtains and curtain calls.

The unconscious mind

surprises itself

with endings unscripted,

with lands unknown.

. 

Melded together into one

they  travel at the speed of light,

fueled by energies

ever ancient, ever new,

hearing melodies unheard,

singing unsung songs,

all lights are green,

all seas are blue,

fractions fold to integer

and infinity is easy as home.

  August 24, 2004

SILVER

                                          SILVER

After the storm,

silver is sunlight

on the rain,

emerald is wet leaves

studded with diamond bead.

Nature keeps on coming

and wonders why

we get so bogged down

by inches and ounces

and all the minutiae

that erode the edges

of our minds

as if we too were not part

of the great cyclic renewal.

    June 22, 2004

NEVER

                           NEVER

It’s never too little,

               never too late.

      Even at the last minute

          the door may be

             just enough ajar

                for you to slip into

                   that epistemic stream

                     of Caribbean  green 

                 our ancestors

                        of eons

                   have been building. 

                Never too late

                     to be lifted

                          light and laughing

                                  home

                        to the ecstasy

                 that wants you.

                        June 8, 2004

SPRING MORNING

  SPRING MORNING

No longer naked now,

once silver limbs of pecan

this April morning sing

a green yes to spring,

reminding us despite our

carelessness and unconcern,

despite our violence and

greed, human ruin will be

overwhelmed again and again

by nature’s forever of freshness.

       April 19, 2004

NANO NOW

                                           NANO NOW

A black bird flew backwards

across the pink page of dawn,

erasing its words as it wrote:

no first time,

                                                no last time,

                                                            just this time;

                                                            so string together

                                                an infinite necklace

of nano nows

and live each moment

                                                            to the full

in the eternal present

                                                            of timelessness,

                                         forgiving of the past,

                                      unmindful of the morrow.

                                             April 15, 2004

EARLY APRIL RAIN

    EARLY APRIL RAIN

Why are you weeping, world,

in all this beauty of emerald seas

folding and rolling sugar white

upon the shore?  Do you know

something we don’t know?

Have you answered a question

that we haven’t even asked? 

The sky is dun; music, sad.

Are the gods weary of saving us

with their grace and willing now to let

us in our hatred, greed and arrogance

destroy mankind and the splendid home

that they, the gods, have given us? 

Ontic being, of never diminished infinity,

rejoices in its search for a new universe

of humble children who will sing and dance,  

happy and ever grateful for the gift of finitude.

April 7, 2004

MESSAGE FROM A MITE

   MESSAGE FROM A MITE

I am a termite; I didn’t ask

to be here, but here I am; so

I must make the most of my

hereness with nearness to one-

and two-story wooden structures,

single- and double-decker dinners to me. 

I spend most of my time eating, emptying,

and refilling, with an occasional stroke

to perpetuate my species, much like human

beings, except they don’t eat wood, but rather

animals they kill and cook and place on painted

plates, then devour with sterling silver knives

and forks, sitting around wooden tables

covered with lace or other expensive cloths. 

They also seem to be consumed

with making money, playing games,

and killing one another in the name

of their offended gods.  I am amazed

and amused at  how we creatures differ

in our style of maintaining our hereness.

          March 15, 2004

RAIN AND SEA

  RAIN AND SEA   

dark green,

rough and clean,

the waters

of the storm,

when rain and sea

meet

in liquid harmony,

and so it seems

to one

on

the warm side,

dry side,

inside

of windows

gazing out to sea,

unmindful

of fishers’ dilemma

and

        the cacophonous notes

             that jar

                      the music

                          of the mariners.

 February 23, 2004

COGITO ERGO SUM

    COGITO ERGO SUM

I think, therefore I am

a cogitating noetic entity.

on the edge of a world that worships

its new god, Money, and its values

can clearly be discerned by its pay scale:

The most highly paid people in our society

are the athletes and entertainers:

they distract us from the miseries of this life

. 

Second on the salary list are the doctors:

they prolong this life of misery. 

And at the very bottom are the thinkers:

they point out the irony of the above.

      February 5, 2004

ESTOCADO

                      ESTOCADO

The gray of yesterday is gone

and nature celebrates new sun. 

Solarium, facing south,

receives the healing light,

and on the sea,  birds of prey

are not deprived of lunch

as pelicans high dive in estocado,

distensible gullets grateful

that  little fishes refuse to listen

 when mama shouts:

“Don’t go near the surface.” 

But then, it is a lovely day to die.

                November 25, 2003

KEEP IN TOUCH

  

 KEEP IN TOUCH

Tomorrow

 never stops at now

on its way to was.

The sun comes up

and we become a star

in some other planet’s night.

 

You want more

when what you have

is everything.

So help yourself

to a second serving

of Isness

and pass it on.

Greed is the enemy,

its opposite has no name.

 

So keep in touch,

keep in touch.

