32 Haiku

Things come together contrary to what the old bespectacled Irishman in the tower said
And the center finish that sentence does not hold still it moves
Thirty two years we've been bringing this third person called Us into consciousness
Now no doorbells only a brass lion holding a ring in his teeth daring
The wind speaks about this by pushing against leaves which spring back or fall
I've noticed your belovéd pond is burgeoning with hyacinth dangling their roots on the backs of koi
White tile carpeted hard perimeters tamed with curves always the feminine
A flash of teeth and uncontrollable laughter as I fall backwards the clown
When was that day you squinted and brought the world out of your ear
The old Hawaiian crow is no more so we dream with drums in our noses
Toad after toad leaps closer to me with his wide-mouthed secret
Buckets filled with three weeks' worth of rain sprout with shefflera grasses and impatiens
Red I think red followed you here all the flag-wounds with their feet in the ground
Tricks of the eye turn out to be older magic a giant blue agavé bursts into flame
Ghosts of horses graze in the woods nearby you look up at the sound of their harness
I will never forget the time you cast the dead flowers into the fire with a prayer
There's a heron just west of here who disappeared after the earthquake. He's back
I didn't know till I met you that every living thing flowers eventually
Cloud collecting one day wave singing the next it's all one you say
Your passport says water on every page birthplace address and expiration
Walking out of Suzuki's class one day you took a plane to India and opened your eyes
Like I said flat won't do only bumps rises slopes mounds islands
Leaping out of bed from the cliff over the foothills you freshen the stargazers' water
Dark preferably creamy eventually scoops of night in a white bowl
See what I mean you there hunched over the spinning table pushing into emptiness
An embrace lost in itself a knot with two free ends each seeking the other
Once I saw turquoise black-veined move through the room a flash of red coral
Rivers in Nepal take opals back when you're not looking
The belly oh what did he know about the center the white-haired senator
The archer comes in as a pantomime horse and let's three arrows fly
The cave the wood the road the edge long strokes to reach the ocean
Somebody has to write this down before sunset where I will meet you

Unkempt Dreams

What other kinds are there
there in the dark cinema
of the restless sleeper
stitching time together
to cover naked truth

once creatures of the night
prone to falling out of tree
now the big house in town
sets all the people in lines
facing the flickering lights

dreams mastered and orderly
with names like Rosalee
Goes Shopping or I Am
or Ace Ventura or Thrive
Give me the cliff hangers
of my own youth

the crumpled heaps of imagery
the clouds of memory between
parked cars out on the ocean
or in shadows of hedgerows
at the old farm places names

the man with a drip
on the end of his nose
the rooster who played
the violin the piano
I fell into till I learned
three chords and vibrated
all the next day

untidy dreams wild
and scattered like birdseed

dreams that burble up
in conversation the heartburn
season without rain
calling out with a start
in the dark give me back
night even now at noon

Day Two

Never mind the penultimate
ultimate and finally the first day
our chance to start over think things
through and through until a pattern
emerges in the stream bed yes yes
familiar but oh a surprise that curve
that line the contrast seeing chance
vibrating our plans our precious grid
glowing brightly like that visit to your
house how unexpected the Russian River
pinot translucent a board game kinship
more in evidence if that's what's needed
there in the numbers of course events

like the departure of the bees the burning
of their hive in a kind of rare for me
finality my desire to be no part in their
further demise feeding the blaze

or more quietly the trees planted ohia
clove and madré de cacao olive
lignum vitae pepper tree and avocado
but no blooms truly ever give us wonder
more than those flowers arising from our own roots
trunks branches leaves buds we look at our hands
we touch theirs meeting their wide-eyed gazes
watching them crawl or reach
talk sing cry laugh our little Buddhas
like Jack says coming to teach
us to set aside the wise-ass
know-it-all arrogance and egotism
speaking for myself...to see the world anew

therefore never mind the hundred thousand ways
we ward off evil spirits at the turn of the year
or the way the clocks and calendars
box us in of course they have their uses
but let's set aside the hollow blue egg
the laughing thrush long-fled
let's note the weight
of the purple water lily bud
as it sinks between the flashing koi
and too the smoke rising over the fence
the haze of aftermath with a ship
moving across the sky the one given
back by the land after the long rains

how the scent of jasmine rises
how the sun seeks us out with its
four questions and 12 point plan
it's the second day that counts
the day of year that sets pace and tone
between celebrations the sublime space
between two friends two lovers
thumb and forefinger
calf of one leg resting on knee of another
pen approaching or leaving page
key entering entering
year turning and turning
like the potter's smile
like the flame pulling the air
from the kiln

