Wednesday, March 21, 2012


What the rose knows
about saving daylight
is dismissed by the poppy.

The first to shed
a winter hull
is the only expert
in the running.

Plant politics.
Put down roots,
face the sun,
even through clouds.

Mud is so less useful to me
than them with stems,
stain my hands and shovel,
make or break the stalk life.

Bloom where you beat the other guise
to light and water,
we assigned such grace
to cutthroat chlorophyllians,

but soil or soul,
it's a battle for the seed
to spring forward.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Night Willows

Worry winds whip
the roof tiles,
pounding the dog's heart rate
a yelp above normal pulse.

Willows bend
outside my window,
storms come
and leaves blow, with an occasional branch,
down the bluff.

I won't walk out on the choppy bay
but go to the sink
for a drink to calm down.
Dehydration a very spiritual metaphor.

Midnight prayers
with morning in mind,
selling the stark dark short.

There is a root
I belong to,
fruit connected to faith,
not shadows on a wall.

a trunk.

Man like arms
and hair
up raised.

Jesus slept through
worse than this, so
it must be the dog
keeping me awake.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Buoy Bell

An anchored bell
sounds noon
above a bluff of
fishermen, California seals,
and children that won't wear
wetsuits for years.

He brought me here,
this Lord of the winds, to know
the twenty steps from East Street
to West in a harbor town.

I count the boats
easier than waves;
crab traps, buoys,
mechanical foghorn
in a Mecca like song
to be stilled, and know,
the call to be a fisher
of men, comes with boots.