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?

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Canvas 674

Canvas 674

April 20, 2016

By these squiggles I am reminded,
we still have my mother’s shorthand books.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Canvas 673

Canvas 673

April 19, 2016

Not drawing what is wanted, but drawing what wants to be drawn.

Monday, April 18, 2016

When I think about friends, I think about trees

When I think about friends, I think about trees,
and when I think about trees, I think about sunshine and roots,
and little boys with shovels, and girls drinking tea in butterfly suits,
each in their own way kites sailing free — when I think about trees,
I hear leaves in the breeze, and whispers of bees
side by side on our knees,

(and so my prayer goes, if you please)

when I think about friends,
and think about trees.

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Canvas 671

Canvas 671

April 16, 2016


Did you see the sun rise?

Were you aware it returned your gaze?

Did you hear it say,

Rejoice: I, too, am a dying star?


A rock overturned, and, as they skitter away,
a little boy smiling at words, surprised by the light of day.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Canvas 670

Canvas 670

April 15, 2016

performance and pose

performance and pose . . . giving way, finally,
to a performance that there is no pose,
and a pose that there is no performance,

giving way, finally,
to what a body knows all along,


that the performance and pose
never was of need at all,

but merely a reflection in poor glass
in a rich frame, or rich glass in a poor one,

alas, poor me,

pour me, O Life, pour me . . .

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Canvas 668

Canvas 668

April 13, 2016

you are kind

you are kind to others, a door opens,

you are kind to yourself, a ray of light appears,

you are kind, there are no others,

and where once you were,

there are no fears.

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Canvas 657

Canvas 657

April 2, 2016

She handed me a map.
This is your soul today. Watch it closely, as it flies away.”

Friday, April 1, 2016

Canvas 656

Canvas 656

April 1, 2016

Oh, my love, how this life becomes you,
and how words have made a bouquet of your face.