Saturday, April 30, 2016

just like that

bumblebee across your path

child laughing in the bath

so ends the war

just like


Thursday, April 28, 2016

I say in passing

do you




how quickly this can end


what a gift that is

my friend

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Canvas 680

Canvas 680

April 27, 2016


There was just enough moisture from clouds during the night to dampen the leaves of the tomato and pepper plants I set out yesterday, as this year’s vegetable gardening gets under way — or under weigh, for is life not an ocean, and am I not aboard ship? Volunteer sunflowers, wild and thick as hillside grass, finish the slope to the street. How we love these glorious child- and bee-magnets. Cucumbers, strawberries, eggplant, and mint wait in the wings. The irises, meanwhile, are breaking into bloom. I dug them out, separated them, and replanted them on a very hot day two years ago, and the rhizomes this spring are healthy and fat — like babies’ wrists where their world is not tortured by those strange human blights, hunger and war.

Monday, April 25, 2016

Whatever it is makes us tick

Whatever it is makes us tick — as dreamy wet fingers
float poems in the bath — yes, love, you know it’s like that — adrift
of a morning with night looking back — whatever it is is
better than fact — if it even exists — such is our
thinking so suddenly passed
to the present
of it.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Canvas 678

Canvas 678

April 24, 2016


Flowers blame not feigned belief, nor question
vain displays of grief — they are too gentle and wise
for that — and so in their presence the hours pass,
as those of ours forever past, upon this hill
of greenest grass — in beauty
and humility.

Saturday, April 23, 2016

In simplest terms

I may write poems, draw pictures, and pretend to all sorts of wisdom and eloquence, but the truth is, I am a clumsy learner feeling my way — quite happily, for I find living an adventure laden with untold surprise and unimaginable treasure and wealth. In simplest terms, I have come to realize that those troublesome, bothersome times when I wished or would have preferred to be somewhere else or to be doing something else, I was really nowhere and doing nothing at all. No one, least of all me, is above the moment, and nothing can be more instructive and beautiful. We are tried when we are ready, and tempered by the fire; thus we are fashioned, made useful, granted humility and kindness, and given to glory — the very same glory as the flowers and bees, a glory integral and not apart, at once tender, sweet, and anonymous. To seek elsewhere with such wealth at hand — is there a greater human tragedy? and from this do not all our other tragedies stem? In life we are granted a faithful mirror; in it we must find and see ourselves. Once we do, we understand there is no great or small; no difference, save in our own misconception of ourselves, between courage and dusting the furniture, between making breakfast and bidding our children to sing and fly free. Love is all: how many letters do I end this way? And yet, what else have I to send?