A New Season

An abundance of snow coupled with the lake’s winds

Recede amidst warm breath,

Which suns itself against windows whose open drapes

Welcome the season’s new rays.

Bright beams reflected off cooling liquid

Encompass the circle of cups.

Drink fast!  Hold the newness and warmth!

The flowing liquid comforts squinting eyes

Unused to the season’s start.

Don’t refuse it!  Don’t close the drapes!

Empty cups stacked on one another

Signify the end of the gathering.

Sounds of chair legs scraping the floor

Prepare the room for stillness,

But the warm sun embracing the long table

Awaits the returning circle of cups.

A One-Sided Conversation in a Coffee Shop

Too distracted to talk

To pages of poems

So I’ll just stalk

The stalkers with the face cake and combs.

Ginsberg can wait.

He’s waited since copyright 1956

Until this date to date.

Coffee’s getting old and cold so

Drink up and have another cup

And hope the cover of my book shows up

For all to see

While I concentrate on myths of other’s

Concentration on me.

Trapped by terrible temptresses.

No, trapped by terribly tedious tormentors

Of the mind who sit at coffee with me

And go on and on and on about

Nothing much at all.

Don’t be so rude.

I should bump Beelzebul’s bums

And give my undivided attention

To the poet before me. You see,

I paid him to be with me.

The others get coffee with me for free.

But just think of the cost of distraction.

Where is the Buddha when you need him?

Chess on the Mall

Strolling along the downtown mall

People watching during the late fall

While Denver’s daylight was just great

And the snow decided to wait,

I saw men who looked out of place

Next to walkers moving fast paced

From one retail to another

Never pausing, no need for cover

In the blue skied noon time weather

Balmy enough for short sleeved wearer

Sat several guys bundled in coats

And flop eared caps the size of boats

Pulled down over their hairy brows.

Unkempt and odorous as cows

Thank God the breeze that blew down wind

I up wind, they did not offend.

They did not huddle in a doorway;

They sat across ready to play

A game they obviously knew

Enough to play so fast they flew

Through the moves so complicated

I would have thought to be elated,

But not one smile cracked craggy face.

Their moves came at a frantic pace.

The thousand clowns passed without sight

They moved in what was just like night

Oblivious to the battle

Played out in front of business prattle.

Juxtaposed against each other

Three piece, shined shoes, and sockless wonders.

The wonders moved a piece so fast

I couldn’t keep track of speed amassed.

Surely it was faster than the breeze

That blew by and helped keep me pleased

To be standing just where I was

To see exactly what genius does.

Einstein never wore socks, because

Eventually his toes would cause

The cloth to wear and then give out

So he’d stroll around out and about.

Unlike these gents who sat unwashed.

Still I could see him counting cost

Of one move instead of the other

Figuring out how to beat sockless wonder

Who would have sat across from him

Hopefully just a bit down wind.

I think he would have been proud

To do battle with the unwashed crowd

Of geniuses who sat on the mall

That delightful blue skied day in fall.

A Month of Haiku of Hikes and Runs from Arizona to Michigan and Points In Between  — 2011

1. January 1, 2011:

Telescoping stick

Offers a welcome third leg —

North Mountain is seen.

2. January 2, 2011:

Hot water swirls round,

Weary limbs immerse themselves,

Inhale, exhale hike.

3. January 3, 2011:

Piestewa Peak’s

View ascends to the heavens.

Glory is in town.

4. January 4, 2011:

Rain clears valley air

Of smoke from fireplaces.

Two lungs are grateful.

5. January 5, 2011:

A forked saguaro

Stands tall in the desert sun —

Proud Sonoran dusk.

6. January 6, 2011:

Bouncing weightlessly

Looking up for the faced moon —

The pool felt so good.

7. January 7, 2011:

Preserving forest

Hiking trails and jogging paths —

Remember Deer Grove.

8. January 8, 2011:

Thinking of Boulder

The hike high in the mountain —

Snow crunch under foot.

