Listen to the sound
of a butterfly
flying by

Feel the wind
from a bumblebee's buzzing

Clouds in the sky
The endless artwork

To wait for the metro
is boring, tedious and cold.
It feels meaningless.
Or is it
a quiet moment
in the busy everyday life
where nothing is required of you
and you can just be?
Enjoy this pause.
To wait for the metro
is to live life now.

To wait five minutes
is long.
But a year of happiness
is short.

Once reluctant, my sister
has found the joy in ocean swells
that I promised her,
with the help of a yellow boogie board.

Above clouds shift back and forth
covering the sun, the prospect
darkening to the east.

Sea birds fly near the surface,
their white wings green
from reflecting waves.

The sea is mysterious,
the sky uncertain. But
I watch in this moment
and am content.

is it more beautiful
the fleeting end
of a rainbow

the rippling end
of the suns reflection
like rain

Light on the water
the clouds shape
sheening the swells with pearl
before the wave.

How used are my eyes
to the immediate, to the
limits of a bent neck.

The salt and light conspire
to force the challenge.

And I sit here, clutching
them to me, for too often
I have fallen away like
the foam,
retreating, without
in my turn rushing forward
to prove the immovable.

A young man’s stand
for I am yet too young
for wisdom to mean
passivity.

I will force the challenge.

geese outside
call the hour
a breath

through a seam in the blinds
the sun
still

glasses case
when will it
come back to me

in the daylight her face just sleeping

one small ear poking out
her covers rise
and fall

her braided hair
in the lamplight
and daylight

dim shower
this blue screen
washes over me

birdsong
and roses
this imaginary garden

after all
disappointment and a cold day
a bowl of soup

bluebird courting
on each branch he bobs
up and
down

well-loved cardigan
I glance at everything
but the calendar

dawn light -
the weight of the air
settles in

evening after snow
the trees limbs
are limned in light

savoring earl grey
my pen rests
between Masters

after a mornings snowmelt
the next morning
dawns

Beneath the covers at night,
when I am alone. Past scrolling,
and all the other things that present
themselves for distraction. I find
sometimes that I am lonely, and long
for a companionship that is elusive,
even now. A likeness that calls to like.

I am aware of time, these days.
I hope in time, we will
find ourselves together, more
and more often.

I see you
bursting like dolphins
from a grassy sea.

Crownless,
it is for the light on your leaves
I would honor you.
Silver rippling, with the breeze and the thunder.

And you among them
still, with gold on your bent
stalk. My heart goes out to you.
Linger a little longer, fairest
one. When spring comes again
I will look for you.

quiet morning
my eyes travel up the pines
to the sky

or

quiet morning
my eyes stay awhile
at the tops of the pines

pale gate
in darkness
the hanging lamp

or

pale gate
in darkness
the unlit lamp

dim hallway
alone the hanging lamp
floats

I have a heart
used to yearning.

To swelling, full
to the brim of presence.

To aching when
presence is absent.

When it is I feel
like a man looking
at the moon.

White and large
on a clear
night.

And reaching up,
up in vain.

I never hoped
I would hold the moon.

Though longing for it
has shaped me; has
made love a feeling
of horizons, of beauty
at far distances.

I loved, let
love fill me, and
did not hope.

And yet,

when I look at my hand now
I find it full..

And light spills from my fingers
to wash my arm, my face
in wonder.

I have found
what I sought.

And beyond hope
my longing
is ended.

For the moon is beautiful,
is beautiful,
is beautiful.

And all fears and doubts
are vanished,
for her light is cool
and blessed; and yet
draws a fire that flows
through me, bringing
hope, life, strength.

I have found my desire.

But my heart
is used to
yearning.

I will begin a new passion
as true, and longer lived
than the old.

I will hold the moon to my heart,
and meet my desire with my love.

And my hand will shelter it,
inward-facing.

May it always be so,
that my hand will shelter her.

That her light not dim,
nor beauty fade while I hold her.

That from my eyes
her light will return,
ever brighter and
more beautiful.

I have outstretched
my hand, and returned it.
And the light which
I sought dwells with me.

I am blessed,
and the world
is beautiful.

