A LITTLE PLACE WITH A LOT GOING ON

A little place,
a pocket. . .
a purse. . .

an eye in socket,
a labyrinthian field
that peaks and dips,
and drinks and feeds
whatever ’tis
the system needs. . .

events and thoughts
and hurts and joys
silences and noise
that interweave. . .

some girls, some boys,
some animals
some rocks,
some sundry kinds
of metal, wooden, plastic, earthen
tools, knick-knacks and toys–
some serious, some whimsical–
for tons of types of work quite serious,
as well as pleasured tinkering,

Some areas parched through or scorched,
and others drenched, maybe flooded
glared too bright with heat and blinding light
or cold and dark enough to crave a torch. . .

when all at once,
it can be tough to craft
and make retort
or remedy,

or even just
to pause a bit
for respite,

in hopes
that afterwards,
a little easier it gets
again to see
just what’s within,
around, above, below, beside,
and deep inside of me,

and how to coordinate it all
to wash ashore
things I need more,
and carry out what I need less
upon the next round of tides in me.

Though that remains a mystery,
and known not is
if indeed I’ll muster up
force and finesse
to make it right,
or at least see clear
to rise to do
what’s asked of me,
in such a way I harness
all into the task
that constitutes
my very, very best.

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A TEMPLE CREAKING

A temple creaking
set in
near a low flow creek. . .

A luckier corner
of a summer-now-turned-autumn land

Across which hungry wild fires
some two long months
by now have burned,
which,
through odd and myriad ways began,
and which since,
have scorched their way
‘cross giant swaths,
and thus, have many nearish,
somewhat far-flung landscapes
spanned.

The experts guess,
in days ahead,
there’s a middling chance
of a tiny shred
of the slaking rain
we so very much are seeking,

a wash from sky
that could refresh
our tired air,
filled with smoke smut
for many-a-week’s-long spate,

though the rate
of smoke influx
goes down and up–
teasing us–
now off, now on–
retreat, return–
it is still interfering
with our normal, healthy breathing. . .

Besides that,
there lurks some new and strange
and deadly illness,
which, though it’s,
so far,
had quite its sway
still lingers yet–
yea, all around,
though we know not
exactly who or where
will be the ones
it next will get,

though simple things there are
we all can all do,
with care and thought,
ourselves and others to protect
to give our nearer and our larger world
a better bet. . .

A temple searching
for a holy thing or being
to fill it up,
to give it ample
and sufficient cause
for practice
well lined up with preaching,
spoke from the heart
and full of deeper meaning,

A temple where the emptiness
can let the bigger fullness in
when overfullness
is released,
and spirit movement
gently powers forward
to warm, enliven
and increase
throughout,
and well beyond,
the temple walls. . .

And the freedom
thereby loosed, uncaged,
shall spill and spread like ink
that with a multitude of stars is laced. . .

And its bright way
leaves a clear path
on which to venture back
and forth again,

which, with utmost beauty
and with grace,
as often as desired or required
for respite and regeneration
can be easily re-traced.

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MORNING WALK WITH BIRDS IN NOT TOO SMOKY AIR

The birds,
the trees, the freeway roar. . .
the morning walk
I take
too early. . .

Not too much smoke
in air
when I was rising,

but website checks
show,
as day goes on,
there will be more.

I love the branches
of the local oaks. . .
I love the steps
that I can take
to spring my life ahead
even if the sky and pollution ratings
turn to orange–
I think today, luckily not into red. . .

The sky sports
a vaguely pinkish, grayish haze
it’s gone on so long,
I know not
any longer to be amazed. . .

But I set my feet into motion
in the face of problems
large beyond me
like pollution,
to which I myself
cannot pull out
a complete solution
not even for myself. . .

So I just do what I can
and seize the pleasures
I can grab,
and smile,
and speak
and sometimes SING!
and laugh,

And hope that somehow
this day
and my whole life
will amount to something
more
than even
the most wiggly
cursive,
unexpected,
interesting graph.

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PASSERS BY ON A FRESH AIR, BLUE, SUNNY DAY

While I’m walking
on a fresh air,
blue sky,
sunny day,
a woman waves
and warmly says, “Hi!”
and seems for sure,
despite my mask
and my man’s
to recognize us,
to recognize me. . .