9. January 9, 2011:

Feet pound the cold trail,

Dust flies over still, small snake —

Startled, stop and sigh.

10. January 10, 2011:

Hard cholla lie dead,

Strewn over the desert floor —

Still poisonous snakes.

11. January 11, 2011:

Proud cholla stand tall,

Crevasses and holes galore —

Reaching to the sky.

12. January 12, 2011:

Prickly Mickey suns

Pear shaped ears stretching shade for –

Scorpions and snakes.

13.  January 13, 2011:

Burnished bronze sunset

High mountain chill and sky heat –

Shiver by the blaze.

14. January 14, 2011:

Widowed eagle sits

Alone far above the fray –

Looks but doesn’t see.

15. January 15, 2011:

Gun shots blaze the mall;

Bullet passes through Reps. brain —

Insane in Tucson.

16. January 16, 2011:

Palo Verde sprout

Thin skinned, pale green trunk and branch –

Delicate strength.

17.  January 17, 2011:

Fisher flips eleven one

Fly falls on the swift riffles –

Quizzical fish watch.

18.  January 18, 2011:

A child dangles legs,

A man jogs down the trail below –

Convalescent coughs.

19. January 19, 2011:

Kicked from the hilltop

Small rock tumbles here and there –

Rolling on the trail.

20. January 20, 2011:

Jogger stops quickly

As rock tumbles by his feet –

He sees dangling legs.

21. January 21, 2011:

Jogger starts to run

Observer coughs; it is loud –

Legs stop dangling.

22. January 22, 2011:

Four thin, green skinned trees

Palos form a half circle –

Worship or protect?

23. January 23, 2011:

A tiny palo

In the midst of the circle –

Protect or worship?

24. January 24, 2011:

I see as I jog

Prickly pear green now purple –

Did red ears hear me?

25. January 25, 2011:

Javelina stir,

Down in the wash they mingle –

My dog sniffs and bolts.

26. January 26, 2011:

Night along the trail

Four legs pass along the light –

Coyote on the prowl?

27.  January 27, 2011:

Hiking sticks and boots

Firmly planted on the trail –

What tales will rocks tell?

28. January 28, 2011:

Royal crown quail

With heads erect scampering

Away from boot sounds.

29.  January 29, 2011:

We hiked North Mountain

Up and up and up and up —

Until we reached the top.

30.  January 30, 2011:

And then we hiked down

Down and down and down we went

Until we hit trailhead.

31.  January 31, 2011:

From trailhead to home

And then I sat in the spa

Soaking the water.

A Rose Unfolding

Soft, fragile fingers given to freezing’s fright

found strength to form a shroud

around tender virgin light.

Scarlet orb of clasped hands

remained still and patient

forming warming loving bands,

until the time was right. Then fingers did unfold;

then petals bold pulled back and arched their backs

then thrusting bosoms told

of victory to the sky with a silent cry of blissful pain.

Manhattan Pond

With dingy hair and dirty pants,

he sat with his feet on resting oars.

His head bent over a shirtless body,

as he listened to the sounds from the buds in his ears.

And the boat drifted on the Manhattan pond.

Did the long white scar on a hairless stomach

tell tales of a thousand unwanted thoughts?

With arms wrapped around bended knees (to hide the scar? Why wouldn’t he be showing it off?),

his clasped hands looked still but one tapping finger betrayed him.

And the boat drifted on the Manhattan pond.

Bumping other boats as he drifted and shoving off defiantly,

it appeared he wished only to be alone but one tapping finger betrayed him.

Did he seek to be away and rest, but fearing solitude and his own thoughts

listened to the sounds from the buds in his ears?

And the boat drifted on the Manhattan pond.

A variation of this poem was written in honor of the birth of my son Matthew who turned 43 on September 15, 2011.  Since September 15, 1968, Matthew has known joy and sorrow, triumph, victory and defeat, pain and ecstasy.  He has proven through his endurance, perseverance and affirmation of life that it is good not to be Billy Budd.

