Meditations of a Commuter : Poetry

俳句

Haikus

The calm of embrace,
however fleeting,
ends the chaos of absence.

The collar tears on
my favorite old flannel shirt.
Time to sew my soul.

This summer day in
February. What a tease!
Mud between your toes.

The one old window
in my home lets the wind speak
freely. I listen.

The way we say it
changes. What we say does not.
The joy among friends.

Renewal begins
again with the hypnosis
of a soft, sweet smile.

Cold rain. Spring left the
back door open. Wet leaves on
the newly washed floor.

Tomorrow words will
come to give us love for those
who do not love us.

Walking down the same
trail that coldless afternoon
was new and stepless.

Small black feather with
bright yellow under belly.
You know its magic.

Pinchot Sycamore.
Quiet eyes, questioning heart.
Tears of pain and joy.

Weary of day, she
glances, anticipating
the softness of night.

The air seems thinner
on my walk home this evening.
Your chair is empty.

Well, I guess it's time
to fall in love with the Earth
all over again.

The last leaves to drop
are beech. Stubborn to the end.
Still there in winter.

トロイカ

Troikas

White mold on the leaves.
It is time for the garden
to return to earth.

Maple
leaf drifting down,
sinews of yellow, red,
with random path, but direction
certain.

Walking in wet grass
while afternoon is ebbing,
finally knowing
the right time for closure is
when the heart opens.

Anyway you look
at it, truth is difficult.
Saying it matters.

There are
alternatives.
Black is white, fire is rain,
a total eclipse of the sun
tonight.

Singing quietly
just a simple melody,
almost a whisper,
every note more softly,
until the cadence is all.

Sudden thunder in
January. An only
moment. No reason.

Quiet
showers follow.
With no cold and no snow.
Maybe a nightingale will sing
tonight?

Maybe it will be
easier to sleep tonight.
Just one simple thing
at a time. Maybe on this
coldless night, a dragonfly.

Troika for Esther
(1919 - 2005)

Your body breaks. Not
a surprise, not expected,
but now accepted.

Waiting
becomes present
tense. You made your
wedding
dress on the train.
He waits for you.
Your time

does not have tense. His
time calls you. We say goodbye.
We were your future
our ages ago. We say
goodbye together to you.

My old clarinet.
So many years forgotten.
Then the case opens.

The smell
is still the same.
Velveteen, wood and spit.
Unencumbered raw memories.
The reed,

encased and dormant,
wants to sing again. My mouth
hopes for harmony.
Some notes begin.

Breathy and
free. The rest
will wait their time.

Above the highway
ducks drift in loose formation,
stark against the sky.

Below
headlights streaming,
blurring while traveling
back to homes where other concerns
await.

The passing of day,
simultaneous for both
formations; equal
and functional reactions
to their life continuance.

The space between light
and shadow, a netherworld,
home to our worry.

Measured
in quarks and miles,
completely elastic,
rebounding with echoes, speaking
in tongues.

But if we whisper
softly, kindly, allowing
that same space for our
hearts to open, chaos ends.
A small shoot breaks earth in Spring.

November sunlight:
clear, calm and deliberate;
slices through the chill.

The first
cut is deepest.
Our hair thrown back, eyes closed,
smiling in the brightness; the blade
crosses.

Resonating pain
that is so familiar.
Singular, quiet.
Bloodless at first, then flowing
our lives away, then to us.

作歌

Poems

WAITING

I pulled the ticket out of my shirt pocket once again as the station board rattled the arrival updates.
The train was still late.
My ticket was still hopeful.
Sitting across from me were two women without luggage and eyes without sleep.
They sat open-mouthed and motionless for
several minutes, then moved to the end of the bench. They sat open-mouthed and motionless for several more minutes,
then moved to another,
then another bench.
The station board rattled again and I called my brother.

He would be waiting for me.

I wish for them a quiet place to sleep.

MONHEGAN ISLAND, MAINE
(for Andrew Wyeth)

Andrew came for the light
and gave us the crippled,
backlit beauty
of the long grass.

"Christina's World" is protected
by ten miles of six foot seas
and sometimes sun
and sometimes not.

- However -
(?) She really wasofhis
other(s) light(s).

S(he),
hermits of Mannana,
unison cripples.

The Light - his light - their light - light.

RECITATIVE

So these three muses are sitting together
in a bar.
Muses, you know,
they dress weird;
really provocative,
but weird.

Anyway, while talking about
clients and all,
Clytemnestra blurts out
(they have weird names)
"Why are they all so
NeeDee?"
"What's the BiG deel?"

Argentenio counters,
"FeerFactoR!" "IdenTiTeeCrysis"!
and several more
Blah-blahs.

Blog, (no gender distinction)
eying the other two slowly,
-- sighs.

THE ROGUE POEM

as 1 ST (spiritual teacher) 2 A nuther:
Ty ming is EVEry ting.
Remember the biblical story 'the road to Emmasus'?
Where 2 really sad disciples
are walking from Jerusalem
(they lost their leader - on the CROSS)
and then AFTER he is SUP os 2 B
DED (palindrome intended)
SUDNLee
he is WaH King B side them &
they dont NO him.
They cant C him.
Yet they NO him
& then they SEE him.
the wait is the WEIGHT

TINE

You have no
connection with
my Fender Rhodes piano:
One heavy haul up many, many stairs
in Brooklyn,
Many, many years ago.

Those Tynes, (always out of tune)
were brought into TUNE by slight adjustments
over coarse springs,
slid over
coarse wires,
and then
came MUSIC.

That is how it happens.

Life AND Music.
life is MUSIC.

You, wanting so much to sing,
so open and so closed.

SING, little bird.

I had a paper route.

It was dark in the morning.

I carried little elephant under my belt.

Grandmother Helen made him for me.

He was warm from sleeping.

The Springfield Union had
really fancy letters.

My bike had a really big basket in front.

I rolled the papers and they were heavy and sometimes it was hard to steer.

I practiced my throw.

Sometimes I missed and I had to carry the paper to the door.

It was hard to see in the dark and Mom and Dad were still sleeping.

When it rained real hard Dad drove me in the car.

I put the papers under my raincoat and put them in the mail box.

My sneakers got real wet.

When we got home we had breakfast.

Dad had cornflakes. I had rice crispies.

Mom had bobby pins in her hair.

Her hair was in funny circles stuck to her head.