Hari Cari or Draw

Cold Thai restaurant
waiting for friend
from old job.

Hearing broken record like
Thai elevator like music
hoping she's later so
poem can be written.

Now later, after
nice lunch, then
catastrophe trying to
be nice helping another
human being, driving
home through sleet,

talking to my son
on phone as he's
walking home in a
static storm, or so
it seemed, and my big dog
barked because I fed my
bird first, and my little
black dog with white specks of snow
barked because I fed
my big dog second, and
I weigh hari cari or
doing a drawing for this
abomination of a poem
and I choose the drawing.

There are No Reruns in Nature

Yesterday, looking out my window,
it was still.
The dogs and I were waiting for a visitor.
Even in that stillness,
subtle movements started occurring.

Today is a virtual fast dance. The
meager but cold snow flurries of an
hour ago changed to a bitter wind
testing the leaves and tall grasses
to see of what they are made.

No two snowflakes are alike,
nor are any two days the same.
There are no reruns in nature. And
each day foreshadows the next, if
only we would read the clues.

P.S. for J.A.

I often have the dilemma
whether to use line, tone, or color.
What I do depends
on whether I'm feeling
austere, bold, or flamboyant.
As well, it depends on what is
particularly challenging me.
Sometimes I get stuck with
one medium and turn to another.
And sometimes, what seemed like
a good idea, wasn't.

Waiting

There is a stillness when
I wait. Everything seems to
be waiting. Even the shadows
appear to be still and my
dog looks out the window,
pointing at nothing, or so
it seems.

Then, out of the stillness,
I start to notice movement:
the water in the pond, the
occasional auto transversing
the road, and the oak leaves,
clutching themselves to
keep warm.

The watched pot doesn't boil,
or so the saying goes, but
still we watch it, not
believing that or any
of the other aphorisms
that could guide us so well.

7 Random Thoughts

The magical brick house across the street
never looks the same. This morning I saw
it laced with sharp shadows, and now they are soft,
barely defining the object of their creation.

Driving out to the country yesterday I
saw shades of gray. Muted colors that
I felt more in my fingertips that with
my eyes.

Why does the sun look that much brighter
when you are in the shade?

My dog, who sometimes sneaks up to our
bed and sleeps all day long is today on
patrol, anticipating a visitor from the
west. Will it be the Buddha?

He started to bark and cry.
I slapped my hands and startled him.
He stopped.

I hear my wife's foot steps above me.
I try to visualize what she is doing.

Our bird looks at himself in a mirror
for 15 years and continues to sing.
Humans go to the nip and tuck doc with
far less reflection.

Waking Up Early

Maybe so much writing
is boring because it was
written early in the morning
when nothing much was happening.

Sure, the wind chimes are ringing,
the dogs are snoring
and the water in the pond
is rushing down its mini-waterfall,
slowing wearing a groove in the
boulder that it transverses.

The sky has a mere tinge of pink,
and occasional car lights
can be seen passing on the road,
punctuating the darkness
with their brilliance.

Compare that to rush hour,
in about a hour, when we
hurry hurry hurry.
Lots more fodder there
for a good poem, don't you think?

Not About Nature

Today was a tough one.
I wrote two poems about
excuses, but they weren't
very good.

The clock whizzed by
from morning to evening.
I noticed our neighbors
lined their gutters
with holiday lights,
and my dog watched
out the window with
a giant drool falling
from her mouth.

After hearing a discussion
about Wordsworth two times
on my Ipod I vowed to never
write another nature poem.

And then I realized I couldn't
see past yesterday's leaves
that were flat and vibrant
in the warmth of the sun and
today are shriveled and dry,
ready for their kamikaze dive
as the wind shook their branches.

Ancient Leaves

One of the trees out my window
is holding on to her leaves
for dear life.

They are shriveled, ancient,
brittle, used, light-brown
in color, and facing
the cold but bright morning
sun.

Some say that one needs to
give themselves permission
to die. Some hold on longer
than needed, while others say
goodbye upon first landing on Earth.

I'm not sure what it is with
these leaves. Are they survivors,
or merely afraid of flying?

Perhaps their mother tree
needs a little shaking.

Frustration

Woke up.

I can't do something
so I buy a new machine.

The machine needs batteries
so I go to the store.

Machine still doesn't work,
so take another trip to exchange
the machine.

I try to do the something,
but realize I need the more
expensive machine. It doesn't
need batteries.

Return the machine and batteries
and get the more expensive machine.

Get home. Hungry. Eat dinner.
Then it is too dark to do the job.

Maybe in the morning . . .

