My buddy the quarterback said to go long
music to my ears the chorus of my song
I could easily outrun all the puny secondary –
the guys from one block over on wealthy Dewberry.
We were all better at football on Lillian Street  
beating the crap out of those guys was oh so sweet.

Now mulling my interests, passions and such
I wonder why I love football so much
what with a life of writing, thinking and teaching
my football mania seems a tad overreaching
but still my arm flexes watching that heaver
connect in a perfect arch with his swift receiver.

Being Cajun in Texas where sports are king
probably explains something of why I’m so keen
and my pulse quickens as I remember
the neighbor boys’ shouts and calls in September
to meet them in our favorite autumn spot
down the street in that vacant lot.

Most of my life I’ve gone for short passes
connected with ideas and English classes
no novel for me, I fell for poetry
nor did I brave the rigor of a PhD.
Now finally, with my scores of years its not so wrong
to watch, leave it alone, wait a while, and go long.

a small cup’s inside a vat
drip by drip
I”ve been working
on filling up
that cup

when it is full
and overflows
then I am done
for then the vat and I
are one.

Several college students stood around
arguing about the meaning of God.
Nearby sat an old Indian woman.
They asked her what she thought.

With a wan smile
she took a small blue bowl
from a plastic shopping bag
laid the crinkly bag on her lap
and pointing to it she said
“This is the universe.”
Then she pointed inside the bag’s opening
and said,
“This is God.”

This day is so bright
and all seems so right
I wonder if I can stand it
I had not planned it
the clouds and rain
gnawed so unrestrained.

Early morn’s nightmare
still lingers somewhere
moored to the dark
where it won’t disembark
still clutching me in slimy grip
I’m on its derelict ship.

How can a dream be so strong
and make me feel so wrong
just a wispy demon in the night
by now should have taken flight
but here I sit in light of day
still hoping the malefic will away.

hummingbird ***** up
nectar swallowing in gulps
Life awaits my gulp

I know poetry is about words
and I do dote on words
I treasure digging up just the right one
to lay out on the carpet and let fly

but I wonder if
it would be well
to just dwell
in the heart space
in silence

to hold the object of my anger or irritation
there
in silence
surrounded by blood
and warmth
there
in the anchor of life

I have come to realize
poetry and its cousin prayer
are just as much
about the heart
as words.

On the edge of the cliff above me
***** rusty barrels loom
full of pollutants
detritus massed
from the darkness
of my errors
poor decisions
momentary failures to recall
and then act on the ideals
I rely on to inspire and move me.

Here I am at dawn
on the brink of a new day
full of possibilities
laughter, tenderness, listening and lingering
here I am at a moment of genesis

IF

I have the sense
and shameless audacity
to simply notice and accept those looming barrels
and their polluted contents
as yesterdays
and leave them there.

On the horizon I see the clouds above the breaking daysky
and dark arcs of rain pouring down soaking soil.
These great open spaces invite my spirit to be free to fly
and join the source of all thunder
and this gray dawn.

In these times
where time vanishes
I sink into Earth like the rains
where there are no horizons
or division of land from sky.

I am grateful for being an earthling
despite the desperate tiredness
in my leg and calf muscles
and the aching in my joints and back
at day’s end.

The gift of sleep
sneaked into me
in the darkness and peace of night
and there in my dreams
I became a being of imagining
a me in fear and sadness
on the brink of courage
and in my drift
across the slumbering sea
I find beings familiar and different at the same time
men fulfilling possibilities
beyond their imagining,
men becoming.

So here I am drifting
into consciousness
on the melody of an Indian flute
and field lark songs
into another day
where this old me
again becomes
an earthling.

I rest in quiet tribute and praise
for the exquisite joy
of this modest labor

In this peaceful dripping
of the rain
I see sparkles
even under a cloudy sky
resting, not quite ready to drip
from the leaves of the Tallow.

May I sparkle
before I take the trip
of the drip.

The little chickadee
with his fulsome squeak
is feeding on small seeds
left by the jays and dove -
enough for him
and his swift flight.
May I learn
to take just enough.

