Bird's Eye View

The wren wonders at outdoor

Christmas lights,

not much there for nesting,

the wires make poor worms,

the bulbs, sharp white on green leaves,

confuse with slight shadows

and heat.

To a bird's eye, this

seven dollar string of electric

adornment, is supernatural, and to us,

on this holiday of heaven come to earth,

the Light of the World hanging from eaves

and roof gutters, sparkles in the eyes

of the children His birth makes us all.

Angels and doves top

the indoor trees, visitors

and families, all wise,

bask in glowing hearts, the Gift

of never ending love swaddle wrapped,

waiting,

like Santa's cookies on a plate, to be shared.

Bluster

The wind isn't bluffing.

Gulls dart down

like folded arrows

to secret rock grips,

the buoys tip top

side to side in the whipped

wash slamming the harbor.

Over an inch an hour

for the best part of dark noon

drench, the bluster

might dent the drought

as it floods the valley bottom.

Reeling rivers poised for headlines

and photos of roof top boats.

The tent and tarp folks,

tucked tight in the gullies, got to climb

socially. A sheltered promise

of soup and a cot bring Bethlehem

to bear wet witness. The Child is borne,

by a Samaritan's smile,

in the storm.

Repent House Suite

Pick basil over battles,
lowing the blood, Sugar, gives rise
to offense; good fences test
flying horses, flying handles
dull the blade.

Hush, not shush,
listening has the in road.
The high road, grown green,
sways arm in arm out of harm's
wayward words.

Under a microscope,
over a cup of coffee,
study the steady answer,
bones hear in a heart beat
what lips conceal.

Step toeing hold, old
opinions fold
in the reveal:
Apology, is the apogee
of heal.

   

The Palm Before the Storm

Open hope in your hand

like ripe pomegranate

juice jewels,

open hope in your hand

like a cloth bound edition

with crisp dollars

between each ancient page.

Open hope in your hand

like the first bird's twitter

after a long night's rain,

open hope in your hand

like burst bean coffee scent, freshly ground

on a Saturday with no chores.

Open hope in your hand

like the buttons on a work shirt

after your shift,

open hope in your hand

like a door that takes both arms

against the wind.

Hope, is always in our hands.

Fists can't feel it.           

Stick Stuck

The walking stick, my brother

carved, fits my palm

and thumb.

The hole, in the sole

of my cowboy boot,

is the size of the silver dollar

I sent my grandson.

The bathroom door, after

three years of shaves and showers,

locked from the inside.

I have a prison date.

The gate is one thing,

the heart quiet,

quite another.

Hydro Low

Water and worry leak
to the lowest level,
a fool's pool
spiraling the spirit
to depths
beneath the necessary steps.

It takes hydro-logic
to lift water
higher than clouded despair.
To rise as steam,
we admit wet
as requisite.

Our Engineer's faith;
part bending knee,
part pouring cups
to the least of these,
cuts across current fashion,
chiding the waves to be still.

There is a Living Water
and there is a stagnant well.
One can't flow forward
by going back.
The well worn path is reasonable,
but making sense of resistance, is mist.

Groan

Dawn at the Klamath,

a twelve point elk struts among deer mossed stumps

as the Yurok's golden bear guards the new bridge,

already under repair.

After practicing my chaplain ID smile

in the rearview mirror,

I  receive the nod of the flagmen 

and renew my drive to prison.

In a few miles, the forest,

and the mountains too,

will give way to thousands

of cement blocks,

and light, not the yellow sun streaming through

redwoods and firs, will blink

florescent as the state budget allows.

Its the most natural thing in the world, poetically,

politically, to ignore caged humans in these parts

and laud wild animals,

but quit the ignition, and listen at the gate;

all creation groans

for the re-birth of our sons doing time.

Lend an ear to the wilderness crying

from a housing unit

never meant to be called home.

Thumbs Up

Angels hitchhike

on the truck side of lonely.

Lovely weeds bend in the flying dust

of wheels stopping to start again.