To Matthew

The father sees innocence

overwhelming his newborn son

fragile on pastel bedding

guarded by soft, white light softly reflected off soft, white walls.

The father sees naivete

flowing from the restful child

enveloping him in the secure sterility of bright, white clothes.

His son could not know of harshness. He is Billy Budd.

The father sees innocence and naivete and

fearfully, dreadfully wishes them eternal for his son.

His son could not know of harshness. He is Billy Budd.

But there is none. There are no Billy Budds, dressed in bright,

white innocence, shrouded in the soft, white light of naivete

who survive and thrive  and

it is just as well.

1. Rain teasingly falls

on thirsty sharp-set soil, while

thunder roars assent.

2. As blades of grass stretch

fondled by the sun’s fingers

jealous shade steals in.

3. A solitary

drop of winter’s rain tumbles

into crystal grace.

4. Tall, slender cedars

weave and sway maneuvering

within winter’s winds.

5. A cold ladybug

crawling toward her home breaks a

brittle blade of grass.

A thick, heavy, greasyspoonrestaurant odor

settled through the arcade and

Two fleshy, blue-veined stubble-haired legs

pounced my way.

She nodded and yelled,

“Hi, Ya’ll, there! What’ll it be today?”

While stringy hair caught in her smacking gum.

The straggly strands fell on a white turned yellow collar

of a white turned yellow dress.

A man got up to leave and a napkin

floated to the floor.  She stood and watched it fall.

“Bye, now!” missing teeth courteously cajoled the words

giving them form and substance. “Ya’ll come back real soon, hear?”

making a question out of a declaration.

She looked down at me with raised eyebrows and mouth agape

then bent too close and whispered huskily,

“You’d think the slob would pick up his napkin.”

while stringy hair caught in her smacking gum.

The Girl Behind the Fast Food Visor

Having stared at the dollar menu he had memorized but does because it just seems part of the routine, he approached (having known before he entered the door exactly what he was going to order) the counter and heard

exactly what he knew he was going to hear before he said what he was going to order. “Welcome. May I take your order?” He hardly heard her and momentarily forgot what it was he was going to order,

which he had known forever because it was what he always orders. She was short and had her visor pushed forward and down covering her eyes. She looked up just long enough to greet him and it was

then he saw her eye and the left side of her face. He quickly looked at her name-tag and she just as quickly looked back down at the register. A patch of grayish, plastic like skin had been attached tautly to the side of her face on top

of the cheekbone and the skin around her eye was scar tissue and red mucous membrane rimmed the eyeball and he wondered how she blinked. Congenital, a fire, a drunken father’s blow with a fireplace poker, a car crash?

He wondered if the kids at school ever taunted her or if she would be asked to the prom. He wondered if she ever looked anyone straight in the eye. The nanosecond was an eternity of wondering. He thought of the Buddha and that all of

life was suffering, and he didn’t want her to suffer anymore. He wanted to shout silently “Heal!” and he wanted fresh, new pink skin to form on her cheekbone and an eyelid and long beautiful lashes to grow under the Fast Food

visor and he wanted her to push that visor up and back and wink a coquettish wink at him with her left eye. “May I have a Sausage Muffin, please?” “For here or to go?”  “For here, Leah. What a beautiful name for a beautiful young lady.”

She continued to stare straight ahead at the register with her visor pulled forward and down and said, “Thank you very much.” He could see her lips and he thought/hoped he could see a little smile but she never looked him in the eye.

He moved down the counter to wait in the waiting place for the Sausage Muffin, opened the wrapper, lifted the bun, squirted some ketchup on the sausage, replaced the bun, closed the wrapper, grabbed two napkins, sat down by the window

as he always does in the routine, turned to look out of the window opposite the counter like maybe a passing car caught his attention, or like he was watching a little girl slide down the slide into her father’s arms

and then he started to cry.