I wish it wasn’t so hard to say “I don’t know”
to enter the cloud of unknowing
to be wrapped in solitude
and float there
free of activity
and self.

By the end of next month
the hummingbirds will be gone
and I’ll have to find other wildness
to bring that tiny measure of joy
to my mornings.

The cardinal is pecking
in the bird feeder
making cardinal out of seed.

Here I am
looking for a small piece of the divine
inside.

In the crazy busyness of the day
where electric sounds suffuse,
even a little chat is often a freeway
of words and noise.

And in the midst, he tells me
“Just be yourself.”
There I am
in the small space of silence
being undone
with nothing to say
while I wonder
what self.

A friend tells me they’re getting a divorce.
The doctor says the tests are positive.
I watch: the surge of floods taking homes and lives
or images of smoke and debris right after a bombing.
After a real serious play or movie.
In the waiting room after I hear she is going to die.

In those lonely tiny spaces
of darkness
I cannot speak.

In those aftermath moments
I am silenced.

How do I react
to being out of control
or make these things normal
or fit them into my routine ways of being me?

Silence asserts itself
like a wild animal
I cannot tame.

At these intervals
of being powerless
I hope I do not miss the chance
to humbly bow
in silence
and embrace my humanity
and smallness
in the cosmos
where it is utterly trivial
to just be my self.

I am amazed
        but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt closes me off
sews me up
amputates my heart
from people I’ve loved.

It seems I cannot get by
the rage she vomited on me
what she called me
her shocking condemnations.

Rage cuts deep
wounds heal slow
if at all.

Then I find out how she felt hurt and betrayed
when I changed and detoured
        because someone betrayed me.

But I am glad for those detours
where I discovered other worlds
and became more than I was.

I am amazed
       but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt can remake
and occasion my transformation,
how the bad can become the good
        If I am patient enough
        and work hard enough
        to find
        or make
        cracks in that wall.

I am not divine
nor am I earth or you
but I’m not other than these

[Senryu]

Missed a step of the stepping stool
smacked the sidewalk with my face
felt like a blithering fool
what happened to my grace

First parched earth of drought
now we’re so soaked with rain
the birdseed’s begun to sprout
dare I holler or complain

I think I need a change of scene
boredom cries for the next valley over
to smell the new scent of green
hear honey bees buzzing clover

They say hearing voices like yours
can be soothing and cozy
but too much harmony bores
and I think a little stink can be rosy

Living life in extremes
isn’t for me and isn’t sound
maybe it’s about stretching the seams
but not to be unbound

I don’t know if balance is my fate
Yes, equilibrium has its uses
but I like a tune that syncopates
and enough spice to excite the juices.

The hair on the back of my hand
glistens in the lamp at night
it tells me I am a man
I am a creature
a thing created.
I did not create myself
even though I act as if I did.  

You made this body
and you keep it alive.
When I look at my hand
sometimes it reminds me of Jesus
who was also a man.

I yearn to feel his touch
his arms around my shoulders.
How often I need his hand
on the small of my back
giving me a gentle shove.

When I picture that hand
in my mind’s eye
I see the hair
the veins that bring the blood
from his heart,
a heart so full
so big it reaches to heaven.

It also reaches into my heart
when I think of his first noticing
and then stooping down
to touch the person on the side of the road
the person nobody else would go near.
I am touched to tears.  

That was the hand of Jesus
reaching down as it does now
to this sinner.

It’s like watching a flower bloom from a bud
or a seed pushing through the soil
moving onward and upward
slowly but surely
toward the sky
to eventually arise
in its fresh green glory
into the light
right before our eyes.

They are taking that old house
into their hands and hearts
removing dust and accumulations
of two full and splendid lives
molding from the clay of the past
moving through the soil of a present
full of challenge and struggle
into a new, alive
unpredictable
future
together.

This new growth
fashioned from precious artifacts
and art of these two mature siblings
is not a shell which is a house
but a new flowering
which is a home.