I squint,
and I look,
and I think,
“Aha! It is she!”

I wave back
and tentatively,
I call her by name. . .

She asks how we are
and I say we are fine,
thinking how nice it is
a friendly acquaintance
to happen to see.

And, hardly missing a beat,
the two of us,,
and of them (her and her friend)
we all go along
our own separate ways,

I remind him who she is,
and feel what a nice
passing-by-time that was,

when,
from the opposite sides of the street,
and semi-disguised,
not near close enough
for a good look in the eyes,
that friendly acquaintance
succeeded to brighten
my already bright day.

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HIDE COO

Screen reach for people. . .
news, music, stories– anything
fridge bare as before.

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MERE DAYS AGO, AN ORANGE SKY

Mere days ago,
the sky was dark, mid-morning
very orange, with a strange and brilliant glow.

The hue
made you
wonder just on which planet you might be.

Distant fires
wafted smoke
hundreds of miles
to everyone around,
including me.

Charts seen on line
showed not orange
to describe the sky
but sometimes red,
and later purple. . .

The air turned into hazardous,
where once the giving of life
was clearly there,

and we must find
a brand new path for us,
but for now, it’s best to stay inside.

Although
we might like to move around,
it isn’t always very nice–
I’ve tried.

Posted in Autumn, Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Summer | Leave a comment

LONG HAUL HAIKU

Heat. Smoke. It’s no joke.
Far strange world breathed here and now.
Strong peace called to grow.
Posted in Poetry, Quick reads, Summer | Leave a comment

NEVER A MOMENT WITH NOTHING TO SAY

There’s never really
such a dull moment
or a day
that I have
absolutely
nothing
to say.

But it’d be silly
and furthermore,
beyond even me
to blurt out every moment
or yea,
even every
livelong special and precious day,

for,
if I’d use every moment
something to say,
not all that I’d utter
would contain any brilliance
or value
or be a somewhat coherent,
functional comment,
or even worded
in my personal, own special way,
conveying just what
I would want to convey.

And besides,
to speak all the time,
would rob me of force
and of my own inside peace,
sense, rhythm
and rhyme.

So, sometimes,
the trick isn’t just to form words
to write or to speak,

but to tell
when it’s time to reach out
and speak up,
in style uniquely mine,

and when
just to do stuff,
or still and quiet to sit,
and let the watch tick,
notice my breath
and my body a bit,

and maybe,
if I’m lucky,
and the hours
and minutes
align,

to hear in my ear
when the grandmother clock
on the shelf
shall sound its next round
of the famed Big Ben chime.

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JUST A MOMENT. . . JUST FOR ME

Just a moment
just for me. . .

although I take it
far from perfectly. . .

I sit and tap
a tiny comment,

and think what
measured baby step’s
best to take next,

to move forward
in a mode hopeful,
although tentative, exploratory,

and dream
of all the brilliant hues
that tend to come
with low-slung sunlit
bright fall skies,
up toward which
I let gravitate
the wet, reflective, shiny globes
that are my eyes,


which there high glimpse
a time display of sights
that fill me
with a sense that,
considering even
my happiest moments of the past,


they can spur me
to spark a life
that’s filled with even greater love and light
than during
any bygone season’s
magnificent and ever-changing glory

Posted in Autumn, Medium Length Poems, Poetry | Leave a comment

WORLD, BE HERE FOR ME

World,
be here for me. . .

oh, and please let me
be here with you. . .

through hope, sadness, fear
and all else
that inside I feel here,

please help me see clear,
to do what I do here,

and prove
that you are an ether
through which I can move,

for though I might try
I can never steer clear
of you,

you are a way
that I must go
if I choose to,
or no–

I can’t skip over,
slip under,
work around
or confound
the solid and vast bounds of you. . .

And, who knows?
This inevitable one way
may prove to be a fun way
but perhaps, at times again, no. . .

But, the one thing
I can say
for sure
is
that you are a way–
be it high or low
broad or narrow,
duplicitous or true–
the way–
that, come pestilence, fire,
heaven, hell,
or high water,
ready or not,
from which I cannot
to weasel out,
but simply must go through.

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