Breathing

Trying to pick the best breath is not easy.

Some are forced, some preachy, and some pathetic.
Where is that pure breath
that seemed so right at the moment–
unencumbered, fresh, ruthless, and brilliant?

Where is the one that came from my heart and soul,
and did not try to console, persuade, and impress?

Where is the one that I would save in a burning fire,
if there was only time to save one?

Where is the breath that I could take
to the next life
to show who I really am?

Oh, here it is, the one
where I stumbled over a twig
laying in the path.

Dirty Dish

Sometimes we just face a
dirty dish, full of crumbs,
once showered and purified,
now tainted and ready for
a cleansing.

What was on the plate was good
enough for our innards,
but now needs to be
sterilized off.

I imagine an invisible army of germs
hovering above the dining
room table, waiting for my
last bite before they
attack. God bless them for
holding out until I finish eating.

Another Morning

I look out the same magic window
that is never the same.

Yesterday, all was still,
while today the wind caresses
the few tree limbs with leaves
and the yellow orange school bus whizzes by.

The sky is white, ready for rain
or a few frigid snow flakes.

The woodpile
waits for winter.
The logs are fast asleep
with their ends
darkened with moisture.

The evergreens, in their moment of glory,
display their rich greens and
mock the shedding trees
for giving up their year's work.

Brrr . . .

It is cold this morning.

Everything is still.
Even the shriveled
leaves are asleep,

their molecules hibernating
until the sun shines again.

The dogs go out, but come
back moments later
when they smell toast,
chancing that the possibility
for a handout
is greater than

the discomfort from
the brrr
of the winter morning.

Trash

I pick up trash by the street.
I fill a garbage bag
with whiskey bottles, fast food debris,
and unmentionables.

I wonder if these gifts appear
through some miscomprehension
of the free-speech doctrine
guaranteed by the constitution,

or if the trash's disposition
is the result of civil
or divine disobedience,

or perhaps, if some of the drivebys
are just thoughtless
or downright angry
gestures.

Not without Money

A poem about money.
Hardly likely, she said.

Money is crass, cold. It comes
from the wrong side of the brain, he said.

We need to wash our hands often
and well when we touch money.
It is laden with germs and viruses.
A living depository, she continued,
for all things evil and small.

But what about a box of chocolate?
I said. You can't have such things
without money.

A necessary evil, she said, and
besides, can't you steal a box?

And go to hell? he said.

(Thanksgiving) Warts

This morning I was sent a picture
of a man who was half tree.

He has an uncontrollable case
of warts and his limbs look
like the roots of a tree.

I suppose that he might have
a future in a freak show, but
otherwise there doesn't seem
much, on this special day,
for him to be thankful.

The odd thing, as I consider
my minor aches and pains,
is that he carries such
an enormous smile
on his face.

Seeing Through

As if I had surgery for nearsidedness,
now that the leaves have fallen,
I see the horizon line,
so carefully hidden a week ago by the leaf-laden trees.

I should know more now,
being able to see through my former reality.
I can tell where
the earth ends and the sky begins,
and if I was a little wiser I could create
joy and harmony on Earth, or even with the neighbors
who complain about where the leaves have fallen.

It is much colder today,
suggesting that winter is on its way.
What was opaque is now transparent.
What was middle aged is now becoming old.

Am I Proud?

I'm continually being asked if I'm proud
of the accomplishments of my kids.
I noticed that I'm always confused and
just nod "yes," to be polite.

In the same way that I'm not
proud of Einstein for his
special theory of relativity
(I had no part
in its creation),
I feel that what my kids
have done was often in spite
of my advice that would
have only taken them to
places they didn't want to go
and/or shouldn't have gone after all.

Choices

Sometimes our lives are about making choices.
We come to a fork in the the road,
our GPS isn't getting the proper satellites
and we find ourselves facing a serious dilemma,

A Buddhist said that people who meditate
to make choices get more confused.
Maybe it is the clarity
that makes the choice harder not easier
because the meditator sees all the
ramifications of the potential decisions.

Freud recommended that we flip a coin
and see how we feel about the coin's decision.
I tried this and 8 out of 10 times
the coin was wrong.
I scolded it severely.

Leaves Looking for Good Home

She said if you don't
rake the leaves
the grass will die.

If grass needs that much upkeep
should we keep it?

If grass dies,
then it won't need to be mowed,
and more robust plants
will grow in its place.

You can't rake every leaf.
But your neighbors will try,
and if you wait long enough,
the wind will give your leaves to
your neighbors' rakes and
mulching mowers.

