Bright Puddles

In Spring radiant

puddles with mud bottoms with-

draw underfoot and

you are upended.

The void fills with splendid gods.

You go up then down.

Metaphysics not

physics accounts for how shame

mixes with wonder.

Thank You, Ikkyu

Let the brain people

dominate the mind debate–

it may do some good.

You can’t teach the strange

ways of mindfulness and how

the human senses

connect everything

and the original good.

Ikkyu got it.

I do recognize

mind scattered in the bare trees

this cloudless morning.

Song of Myself

The world expanding

beyond myself– what terror,

what jubilation.

The poem’s threshold,

thin, porous at best, the self

open to freshets —

bird song in dawn’s dusk.

Some mornings I turn over,

face oblivion’s

familiar mirror–

hugging the twisted pillow,

last rite of self-love.

On a line by Bonnefoy

It’s snowing back home.

Email pile up saying so.

Cet instant-ci, sans

bornes.  Across the street,

my neighbor’s pink camellia

sways in the light rain.

Silence is Best

Asking for silence,

Horace kept the muse’s flame

trimmed, the Emperor

distracted.  First Things–

Eros, Thanatos, local

wines, anonymous


their own truths splendidly. True,

Public Radio

as dusk thickens with

rain is a good thing; I’d say

silence is better.

It’s So Simple

Absolute power

dissolves itself, making way.

A night of small rain,

behold the morning

grass. It’s greener than grass, it

communicates more.

Politicians grow

hoarse, but absolute power

laughs and laughs and laughs.



is not quite up to thinking

the Absolute, which

is Nothing yet lets

each particular being

wag its own most tail.

That idiotic

smile may be all we can know

of what lets us be.




Bicycle Lane

Soul and body one,

as created, instinct or

extinct. Bright and cold,

they speed by on bikes,

head-down, rapt, stream past into

the city to work.

Young, aging, old.

I watch in admiration

of the world in play.



Carmel Bay 1955

Night. Whisper of high

tide in fog-bound Carmel Bay–


Summer vacation.

Nothing to do but lie there,

memorize the sound.

Now counter-image

to Hill’s self-quenching hedged sun,

The Trimph of Love.

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