What a delight to observe from afar
this new creation
taking shape
knowing
that their roots and ours
are emmeshed
and inseparable.

Watching these two
bright, precocious ones
so precious, priceless and cherished by us
is as delicious
and delightful
as sharing a meal
prepared in the ovens,
homes and hearts
of our mothers.

In this dynamic present
we are grateful
for parents who taught us what it means
to make and keep a home
to love and be loved by the children
of generations.

All these children
are present in the creators
and observers
of this new home
taking shape
being painting
into a landscape
that will one day
sparkle
with joy.

I once tried to write a limerick
and it all but made me sick
but I recovered quite soon
once I ate juice of prunes
no longer stopped up that did the trick

I have written poems about rising.
It’s a good subject for poets.
Isn’t a poem itself a rising?
We spend much time revising
what we write and what we do.

There are so many good words ending in izing.
I could write a whole poem
using words symbolizing
so much of life -
it’s absolutely tantalizing.

I watch and read about all the polarizing.
It is a cool oasis lingering here
synchronizing
my words with my feelings and thoughts
realizing the heart of who I really am
comprising ways of saying my truth
without moralizing.

At times it is agonizing -
all this analyzing
how I belong and how I don’t
if I’ll join others or if I won’t.

I look at that guy Jesus
and how so many obsess
about his blood and sacrifice
all the while not recognizing
it’s not so much about our sins
and his need to atone as it is
about the good he did
who he sat with and loved,
the seeds he sowed
who he stopped to touch
on the side of the road.

I find obsessions with power
really unappetizing.
I’d rather spend my time rising
from darkness into light
or embracing my sadness, exercising
and emphasizing what is energizing.  
When I do that, it is quite surprising
how creative my muse is helping ME
to also rise.

Songs are threads that reach beyond
mortal matter of the planet’s bond
springing often unexpected  
like diamonds angel-selected.

Sounds from spirit spun in sky
half's and quarters low and high
enter our waiting souls
and linger there to make us whole.

Music soars beyond the flesh
reforms the old into fresh
hearing tones the artist composes
is breathing in a rally of roses.

Listening to music involves,
prepares, changes and evolves
it makes our humanity better
it is a sweet ethereal eternal treasure.

Written 7-23-18

The paint is flaking and falling off
splotched edges
discoloration
stormy days
weathered years
creaking and leaking
cracking from heating
the physics of aging
and seasons of raging
the terrible toll
they are taking
makes you think this old house
needs replacing.

But listen to the voices
of laughter and loving
hear echoes of weeping
and promise keeping
poems that were spoken
being whole and broken
see the tears that were shed
the glories in bed
sighs and lies
some of them said
inside the house that was home
these many years.


Inside spirit reigns
with angels unchained
where heart and soul
on a journey bold
through seasons of pain
where demons were slain
new life was greeted
death was cheated
souls were enrolled
in miracle courses
treasures discovered
of higher forces.


This old house of seventy six years
holds joys along with fears.
The structure isn’t new
but inside
there is
youth.

Being in first light
I can see lamps lit
and the clouds strewn across the gray dawn.
From the east
the sun whispers greetings
of the new day.

Being in first light
I wonder what faces I will see for the first time
whose hand I will see reaching out to mine
that first grip always telling me something
about the gripper
making me curious
about him and his world.

Being in first light
the western horizon is still dark
its terrain unknown.
What adventures will reveal themselves
and beckon me beyond the barriers
of my comfortable world
as the sun rises?

Being in first light
neither foreground or background
are fully visible yet.
This state of mystery
gives me a tingle of excitement
and wonder.

I think I like
this moment
of first light.

Written at first light 7-20-18

I am here in the hazy light of a new dawn
writing to you.
You and I here alone
is like floating in a soft piano nocturne.
Gliding over the keys with natural finesse
is a taste of heaven.

Here in this muted light
with you in mind
a privilege no less
than being in the majestic presence
of loving and friendly royalty.