Remorse

Remorse is a fog written down

twisted up inserted in a beer bottle

chugged in the back seat '66 maybe '67

thrown out the open window

with a chance of adding

a dent to any sign of authority

the trajectory of its fall

intersecting time and space breaking

arriving here this morning

here on the shore a message

from a younger self saying

help me anyone who reads this

The List

Was that just thunder or someone dragging their chair
over the boards of the narrow porch at Nanbu's courtyard
now there's nothing to say there it goes again
right to the top of the list the one I haven't made yet
the one I will leave on the kitchen counter or right here
where it hasn't happened yet lists don't happen I know
they're written scribed chicken-scratched here's
the ox-heads making their As the double-yokes
their busy Bs the sickle C ready to cut through
Mediterranean waves now nothing just groceries
or things that happened last week so we can say
we're alive the other day I made one up for creatures
starting with wait a minute while I look for it
goats and ending with mongoose don't worry
there were birds in there myna uncelebrated
but everpresent and melodious laughing thrush
hardly present but gloriously celebrated and
three kinds of beetle in case you're wondering
the sort of list where one word say centipede
can conjure up at least five or more stories
like the time in bed when it felt like
all the hair got torn off one arm see that's
wriggling and stinging its way behind
that one word ono too three letters
two of them the same eyeballs popping
when right there by the harbor up it flashed
from the depths a ferocious slippery rainbow

Catching a Ride

Spiders do it spinning a yarn
all the way across the wide Atlantic
how is that possible

Barnacles too on the backs of whales
encrusted they hunker down for long journeys
how did all this begin

Fleas on cats especially those three rascals
up at our place the ones who sit in the rain
I'm not even sure what their question might be

And dreaded coqui frogs in flower pots
or truck beds of visitors from the leeward side
testing their shrill philosophical theories all night

Not forgetting the phosphorous at that chemical factory
where my dad worked after the war
how it came on the bus in trouser cuffs and burst in to flames

Trouser cuffs came into it out on Highway 99
back in '68 hitchhiking 200 miles north to Seattle
I guess I got there and back okay each time

Sometimes it feels like everyone's leaving
catching boats or planes off the island
how come I'm still here and where are they going

Aren't we all anyway thanks to gravity
hustling through the elliptical pathways
slowed down only in our own minds

Sticking out a thumb miles from Dublin
eventually got a ride from an electrician who only wanted to say
we don't do that here we just show our hand on the road

Hailing or hitching these are important things
not Salem to Seattle and all the miles between
but the A to B from me to you from you to me

Snow

Sunrise. Silence. How snow comes falling over the known world
covering all sound. I feel that childhood wonder stirring.
The pure exhilaration of witnessing the miracle of snow
that comes in the night. We wake up in our warm bed
a small world of its own. Pillows and blankets pushed
into a soft fortress against the unknown vagaries of the night.
We survived. We look out then. Step with that tenuous
reaching into the cool air. Barefoot across the boards.
Press against the glass and there it is. The frozen pond.
Familiar boulders statues and walkways all white.
Branches lace-like and delicate where there were once
leaves. We saw them fall. Kicked them into the air.
Smelled the neighbor's smoke. Now this. A quietude.
Evergreen boughs heavy and flocked with the pure essence.

Back inside. They're still asleep. As if the snow
had entered the house and muffled the usual stirrings.
What to do? Back into the cave. The fortress warm still
that held my form all night. There on the wall
the earliest stories. Creatures like deer horse dog fill
the margins but the center lights up with good deeds
rescue attempts and the everlasting battle against evil.
The bow so trusty points its arrow directly at the heart
of the sinister dark lord who seems oblivious...who seems
to be dancing and applauding as if my one mistake
were to believe I could do anything to stop the death
and destruction. I quietly abandon warmth
and race to the window. Was that a dream too?

But there all around—the pure land right where I left it.
Miracle of miracles. Pressing both hands
against the glass now. My face sidelong pressed to ice
it seems to see further to understand more
of what's there beyond the light. And there it is.
Blue sky. Cloudless above all this. And the gods
with their thick glasses surveying the scene.
And that's when I learn how it takes fire to make snow.
How it takes ice to unlock the heart.
I look for strings. Surely those two faces
the darker one frowning surely
they will pluck the lines and bring the day alive
bring buses planes and trains into this scene
the postman the bus driver the cacophony
of everyday life that will most certainly
melt this perfection till it flows back
into the ocean of dreams.