While reading the morning paper
by the garden
I saw a monarch fly by
and land among the dahlias
where the argiope
was displayed.
Neither a democrat nor
a republican she belonged
to a different genus,
once worm now butterfly.
But for the argiope
her genus was food.
Though she and the argiope,
for me, were works of art.
Both exquisite
to be sure.
Things of beauty and wonder.
But nature has her own way.

The phone rings and it’s him.

  He’s in Colorado.

  I can’t forget the day he was born.

  It was at noon, and I had a final exam

  that morning.

  It didn’t matter, they held him up for us to see.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “How are you”, I ask.

  “Fine”, he answers.

           He wouldn’t remember that day.

I didn’t have to climb.
The mountain came to me.
I heard of a man who hit the lottery
and was set for life.
But that is nothing
compared to what happened to me
on the mountain.
What I saw and learned
no mind can grasp,
no heart can deny.
So I know it and I don’t know it.
But I can’t deny it.
What can I say?
Who would hear it?
I would be drowned out
by common sense
and hard hearts.
So should I hide the light?
What I saw
would set the world free.
It would be full of love.
There would be heaven on earth.
The light I saw is power.
Am I a part of the world or not?
Was the light just for me?
Those are the questions.
For what it’s worth
I’ll hide the light no more!

I followed ways of where
and travelled  thens of when
and I thought I knew.

I climbed ups of if
and waited alones of there
and I believed I saw.

My young felt close to gold
as close as life to love
and love I felt I had.

Then you came unintended
with heres of where
and nows of when.

You were yous of who
and forevers of how long.
You are gold of have.

and love of be.

sublime pebbles beyond eyes
and mind thrown but falling
too near. My want of seeing what
I already guess, but still find
out of reach, certainty muted,
hinting at truth, recollecting
a sight as if blind, something
explosively central, but
receding like a name fused
into self but futilely grasped for.
Will I see it soon, again, or ever?

The difference between me and my dog, is  
That she lives in the moment
And doesn’t dwell on the past or the future,
she’s always ready to love now.
I try to become more like my dog.
That’s is my secret,
Don’t tell.

The daffodils sang a  
song in the churchyard.

So did the early robins
scratching among the graves.

I thought I  heard the wind say:
“It’s time! Rise!”

The first man, the Bible says, had no mother
He’s the only exception to the rule
that everyone has a mom.
Not only the good daughter
who plans ahead,
but even the wandering, curious pup
the predator swallows,
and even millions of babies who die
of shadowy diseases in ignorance,
all have mothers

The dictator who sent millions
to gas showers had a mother,
someone to see and hear for him
when his eyes and ears could not,
to think before his small mind had a thought,
to tell him stories of the dark universe,
to turn on the light and open the world.

I’ve seen mothers in skirts and pants,
scrubs, fatigues and prison clothes.
I’ve seen them with cigarettes, *****,
crack and rosaries,
with and without rules,
smart, slow, some just children.
Then there’s Sarah, “beyond childbearing years.”

They’ll never unite since no two are alike
except in making men fathers, be they princes
or rogues, and giving everyone life.
But isn’t that the whole world?
Is there anything bigger than being a mother?

Who else can make a child special,
more a person than merely unique,
fully forgiven for the guilt of being born,
accepted as the essential child
by the responsible maker holding life
in her hands?  
Who else can be the face of the world first appearing?
Is cleaning your room the ultimate point,
or is it to love or not to love?
Ask any mother.

You thought you wanted freedom,
so they took your children away
and gave them to your sister.
Your children forgot you
and found their own freedom.
All you found were closed doors
and too much time,
weighing you down
until a noose broke your neck.

City of Dreams

I knew I had to be somewhere.
But wherever I turned there was
enchantment,
like when I was a child
and everything new was exciting.
Every building invited me
and every turn drew me in.
Every choice was perfect.
I had no inner GPS telling me
where I had to end up,
how to get there,
or how far I was from it.
But I didn’t care
because I was free
for the moment,
and I didn’t want
to wake up.

A boy stands before the ocean
with a stick, and a hook on a string.
He casts his hook to catch a whale
a whale as big as the moon.

The ocean is great and dark.
It’s where the great whale lives
The boy waits for the whale to appear
in the heavy rolling waves

The whale sees the boy
standing on the shore,
a boy as small as the moon.
The whale laughs and asks:

Can you catch a whale with a hook?
He turns toward the deep.
The boy returns home
and dreams of the moon.