Writing to you
from the inner reaches of my heart
is a journey
more precious
than the emerald landscape
I can see
to the far horizon
of this new day.

The freshness of this moment
basking in our love
is a tiny sprout
greeting blessed light
thrilled with the sticky twining
of its new life.

It is good being here
alive with you.

Written 7-19-18

This day I can stay tied firm and fast
in the poison soil of the past
or I can plant new seeds
in loam teeming with life
seeds meant for light
for the bright
golden
sun.

I want to become a diver
like the scuba guys in the Thai cave
risking death to save life,
going deeper into convoluted passages
of darkness to pull life from it.

I want to become a heart surgeon
transplanting energizing mitochondria
into babies’ dying hearts
to revive and save damaged cells.
Oh to receive from the gods of creativity
an infusion of fresh energy
into this old body
and renew flagging cells
with a flowering fragrance
as sweet and unique as Plumeria!

May this diving deeper
be as fruitful now as it has been
in the decisive moments
I was able to conquer pride and self
to reach out to others
whose spirits had frowns
whose life energy was down.

I know: thinking, reading and writing
are not quite enough to reach and taste
the fruits of angels.
Like the classic tension
between “faith and works”
“deeper” means a marriage
of information and application
to get transformation.

And so these moments of writing poems
and diving deeper, rising higher
for the creative spirit
are not divorced
from kindness and reaching out
in friendship, intimacy, and love,
from taking time and spending energy
beyond these meditative walls
embracing life where it calls.

I am a diver and a surgeon
a spark striker, a flame keeper
always desiring
to move
deeper, deeper, deeper.

About now she is having her first cup
in her java ritual of waking up
starting the day by feeding the birds
who swoop too eat and hear her words.

St. Francis is smiling up there
seeing her quiet presence and care
presence to what is real
in the moment and what it reveals.

The creator is in his or her creatures
in shape, contour and natural features.
I don’t need TV, *****, caffeine
or any other fix to intervene.

And it is good to have friends who are kind
who help the helpless and the blind
who feed birds and spirits of the down
not looking for applause or renown.

Knowing and loving and being there
for others, taking time to care.
Having friends like this - a treasure
impossible to repay or measure.

So when I’m tempted to medicate
in any fashion, let me meditate
or be present to friends or birds in flight,
let me abide in their darkness and their light.

Written 07/08/2018

Who have you known
whose life was a steady blaze of light?

There are many in my memory
with striking moments
of blaze
revealed in little decisions to love
despite pain and suffering.

My cousin Gary
had a persistent neck pain
so bad he had a constant bow
but gladly answered my calls for help
with my stubborn computer.
His wife wouldn’t tell
but I’m sure like all of us
he was selfish and ego driven
from time to time.
That pain: a cancerous tumor
that finally took him and his cheer from us.

I’ve had flashes and flickers
but a steady blaze?

Is there one person you know
with the steadiness
of that light?

Dear friends many of you have moved
from surroundings I knew and loved with you
but my memories of us have not defused
like clouds hanging dark but always new.

In old age it is the memories that flow
and make you present with hearts beating wildly
times we drank beer decrying the status quo
and when we celebrated little things like being Friday.

We celebrated a lot when life was so full
alive with discoveries, conflicts, and diversity
when our desires and thoughts pushed and pulled
and we felt pain and hope in multiplicity.

But now so many of you are gone
to places unknown: some to you and some to me
and together we won’t know joys of new dawns
we will deal with things like that **** aching knee.

For some of you your children are grown
for me poetry, love, and God enliven and wake me up
but nobody can take from me the bonds I have known
bonds cast with you in sharing, caring, and lifting life’s cup.

In long moments in a waiting room
trying to ignore the next challenge of my body
I’ll be grateful. I’ll not dwell in spaces of doom
I’ll remember those times of being good or naughty.

I’ll visit the rooms and the halls
where we gathered to learn and teach
in those precious moments of my recall
I’ll gather you together for the universes we’ve yet to reach.

