September Haiku

September suns rays
slice across verdant gardens.
Cold nights chill my toes.

Summer emptied.
I use days up as they come.
Silk breeze on my thigh.

Kitchen counter full.
Fall bounty clogs big pots.
Earth oars down the clock.

Rake dreams with windows open.
Kaleidescope trees.
Leaves need many big bags filled.

Pace this day’s flight with tastes
of Summer’s ripe bounty.
Pesto’s delight greens my mouth.

Morning mist weighs down dawn
Between Summer and Fall.
Coffee tastes better in cold weather.

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Ache for Numbness



I ache for numbness;
then miss another, deeper aching
for beauty…poetry,
challenge and responsibility.
I want a nice, cozy cell, from which to desire escape.
My irony surrounds and defines me,
shows me freedom.

This is another very old journal entry


The Answer

red seed

I want my last breath
to be the question
which my whole life answered,
to end with the sweetest, most open,
softest heart in all my years,
to smile as I spray across
the universe and collide with
starry friends and look back
over hearts still hoping
for an answer, or, perhaps,
a new kind of question.

I’ll be out of town for a day. See you then


Rhythms of the Seasons

Enjoy! And best wishes for a joyous holiday to you all!

machine of faith

The rhythms of the seasons hypnotize us
as they go ’round and ’round and ’round,
faster each year as we age,
building to some distant, palpable climax
while receding from another, past.
Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fragile days
with meaningful events,
(love may deepen,
hate grow brittle,
poetry more necessary)

To and fro, light to dark, the pendulum swings
stupendously, irrevocable across the map, throbbing
in every molecule with its unabashed preponderance.
No sooner sweet Summer arrives in her full sensual glory
and vapid dissipation, then by the slightest incline,
the longest day tipped, we star the slow, poignant slide
to the depths of Winter.

Thus we arrive again at this valley of Yin,
whose darkness and gravity turns us inward
to our sweetest, softest, most delicate

As if by sheer will (and hope and need)
we nudge the gyration back toward light,
we indulge in glitter and compassion.
We reward love needed and given
with earnest countenance.
We search our souls for cheerful ways
to decorate the days.
We celebrate the counterpoint of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.

The photo is of a small section of a large, useless, tinkling, colorful machine. It was built over a period of 25 years or so, part by bit, by a man who made it just for fun, and for his children’s entertainment. Now it’s an obscure tourist attraction. It’s housed in a little hut, perhaps 20 ft by 15 ft in the middle of nowhere, next to his house, where his wife still lives. I think he was a farmer. He used found objects and toys and trash, whatever caught his eye. It all fits together in some way. When turned on, the whole thing whirs and clicks and clangs and flashes. Being in the middle of Bavaria, it was normal and appropriate to find a crucifix perched in the middle somewhere.

There is something comforting about this scene, which is almost alter-like. The colorful chaos and glitz surrounds the peaceful icon. Sorry it’s the wrong icon for the season, but I sort of like the twisted irony of it.

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Mother me New

I broke it
a basketball
down the stairs-
a priceless vase
to brittle bits bare
She yelled, but
didn’t kill me
I was impressed

How’d she do it?
Get us up, feed us,
send us off to school,
hold jobs both in music
and real estate, to boot!
She must have pined
for somewhere mellow
while managing house,
cat, dog, fish, hamsters
and who knows what else of!
respite delayed
for love infused

I never heard a complaint
At least I don’t remember
Only the image of
Platinum Glamor

As I matured
I turned out fine
but pushed her away-
forgetting the pampering
soft forgiving
comforting acceptance
which gave my core
the strength to forge new days,
sputter on my own fumes
But she was there-
fuel beneath the surface
of my confidence

I never heard a complaint
At least I don’t remember
Only the image of
Platinum Glamor

When I faltered
slipped through a crack
a feather cushion caught me
no reproach, just
“You’re back.”
comfort began
exactly where
I had ended it-
always there
bending, new

Now I’m where she
used to be
I’m happy to give back
learning to bend
ready to be her cushion-
yet learning,
still, from
her resilient
spirit burning
barely a complaint
from Platinum Glamor

But sometimes-
my heart-
she gazes
through fading eyes.