  June 18, 2012

COME TO THE PARTY

 COME TO THE PARTY

Rise at five before the sun,

before the morning birds,

grateful to greet another day,

light to see, air to breathe,

invitation to celebrate

with everything that is

at the universal party of being,

gifts unending, giver unseen.

        June 13, 2012

A NEW KIND OF COLOR

     A NEW KIND OF COLOR

Awakened by wild winds of night

and steady strokes of heat lightning

that strobed the black in pyrotechnic display

illuminating clouds that looked like mountains on the horizon

until the dark began to lift,

dissolving into a bluish gray with  hint of purple,

and all lightning went Technicolor

in brilliant bursts of pink and orange.

The sun itself remained hidden,

but its effects were everywhere

as the sea became a canvas of marine green

ribboned with the brightest white

the world has ever known,

and each blade of grass

and every shoot of weed

assumed its own shape 

its own shade of green.

My  search for that which was nowhere

has ended in  the contentment of now,

the present moment of peace and beauty

when all needs are reduced

to the basic of breathing;

and when that’s gone,

it will no longer be needed.

      September 25, 2003

MORNING STORM

   MORNING STORM

The gray gulf breaks white

in repeated pyrotechnic.  In

wind and rain the wild sea oats

lean right like golden virgules. 

They do not complain.  Only

man labors to understand what

all of nature knows: the peace

that waits the other side of storm.

     September 21, 2003

SUNSET AT THE BEACH

                        SUNSET AT THE BEACH

This is the hour of pastels,

silver and rose and palest pinks.

Only the sun, the master of

these ceremonies, dare wear

a bolder hue, more brilliant

than the red of any rising moon. 

The sound of sea, which seems

at first a monotone, to careful

ear a blend of subtle tones.

For sandpipers and terns it’s

suppertime in nature’s dining room,

and beach umbrellas slim

down to wait another morning.

A wedge of pelicans flies west

in inky contrast to the muted

backdrop where once the sun was.

With all this peace one must

wonder, can war be anywhere?

                            September 17, 2003

SEPTEMBER LIGHT

                 SEPTEMBER LIGHT

Harvest moon beat me back

to the beach this year,

but I was rewarded

by the return of the wild sea oats,

absent all last season.

This morning, costumed in muted gold,

they dance in mystic light

that’s cleansed of summer sluggishness,

while Monet and Manet

brush rapid strokes of yellows and greens,

frantic to capture on so large a canvas

this special light before it fades.

And when of many morrows I read these lines,

I will not be in the same state of exaltation,

but I will have a black-and-white reminder

of that late September light.

                    September 16, 2003

TALK TO YOUR TOES

TALK TO YOUR TOES

Well, you talk to your animals all the time

(I call it “faunacation.), and sometimes to

your plants and flowers when no one’s around.

So talk to your toes and be surprised at their

wiggly reply, and other appendages:

the fingers, for instance, ten springs of response.  

Send a salute to your spine, the schooner’s mast.

Ask each axodendritic synapse its secret in

keeping all those neurons in constant contact.

Then follow one slow, deep breath

of inhalation/exhalation, and thank the pipes

and pulleys responsible for that continuous

voyage all your life long, even when you’re

asleep, without once letting you down.

Oh wondrous, wondrous  body,

communicative network par excellence

where no one’s ever put on hold.

                   June 10, 2003

BIRDSONG

BIRDSONG

Here in the city the birds are singing

as if they were at the beach or in the country. 

They simply have no sense of propriety,

don’t even wear shirts or shoes.

Judging by their plumpness, their prayers have

been answered if they’re singing for their supper. 

And where they sleep at night I do not

know, nor whether they have alarm clocks,

but every morning they do not fail

to greet the day in avian melody.

  May 26, 2003

A GOOD RAIN

     A GOOD RAIN

I am an Oriental Occidental,

sounds like Gilbert and Sullivan

or Broadway at its best, perhaps.

I long for the brush of Li Po,

who paints a river town at dusk with

“a pair of fallen rainbows for bridges…” 

But, in truth, it’s Tu Fu’s rain

that flows within my veins,

slips secretly into my night:

“a good rain knows its season.”

These Chinese poets of twelve

hundred years ago, they live in me

and I in them, except, alas, there’s

still much of Manhattan in my blood.

         May 7, 2003

FAUNA

     FAUNA

Where do those fat birds

find all the food they need

to maintain their avoirdupois?

And their pixie chicks hopping happily

in search of what will make them one day

grow up to be plump like mama and papa. 

Nothing mournful about these doves.

I often wonder what shelter they find,

these many birds that line the telephone wires,

when it rains, or where they sleep at night,

and where do they go when they die--

I mean their bodies, not their souls? 

I don’t ask that final question about the many mammals

and rodents who never learned to look both ways before

they cross the road, lying there dead now in the middle

of the street.  I know I should feel sorry for them, but

somehow I don’t because they look so peaceful like my

mama did in her beautiful, white coffin trimmed in gold.

                  April 6, 2003