Written 6-30-18

I am grateful for these hours of sleep
but four or five are just not enough
so here I am awake
having left in bed
the sweet muddled foggy chamber
where some mysterious mystical mighty force
knits together the disparate broken seams
through which my saneness fell
the previous day.

I believe in being awake
to the richness hiding in every day.
I know how easy it is to miss
in the banging clattering hiss
the inexpressible gift
of now.

But I also know
what a full night’s sleep can do
to chase away the blues
and recapture the few joys
and surprises nestled
and stashed
in the mystic cache
of each day.

So I beg whatever angels
guard that muddled foggy chamber
to again admit me
grant me gladness
and the saving gift
of a full night’s sleep.

Glory is a word I seem to be using lately
Loving my life and the people in it
Overshining sadness, pain, and darkness
Remembering the goodness of the Lord
Years of abundant love from many angels.

She looks into my eyes
as if searching for my feelings
for a hint of my disposition today
can’t she tell by the softness of my voice
the sweet things I say
can’t she sense my love  
in these moments together
or
are we both really alone
and this union a figment?

It is as if she is wondering
in her little mind behind her amber eyes
what it is like being human
as I wonder what is like being feline.

The Tallow sapling is swaying
in union with wind and saying
good morning
wake up to a swinging
universe singing
softly in the early breeze
waking up trees
oh how the first movement
of this precocious symphony
shows up Chopin
Debussy and Copeland
in its sweet harmony
with the sun
and moon
and precious tides.
Look at the yawning and stretching
from side to side
in the awakening
of this day.

Living with day and night
black and white
crepe myrtles of white and pink
variety and variance make me think
now and then a dissonant pitch
makes my life rich.

But sometime what seems at odds
is not.  Like seeing Love AND God
contemplation AND friendship
solitude AND kinship.
Why must it be either or
against or for?
Why can’t we see through
the differences between me and you?

What is so sad
what seems so bad
is when difference leads to rejection
then I must leave for my own protection.
When she said, “If you are this then you can’t be that!”
I left.  I won’t be her doormat.

Some people thrive on opposition
attracted to dominance and friction
but at this stage of being me
I choose to be free
to see through those things that divide
beyond the outer mar to the beauty inside.

There is no one to call me dad
maybe there’s someone to comment:
He looks so sad or he’s just mad.
But I never had the courage to father
a real flesh and blood child.
That does takes grit
not just to release that delightful seed...
but to be a real father I mean.  

So on fathers day
it has to suffice
to glory in others’ daddiness
and that’s alright.  
It gives me a small but special joy
to see a father squat down at the child’s height
to look into his eyes and really listen -
be it in an airport or market. What a lovely sight!
It brings tears to my eyes.  I know not why.
But it feels so deep and so right
to see them, to be with them
in that moment of grace.

In this sense I guess its ok
to pause and say
that I was a father today
taking on the small burden of another
with a smile or eyes that listened fully
to her or his pain.
That’s always what I longed for from my daddy.
That would have been a gift
he could have given me
on a fathers day.

You are there in air
rustling in leaves
whooshing in sonorous song
chiming in wind among the trees.

Even here on this silver screen
you beam key to key bouncing
exciting protons making small creatures
one character at a time.

You even whisper so quietly
in the daily hum of my life
I rarely hear or notice
the strong power of your love.

How can I miss the soft sound
hiding in the passages of my day
in my every breath
you traveling freely
in every molecule of my being?

I need to try harder
second to second
to listen first
to the sibilant sound
of you tiptoeing
in the background
your acoustic presence
in every step I take
every noise I make
every thought I conceive
you never never leave
me here or anywhere alone.

Sometime you seem nearly silent
until you roar back in the hymns
I can hear if I but listen
for you in the voices
of strangers, enemies and friends.  

You seem invisible
until I open my eyes
to you there in the creases
frowns and smiles
of every person I pass.

You are a symphony
and its composer
I can encounter
if I pay the coin of my attention
in the small moments of my day.

This day I hope
I can wake up
to the holy
all around
in every sight
in every sound
in the silences
tucked away
in between.

