Friday, December 7, 2007

Transitional Thoughts



December morning,
the floor is cold,
though in reality,
the floor is laid back
and it is my feet that
are cold.

Someday I'll get slippers
but they've always
seemed slippery to me,
with a slick bottom
and your foot
slips out of them
as easily as it slips in.

Got up early to see
if I could get an
earlier flight so
I wouldn't have to
get up so early.

Why do birds get up
before dawn? They
don't eat all the time
like fish. Eat like
a bird
is pretty much
par for my fair feathered
friends..

President George tries
to tell untrustworthy
countries that they
should eliminate the
intelligence to build
a bomb. Other than
sending over lots of
lead toys, I'm not sure
how that might be done.

On the other hand, he
proposes to
freeze balloon loans
and says it isn't a
price freeze because it
isn't costing the government
money. Since when did
price freezes cost Uncle
Sam, except for reduced
tax on increased profits,
that may also come from
the balloon freeze?

I understand there is
a shortage of helium. Perhaps
some day we'll only be able
to get it for those special
birthdays, like turning 100.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

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.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

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.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

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.

Monday, December 3, 2007

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.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

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?

Saturday, December 1, 2007

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.

Who's in the world?

Xiushan said, "What can you do about the world?" Dizang said, "What do you call the world?"