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.

Open Season

That wood splitting thud,
November bright, a dove weighs
on the crossroad wire, all saints
enjoy coffee in bed, some alone,
some not.

The calendar blank as a cat.
Trash haul racket another reason
to close curtains, the news today--
a cake from scratch, and a candle
posing for pictures.

Marigolds ring the fence in morning bell balls,
the dog, finally out, sniffs pumpkins
still whole on the porch. Your birthday
makes the year come true; a gift,
a wish, the sky an open singing card,
signed by God.

Cavity

The exposed root of tooth, yanked,

now dried of blood, upturned

as a desk ornament, is part palm

raised in blessing,

part antler of a disappearing buck.

My carbon kiss print,

washed by waves,

made small by dental surgery,

sticks to my lips, a remembered smile

of your voice on the phone.

I hope whoever pries

finds my checkbook balanced,

my baseballs dusted on their wine

bottle perch and my coffee cup

saving a swallow for your return.

My scripture today reads, "As a deer

pants for water..."  so might it be

a geography of brothers holding flutes

at opposite sunsets, the beach

taking the prow of a canoe,

right on the chin.

Read It and Weave

If the sun on my back
had fingernails,
if the wind whistled in the Dorian mode,
if the kindness of paper to my pen
could sing, then
my good foot would climb goat sure
the rock wall and my garden ticket, creased
and thumbed, allow the guards
to open the gates
of Pelican Bay State Prison.

But the hunger strike, these fifty days,
avoids light, masks the iron shadow
and confines all to a windowless
warp of the soul.

"No one lights a lamp
and sets it under a basket...'
but if you lift even a lip of the woven stories
there is light enough,
to read.

Getting Directions

A string of naked ladies,
the pink flower,
face away the ridge road.

Orange sunset spent
on the odd nude
stalks.

The ocean, not a mile away,
but the hill parched
for August.

Our blanket catches shooting stars,
nameless steaks
scorch the night.

Their Father, our Father, knows them,
but for us it's just point at heaven
and awe.

Grocery Beads

I hobble sane as the whiskey
crowd, same grey sweatshirt, same
ankle, steady as a bent spoke
on a balloon tired Schwinn.

The maritime fog factors
in and out of our bones.
What's common is hand rolled
and set in folding chairs.
If you manage a dog and a cane,
you manage well.
Solitude is less than
alone. 

I talk to a level head
in a grease cap, glossing over
the trailer park and untied slippers,
maybe there's a papa praying
behind the paper window
curtains, maybe not,
wives not always promised,
or kept.

A commerce
of counting bottle pennies
off a wizened and brittle palm
puts my hand in the stake
of inebriation, the grace of God
ought to do more than put
another pint on the tab.

Spell Checker

New rule.
You are what you hear;
bottle nosed whale slide blues,
mint and fern whipping the air,

to turn your head
the voice of the Shepherd
whistling through His teeth.

Facts and faith, a jumble
of Scrabble letters face down,
we need to spell ourselves.

It's possible to have the Christ
in ways unbelievable to believers,
but to believe He has us,
that's worth baking bread.

Frequent Flyer

When I say I use tools,

I mean toothpicks

and spoons,

a cashmere shoulder

is all I hold of Manhattan. 

Kicking from the deep end

I pool svelte talent

and

blink, when

eye contact

stabs the heart.

What if the lonely lied

and it's better this way;

whispering on a bus line,

watching napkins float on the river,

retrieving songs the park birds scatter?

Somewhere the Christ

is cornering the market

on cardboard mansions,

and I make my living

handing out flyers

for the tour.

Egg Hunt

Awake,
a grave refuses
permanence.

Wide eyed lily
witness,
scent
to a blind world.

Mothers tell us,
"Wipe the sleep from your eyes."
O, it's been wiped, mother,
it's been wiped.

Now the blood spilled
is the blood pumped
deep as a welling up
of forgiveness.

Spared despair, we crack eggs
in a bowl and wait,
as our not-a-ghost Guest takes
another minute
to wash the family's feet.

Good Enough

Hammer a nail
into your hand
at the table.

Bend a rose stem again
and again
around your head.

Taste a thirst for justice
racked
on vinegar and rot gut.