I am blessed,
and my heart
is full.

May it always be so.

May it always be so.

yellow sky
the winter grass
deepens

Envy
how I hate it
It makes me want to **** a man for
dreaming, for asking me to dream.
What use is it, what use have you
in dreaming, in presuming
that I am not in my very essence
capable only of glimpsing the edges
the light-limned outline of the door
leading forward
and falling back again.

The bar of soap
smooth and curved as old driftwood
it is familiar to me.
Precious to me.
All of its shape and all of its use
is my own.
And with each use
it lessens and grows
in my heart.
When it is gone
I will open a drawer
and a new bar will sit
where it sits
and eventually I will forget
I ever loved it
and the whole thing will begin again.

Every time I begin to clean with a magic eraser I feel sad, because of the pure white and clean lines soon to be smudged and torn apart. I console myself with it's function, the beauty of it's usefulness; but still.

on my fingertips
the small noises
of a still night

how rare
afternoon turning to evening
on my skin

for awhile
the rain-washed limb
glows

There is a quality to desolation
that I have never seen.

I have been in a desert, touched
the aridity of it’s soil, and its
air like hot feathers
on my breath;
I have seen the sea far out
with only a blue smudge on
the horizon
to mark our return.
But I have never felt that terror,
that awe and loneliness
that has been spoken of,
and said by the poets
and deliverers,
to bring ones face
to God.

Do not misunderstand me.
I have felt these things;
at the end of a trail
leading nowhere,
on a *****
with loose stones
for footholds.
I have been in places of terror
and beauty,
and been overthrown.
But not wholly.

Perhaps
I have not been still
enough, have not lingered
in those part-wild places
that have seen the summit
of my fear, my longing.
Perhaps even they, even
they, have what I seek.

Perhaps
I have not been still
enough.

fungal bloom
hidden beneath is
its source

Clouds streak the
setting sun’s radiance,
like waves, like feathers
bowing leftward. A soft
rain falls, a breeze blows
gently from the west.
And from me the sound
of pipes, of words and
exultation, lamentation.
It is in me that the sunset
is exulted. It is in me that
the border of the blue and
purple is seen, the amber
of the center. Around me
the gloaming is falling.
I see, and am whole. I live,
and am not fractured.
This is evening.
This is evening.

vanishing tail
after three the rock
goes with it

scuttling tail
the rock falls
into place

white petals
now the clouds have
competition

blink
white petals are drifting
between clouds

At times, in my
yet brief,
and ordinary life,
I have felt
wholly,
that all that there is
to anything
is inertia;
a reaction
that begun, ends: and
all I have felt
of beauty
is but the
latest iteration
of atoms.

It is like this,
sometimes,
that all the world seems empty,
or worse
that in everything around there is light,
but in me
only darkness,
corruption,
deficiency.

I have tried to be beautiful.

I have tried to hold
about me,
in me,
the mantle of righteousness;
of tolerance,
empathy,
and all that
seems
the trappings of the wise.
I have held to
old words,
verity,
and been content.
Not long.

For always there
has been some snag,
some frayed end,
that in the end
has been the cause
of my fall.
My very own fall
from grace,
in the endlessly
renewing
microcosm
of myself.

And in falling,
I fall always
into myself;
and there all the walls
are mirrors.

If you tell me
that there is still beauty in the world,
I will say yes,
I see it too,
and when I do I see it everywhere
and all the world is beautiful;
it's only
that I can't all the time,
that's all.

If you feel
that I am unhealthy,
if you worry; don't.
For even when it seems
that I will be crushed by darkness,
it is a truth,
that I love
the darkness;
seek it,
yearn for it.
Not always,
but sometimes,
I love it:
For it allows for
circular reflection,
for positive feedback loops,
for the intensification
of those id emotions,
without which, I feel
I could not live.
So thank you,
but don’t worry:
I will take care
of myself.

coming up
clouds full
of dawn

one branch
leads to another
another

lone sparrow
vines come to
a stop

on a twig
a lone sparrow
at last

when will
I love them
birdsong

from above
backlit waves
of plastic

ahead
two red cedars
before pines

grout lines
a row stayed
of fishermen