I Like Liberals, Even if They Aren't

I like liberals. You'd think,
(as the expression goes),
I like them because they
are liberal, but no.

I'd be on their side
if they were truly liberal,
meaning they've accepted
the complexity of life
and see the costs and benefits
of all proposed solution,
and then "own" their beliefs.

But today's liberals have a
specific ideology, which
in my mind, makes them as
short sided as conservatives.

Note: I was told, early on,
that one should not speak
of politics or religion.
More forbidden fruit to partake!

Church

When I was a kid,
my mom did not believe
in anything she could not see, including God.

My friend Bruce wanted me
to go to church with him.
I asked my mom for permission to go.
She said no,
that I was too young
and too impressionable.

I don't think I ever went
to Bruce's church.
Before long, though,
I was attending up to
four churches a Sunday,
trying to get a bite of that forbidden fruit.

The Generous Tree

We have lots of trees,
one of which is very generous.
Every fall this elm covers our neighbor's yard
with an elegant layer of golden leaves.

"I'm retired and tired," our neighbor said,
"and I don't have time for these leaves.
I'm going to cut down my oak tree as well.
I don't want to work anymore."

My giving tree, so used to the
morning shade provided by the oak,
droops her remaining leaves in sadness,
and then releases the next cadre of leaves
in protest, as if to say,
"do we not see the gifts
that we receive?"

Ode to Junk Mail

Admittedly, liking junk mail
is as politically incorrect
as being enthralled with a
very unpopular leader.

Before you deny it,
think how devastated you feel
when the mailman comes by
and your mailbox is empty.

Much of my junk mail
is the same junk mail
I've received before
—— many times before.
I get a kind of "deja vu"
fondling, and then disposing of,
these pesty, but familiar, friends.

Can't

Can't do a poem today.

I look out the window
and there is stillness everywhere.

The wind is still,
the sky is blue,
and the shadows are frozen.

The big dog sneaked
up to our bed and is fast asleep.
The parakeet is quietly admiring
herself in her mirror and only occasionally
do I see a car pass on the road.

Maybe I'm living in still photo,
with these letters magically
appearing on my computer screen
as my fingers twitch.

The Train

We took the train from Chicago to Portland.
We'd board in the afternoon,
spend two long nights,
and arrive the next morning to the open arms of our grandfather
who would take us to our favorite hamburger joint.

We are all on a train,
with different destinations, different speeds, and different distances.
The cycle of light to dark to light to dark to light to dark
is our common denominator.

We take work to do on the train,
but our true work is riding the train,
and seeing where she takes us.
Our belief that where we go to bed is
where we wake up is an illusion.

My dog looks out the window anticipating the next stop.

Dawn

It is early.
The wind woke the leaves
and the tall grass
before the sun could
say good morning.

A petite solitary cloud,
tinted red from the sunrise,
looked on
from the eastern sky.

Gradually, the overcast
took the cloud in her belly,
moving gem into memory.

Soon more light came to the plants
as the rising sun
quieted the fall breeze.

Yesterday and Now

Yesterday the leaves
had their last hurrah.

They were bright and cheery,
warm with color and moisture.
They fell one at a time,
each tree proudly still retaining
its summer green
punctuated with the lone leaves
failing to resist
their ultimate daring death dive.

Now the leaves are homogeneous,
willingly falling three or four at a time.
Shriveled up like antique folks,
tired of holding on,
now ready for a long winter sleep.

The Box

I have a strange little box
inherited from my parents
who inherited it from my grandma
who inherited it from her brother.

It is a small silver box
with an image of a man
under a Bodhi tree.
I don't think he is the Buddha
because his legs are dangling
over a rock, and he's reading a note,
the contents of which is probably lost forever.

Inside the box is a wisp of air,
filled with my great uncle's pipe smoke,
and laden with the secrets of his far eastern travels
where he acquired such a treasure.

Stockmarket Dives

Up and down she goes.
The bears trample the bulls
or visa versa
from interest rates
to war to the dropping dollar.
There always is the
daily raison d'etre.

We sit back and watch
assets soar and plummet
making our hearts skip a
beat and our heads
ache a little (or much).
What once made our day
now only reminds us of the adage
"what goes up must come down."

Ode to a Leaf

The leaf comes and goes,
falling through air in a spiral.
It doesn't hit the ground,
but is gently cushioned
by its shadow.

If left to its own devices,
it will decompose
and then regenerate.

If left to our rakes and leaf blowers,
it will be taken from its cycle
and be forced to another,
perhaps less natural, destiny.

The leaf is an old timer,
knowing full well its impermanence.
Still, it basks in the sun until evening.