The fountain gushed and spattered
near my hiding place,
and all was quiet until there were
sharp and loud puhs, as if a ******
fired his weapon...
But it was the rain drops  
on a broad-leafed bush.
Soon there was soft rain.
Its wash so quiet,
only I could hear it, ...unless
there was another near.
But I was alone.
My craft brought the moment
and the happenstance.

A voice inside asks:
Did the sun rise again?
Another asks:
What of it,
doesn’t it always?
And so the dialogue goes.
The mind is a swamp.
Some days are bright.
Some days ****.
Yet being alive
is worth something.
What?
Did the sun rise again?
Are the flowers pretty?
Are there birds flying?
Are there clouds in the blue sky?
Be quiet.
Thank them.

You will come like a breeze
with an airy whispiness
on a day with no hours,
when the sun doesn’t burn my skin,
and in long afternoons to wander
with time to think, and write poetry;
with time to love in the afternoon
and dine in the evening.
Or you may not come like that,
but in the din of strife
in a world gone mad
Where the poor and the sick lie needy,
and never stop coming
though I’m drained from listening
to their stories,
until I find myself among them.

He speaks of youth,
of a sky of wondrous clouds,
and eats from a blackberry bush.
He lives where grass is wild.
Time makes him rich.
He laughs at impotence.
He has seen great stones dissemble
and disappear as sand.
He is young like ocean spray,
Imperfect enough to laugh.

We leave many things behind
when we a cross a bridge.  
On the other side people look at us
and wonder how we see them.
We wonder, too,
how they see us.
But once we’re there
We see that we are the same.
If we look back we see the deep river
that divided us,
and the bridge that made us one.

When nothing in the world
I turn to for distraction,
not a book, movie, scene or symphony
has an appeal like the silence of God,
how can I not be still
while pushing the plow,
and look to see or feel Him
with my heart.
Then a bursting of something within
that I don’t have a name for
but know Who it Is,
the One I’ve always known.
The Lover of All!
Waiting for me.
Always waiting.
Silent.
But that doesn’t mean
I don’t know what He has to say.
I just want to listen all day,
care not for visions,
and let the world think me a fool.

From a far city
of little heart,
a beat begins.
Its heaviness moves
and unfolds in memos.
A blade cuts faceless names:
"There must be casualties
for the good of us all,
for the bottom line."
The unseen ax
is without malice,
without disruption.
Only bare offices,
and boxes of effects,
show the antisepsis.
Silence guards the halls.
Eyes fail to meet.
Only whispers and rumors
behind doors.

The sun blinding
sits on the river.
I descend to the valley.
I can’t escape,
I’ll l be lost.
I’m  gravity.
My outcome so sure
as the ocean where I head.  
So set on flowing,
and longing to break free
and return.

On a dock near St. Petersburg
they played “America the Beautiful”.
Old men in ill-fitting uniforms.
A cigar box for coins.
“How pathetic”, my teenage son said.
Was it their appearance,
their pandering,
the shame of Russia
toothlessly smiling,
loving *****?
Mighty Russia
in days gone?

In summer’s last days
of late September
with the sun in frozen clouds,
a flock of birds flew southwest.
The world was in turmoil
but took no notice
of clouds and sky.
Yet something there
caused wings of joy
to flow again as it did once
when I was one with the sun
and the clouds and the birds.

The sheriff and I were waiting
in a crowded room.

We spoke of time, not days and hours,
but time itself, the uncertain duration,
like water in a small bucket we sense wasting,
as if eternity could be frittered away.

We spoke of space,
the essential nothingness that stretches
throughout the universe,
never seen or really understood,
but more indispensable than air.

We spoke of things that are real,
like the county issue desk he was using.
He rapped it with his knuckles and said:
“This is real”, then he reconsidered and said, “...for now.”
It stood there passing away before us,
like refuse in space-time, not really real,
not mattering at all.

We spoke of God, but stumbled for words,
seeking the greatest simplicity,
saving content from form.
No old  or new idea was good enough,
and we were now more lost than before.
Yet we wanted nothing more than to speak the truth
all day, and always…,

The Lord is my true mind.
He has given me a universe for my home.
He gives me a thousand beautiful things
to calm my anxieties.
He leads me in His ways.
Even when I am surrounded by disasters
and cruel people, his angels guide me
to His safe places.
He heals my scars of life with wisdom.
His blessings flow over the errors I have made
and the wounds I have inflicted.
He follows my wayward steps with his goodness and love.
And I and all my brothers and sisters
are one with Him forever.