The driver might chatter football,

the radio Gospel, or tripe.

This part of the Damascus road

is between homes, jobs, baths.

The Son of Man

has no where the lay His head.

Transients, the easy victims

of innocence and dumpster diseases.

The next Samaritan binds

the next wounds.

Our daily bread buttered,

one side at a time.

Milk Case

A Saturday sun wastes hours on
on car hoods and roofs.Thistles
finger up the wire fence,
Ginsberg's sunflower long harvested
for a milk case vase. Dogs
and cardboard circle the alley, house
numbers a cramped checklist
of sideways bicycles and smokers
drifting from the tilted mailbox
to the porch divan.

Repainted recycling sign, open
and old as Jesus when He went,
gives preference to metal;
artists welcome.  Hub caps and hip cats
still cranking lawn sculptures
to connect the wealthier
to hand me down living, the free box not
being without cost.

When the tumble comes,
and all is inverted,
the wall of old Maytags
and Wurlitzers in the barn
will speak of the trouble we took
to separate colors and dance
to age appropriate genres,
everything in common
held at arm's length, lest, like crickets, we
rub elbows the wrong way
at temperature's change.

The Sept. Set

September;
slow house flies getting dumber,
window box peas just a brown
string strung along an open door with no screen.

Beyond the fence
a foghorn taunts the end
of summer, last squeals before school
trill the beach.

Our bluff curls the blue bay, harbor town houses
honeycomb the cliff, the slightly northern sunset
a gem for their windows, the reflection,
an odd gold for the just passing by.

Tourists and townies,
gulls and cormorants,
at night buoys, boats, and God
the only ones catching the breaking
waves.

What you find in the sand
comes home in pant cuffs,
what you leave on the beach,
makes for loon tunes.

No Joke

You know that time of morning
when the fog begins to lift,
you see your breath trail streaming
and you know that it's a gift.

Once constant pains and worries
are loose paddles in the drift,
early birds and nightingales
toss Charlie Parker riffs.

When we hear of someone's passing
into the great beyond
and we wish that we could tell them
that their live will carry on.

Our heartbeat  keeps repeating
not believing they are gone
a signal uncompleted
unsure notes to start a song.

Maya

God opened the morning

on tiptoe,

pinning laundry to an aluminum web,

spinning the wind into strings of breeze,

as a hanging apron

with a boutonniere rose,

awaits the shift change.

There are special clocks for this,

when a tight wound spring breaks free,

the lost moments gathered back

by a second chance hand,

time treasured by the grand

child's crayon circle

come full.

What can be read,

into a situation,

had to be there in blue, or purple,

before black and white

patterned the dance partner's feet across

a tiled floor.

When the poet stops selecting commas,

to indicate a pause for breath,

then the last line becomes

unending;

each of us,

taking a turn.

Dudgeon

The dove skull our cat

left on the lawn

crackled under my morning slipper,

not so much tribute

as startle to the weight

of lifeless bird breasts.

I bagged the carcass

with the morning pet scat

and returned to make coffee,

"Did you wash your hands?"

Surgeons, too, must slice their days

like this: so much for art, commerce,

maybe comedy, conundrum,

or commonplace communion.

The convenience of lightning

striking us down to prayer

not as reliable as a tame tabby

baring fangs and claw.

The Keys

My attention span
is five fingers long.

I can hardly riff beyond a seventh chord.

Arpeggios start on the odd thumb
and end where my hand lifts
to fall.

I tease the middle black buttons
like roley poley bugs, aiming for the edge
of the garden, and pounce, lion loud,
on the family of flattened thirds.

My parents sold the upright,
augmented with the bicycle chains, knowing
it would come to this anyway;

dancing in one pant leg before church,
trying to make the change fit
the times. 

Order Up

Cut bread straight,
my morning art,
jelly boy
gracing the plate
with melting butter.

Apart from the Vine
we can do nothing.
This thing,
this petite dejeuner
this host,
of toast, I do in hope
of the beginning times.

Blueberries with us still,
each dawn surprise.