The bald little boy
turned to his father
sad entreating eyes
wordlessly
both hands up
clawing the air
as if squeezing
invisible rubber *****.

Dad reading Newsweek
a distraction from his local terror
saw the silent request
turned routinely
pulled out of a canvas bag
a fuzzy white lobster
handed it to his son
who held it to his chest.

What cynic said
love is not redemptive?

You alchemist  turning grayslate days
into luminescent jade

You tempestuous temptress
with voice of thunder and lightning eyes

Your skin sparkles sun and stars
painting peace on our scars

We swim in your moon
trembling in your silver ******

We sleep beside you by night
your abundance sates our days

We dash and flash and storm
you caress and touch and transform

The wisdom of your vastness
reaches us in waves

Oh you liquid goddess
leap into our souls

and make us whole  

Written - 5-24-2003

It doesn’t take much to find excuses
for avoiding the unpleasant,
things for which I can find no uses
at the time - find no reason or rhyme.

Truth is, I don’t tax my mind to think of that reason,
don’t imagine how much good it would do,
don’t think how this is just the right season
to do this thing I don’t want to.

But oh how hard I’ll work to think
of ways to do this thing I love to do
find the recipe for that yummy drink
go to the game, find its venue.

I’m so very skilled and do it with ease
thinking of a good dodge or ruse.
This kind of creative work is a breeze
how skilled I am making an excuse!

I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.

A twinkle in the eye means joy in the heart
someone who’s set apart
who loves being alive
with a mind in drive.

The Proverb’s truth set me thinking
of who I know with that twinkling
and it took me a while
to think of one with eyes that smile.

I then considered the heart of joy
and remembered the little boy
who learned to play the chord of C
to sing with glee in a major key.

But it happens a boy becomes a man
and sadness, hurt, and error span
years of breakups and loves in the dust
vanished dreams, promises and trust.

Still his soul stays open and awake
and he learns to forgive mistakes,
to forge new ties to fall but rise
and again that twinkle dwells in his eyes.

Every evening when day is done
my body tired from an active day
you cover me and ready me to come
into an orbit far away.

A place native peoples reside
where Kokopelli wanders and plays
and eagles ride the winds, glide
and rejoice in setting sun’s golden rays.

I fly into a patchwork sky
where I am stitched together,
comforted, protected under your watchful eye
where hawks soar and tickle with feathers.

I visit frightful places
hear horrible screams
see angry and twisted faces
feel my fears in my teary dreams.

I am grateful for these flights
for the certain and steady care
that covers me on cold and windy nights
for this Quiltmaker beyond compare.

In the morning coolness
just after dawn
such sweetness
settles upon me
in these few moments with you
alone in this sacred space.

Here You gently filter
your peace and love
into me
before this day’s stream rushes upon me
with its swift flow
boulders
and turbulence.

Here for now it is just you and I
in this silent colloquy
in this exquisite intimacy.

I rest unperturbed
and blameless
in the presence
of your quiet majesty
and forgiveness,
nestled comfortably
in your warm embrace.

This precious moment
of trust envelops my heart
protects it from all harm
says good morning
to my soul.

Say no to arrogance and power
no to being totally devoured
by ego, division and separation
no to hurt and alienation.

I’m grateful to all those who day upon days
in a thousand little ways
say yes and rise from the dark
who strike the stone to make a spark.

I am grateful for the Great Mystery
that fills my personal history
that wakes me in ways surprising
with a thousand moments of rising.

On
a ledge
with nothing there
to grasp - on edge.
The height has me scared
all alone on this wall.
Can’t find the person I am
not ready to let go and fall
into the deep black below this dam
I’m not connected to future or past.

But it’s not a time for lamentation
it is time to glide to climb boldly
for clear clean air of creation
reach beyond like you told me.
What am I hiding behind
looking all around?
My mind’s not mine
up or down
stuck to
You.

My heart is giving me fits,
but there is no way I'll let it quit,
so I'll keep on fighting the good fight,
until everything is alright.

By my cousin Bill