He looked downcast,
long face, sad eyes.
He said: “I’ve nothing to live for:
I take pills and sit,
Tell me a funny joke.”
I said: “I can’t tell a joke
very well.”
So he tells one,
in poor taste.
I laugh to be polite.
He looks downcast,
long face, sad eyes.
Cancer took him,
but smallness of heart never did.

I think our souls have a name.
Mine is Jack.  
But when I went to school they called me John.
Since then that’s how it’s been.
John’s the name on my law license.
It fits the clothes I wear
better than they fit me.
That’s not the way it was when I was Jack.
Today, if someone calls me Jack
we are family.
I’m a child again.
The world is innocent.
All the badness goes away.
Someday I hope God will say:
“Welcome home, Jack.”

Who’s the best?
It can only be one.
The best is enemy of the rest.
Of the good.
Of the different.
There’s always one better.
A later one learns from,
and improves on,
an earlier one.
The game evolves
and is refined.
Something new
is added
that overshadows the old.
Beethoven learned from Hayden.
Michael Jordan is 6’6’’ tall.
So is Julius Irving.
But Michael learned from Julius.
Who can judge
which butterfly is the best?

Walking can’t happen without a thought,
but running can happen by impulse
yet they seem the same,
whether thought or impulse.
A sudden noise can be the same.
Someone can pull a trigger without thought,
intent, or even impulse.
But holding the gun foresees the act,
sets the stage,
and owns the blast.

A trusted friend told me
That Shakespeare wrote King Lear
while quarantined.
How I can relate to that!
I’ve been quarantined for months
during a pandemic,
reading the great books,
and attending to the writing,
I didn’t have time for
until now.
I’m forced to wait
until the quarantine is over
like a space shuttle
waiting to return to earth.
Staying home is hard.
I’d rather flee to the supermarket
or make some other excuse to get away.
But how can I ignore this opportunity
to drop my know-it-all attitude,
raise the white flag
and ask God to show me a better way.
For instance:
How do my life decisions
look in retrospect?
What kind of person have I become?
What can I do to be a better person?
If I follow the wisdom
of the wise,
and higher guidance,
what will I do,
and how will I live?
What can I do
to make the world,
at least in those places
where I am a part of it,
a better place?
And who are the people
I’ve lost touch with?
Is this a good time to reach out to them
by a call or a letter?
To do all this
I’ll need more time
not less.
And my life will be better
for doing them.
Rather than ask
what the world will be like
when this solitude is over,
I’ll ask: “What will I be like?’’
I can’t be thankful for a pandemic.
But I can make the best of one.

I glimpsed God

and lived.

Stricken thoughtless

but forever knowing.

Blinded like Paul,

but rescued liked the man born blind.

Forever seeing.

Forever loving.

I open the newspaper and read
to find out what’s happening in the world.
I’m a spectator, a witness, a critic,
I’m not a newsmaker.
I don’t have the time,
because I have reading to do,
to keep up with the news.
Is there something wrong with that?
Am I letting the world pass me by
as if I’m not a part of it?
It’s me against the world.
I haven’t checked in.
I’m not taking part in the world’s insanity.
I can’t fix the world.
But I’m keeping up with the news.
I know what’s going on.
I’m a spectator, a witness, a critic.
I wonder if I’ll be able to read my obituary?
You know, to keep up with the news.

You are so sensuous

It makes me wince

Like the sky would.

Could the moon speak of you

out of time?

No one could wonder more.

You are so far away,

So near.

When did I know you

so many lives ago?

It isn’t just words.
It’s a person in the desert
thirsting for water and drinking it in.
It’s an empty bucket dipping into a stream to be filled.
It’s a shallow space allowing itself to grow.
It’s a root seeking loam.
and a wanderer coming home.

In court he knew the territory.
It was often perilous
and the law wasn’t always just.
But he was equipped for all that.
Even surprises weren’t uncommon.
He knew where his conscience was
and how to keep it.
When he retired the courtroom
was just a memory
and his game was gone,
like an aging athlete’s.
For anyone else
staying out of court
would be desirable.
But he was now a pin
in the world’s alley
seeing the ***** rolling down
with no alternative but
fate itself
as it moves toward
its finale.
He could choose
to play a minor part,
and archive his
old victories.
Or become an old crank
fighting for things
no one remembers.
Then wait for praise
at the end,
as a admirable advocate
for things that used to matter.