A Friday good enough
to crack our grave opinion,
blackens at noon.

"This is My Body
broken for you" without
breaking a promise or a bone.

From the hanging tree,
the never dead again Son said
"This is your mother," to every boy born.

and "This is your son,"
to every lady in waiting
on the Lamp at her feet.

Hammer time played on a clay
pot; mud, spit in our eye,
see our way clear.

Blood pulsed into a chalice
from a torn skin
good

to the last drop,
this Friday
we thank God.

Host Card

The Jesus of my Catholic youth

bid me come 

as a little child.

The finger pointing Sacred Heart

like a passing billboard

"You're Name Could Be Here."

I read brilliant smoking atheists

and wonder whose name they'll cough

up final in blood spit.

I read monks, who never knew stamps,

writing letters

of eternal consequence, by candle and quill.

I stick my knuckles out

for the nuns to rap, but only the Lord answers,

perfecting the Harlem shake.

Charity all

after cure and care

are settled alike.

Gaggle

Baying geese beat alarm clock
to spring ahead Monday.

Grey sleeves, sky and scarves,
the warmest ground turned by moles,
coffee bitter.

Found pennies say trust,
the lost hour of sleep jams a foot
in the office door.

Service, with a mile of beach
in the rear view mirror.

Always thus, this, or that
jumbling like laundry.

Elect, 
or neglect to shoulder
the road. Damascus waits
for lunch.

DH

When the war drove you home,
in a green Ford,
I jumped like a fawn.

Teenaged brother to a wounded vet
I didn't yet know bullet whistles, white phosphorous,
or any heroes in heroin terrors.

I learned lightning strikes orchards,
rain drains the living room,
and rolling thunder is what shut eyes see.

The family's Thanksgiving Day smile camouflaged
a poker face of one-eyed jack rabbits ducking fire.
You mentioned the Chaplain's collar cross gleaming

as you chucked fate into a fox hole,
I draw some shine from that, from that
and the sun, dripping tender.

Teeth of God

I clipped daffodils,

those little teeth of God,

the day your grandson died.

The rain bent them low

yellow bells heavy

face down.

Like spears in a vase

the cut stems still

take water.

The window light,

filtered by glass,

frames life.

Two weeks on the planet,

we're too weak, to stand

alone.

Mud Pi

Thrill my eyes with mud fresh path,

tree fallen,

daffodil known to slug banana

and branch light golden.

Spear my ears with surf pound, new

creek gargle and cormorant squawk.

Let my feet find mint folds

and flat beach when the rocks spill.

Lungs suck spray gulls play shadow wheels

between fish gulps.

My desk abandoned,

phone face dark,

nearer my God to Thee

not more possible

but still, 

the effort to love, 

easier, with breeze.

Celestial Sandbox

     A stand alone God,
     not alone,
     caws us to sing.

     Music in orbit, 
     heart beats
     the point pounded home.

     Life in light years,
     mothers  
     closer than stars apart.

     Celestial tryouts boom
     behind planets,
     a child in the sand box,
     croons.

Grandma Posts a Picture

Noise is
other than
you singing a
grandson song.

Hands fan, flying
smile joins a new tooth
to the sky
waiting.

Rubber legs jangle.
Half sized slippers
grip the tumble not
beat.

Fascinating fingers
in the mouth 
treasured. The mind opens,
as wide as these eyes.

Hip Hope

I asked the inkster

if Chinese rock stars

get the ABC's

tattooed on their neck. 

Scripture scrawled

on my bicep

set up

preaching to  pierced

hearts and sugar plum dragons.

We had to abbreviate Matthew 10:38

to accomodate my skinny arm.

Should've went for Luke 14:27,

but I don't like to read ahead.

Doe Eyed Decimal System

Flirting in libraries
we thought whispers
handsome.

Just a page, turning slowly,
was enough to unbind
reticence.

A note, folded
close as a boat,
sails the table.

The guardian angel eyes
of comings, and goings,
deep as the marked aisles.

Our love of books
at the ready, in case
romance is only a category.

Sound Reason

The surf trolling,
a foghorn, slight off season
bee.

Children yip across a stone wall
as an engine whipples downhill.

My wife's crisp
pages in the sun. Even a crow.

If that pink cloud,
just before dinner,
is real,
the one next to it, is not.

Stir Sir

In kitchen butterfly,

unusual any season,

but January, the twenty first?

We moved lettuce

and lemon tree inside

to frustrate frost,

the night poet.

I stirred onions from a chair,

book opened to steamed glasses,

yellow tinged wings

opened over the salt bowl.

Happy birthday father,

dead, just short of one hundred years.

Every wish comes true,

when it flits by

unbroken.

Song Bark

Wintered leaves rattle
at apple branch end,
the lone music makers
in the life of the tree.

Delayed rendevous
gives me glimpse
of a natural chorus
ignored.

Jesus said, "The very stones
will cry out..."

Bus stop arbor
doing its best.

Beast of Eden

Quails startle

and fan to the roof,

even without the dog

I'm a terror to the locals.

Defending broccoli

it's me versus the cabbage beetle,

St. George and the dragon.

Any fight I manage is habit 

against prescribed preference,

the stuff of New Year's.

Circumstance and luck,

false Fahrenheits,

the progress of surrender

is light lengthening days.

What God wants,

God gives.

What I take,

is time

to face returning.

Rock Bed

Full marble moon

rolls snow shadows

across high Christmas chaparral.

A million moth fat flakes

fly in the face of a driven man,

wise tomorrow.

Short visit.

Long road ahead,

behind,

and beside the unblinking

lane change.

Family tree, measured

in miles. Our pace,

our place on the King's highway,

eternal.

Apron Strings

The sweet part of an onion

stings. When you won't

call home, I cut slices

under water.

Setting plates around the table

one breaded breast enough for two,

but not enough for Christmas.

Heaven invites us to save

a chair, the number of chairs

to make a party, astronomical.

Old wounds don't need salt.

Grace, a feast for the eyes.

Silver Lining

The closest hawk 

cuts a silhouette against  milk clouds.

The horizon, half sea and half water reflected,

swallows the swell of the ocean at bay.

A kayak arrows to the sun's roll in the waves,

paddle length dripping back

to glide.

Worship is a tidal ventricle

pumping the planet's peace.

Jealous turtles surrender the shore to

muck boots in chorus, a choir of pink whispers

before the set.

Nature trumps the natural way of thinking,

it's the breath taking secret 

of the breath giver.

Vocation

I save nine seconds of light

bulb life leaving the work room

for the kitchen. That much dark

I can handle,

the doorway never moves.

It's a home office,

the dryer dings between cold calls,

work shirts drape the ironing board.

The value I bring, on days I don't

sell well, is this separating peppers from seeds

slicing avocados into smiles.

Thirty years I've nuanced accents over the phone.

Eight to five I remember father

was a salesman, but

it was mother taught me, before

paychecks mattered, 'Think

of eating, before you're hungry.'

Pilgrim

What we learned

can be forgot,

what we know

dismissed.

Who we are

is debatable,

why we're here

the cosmic question.

Whom we love,

and who loves us, is

the suring thing,

the truth we bring to

table.

Election Sure

While you vote,
I trim the driveway rose,
nine foot and then some thorn spindles.

The dew drowns my sleeve
by the quart,
every corner of the day star blinks.

What a plant proposes
blocks another's garden.
Bring light, bring light, bring light.

Task aside, the next door tide
of the polling booth repeats;
bring light, bring light, bring light.

Crisscross

There's one bloom left
on the front yard rose,
being November that's not bad news.

The foreclosure should settle soon
and another round of birthdays
will end the calendar.

The bluff busy bees 
clambor a long lonely lavender,
winter already whispering.

To be useful
I open a book sent in the mail,
something about Jesus in a grocery store
sharing short cake in the storm.

Window Seat

The honeymoon lifts
to a cruising altitude
of eye to eye,
the rings catch light
chipped from tandem stars.

Tide Fool

What I read,

hand shading the gold glint

of the ocean,

is my little pocket book

of lies

and aberration.

My wife trusts God

to know me

better than I know myself.

The small cold rock of

a song I sang Sunday

turns in my hand.

If my brother whispered

something similar I'd throw it

a mile deep, past dolphins, dinghies,

and the wrong side of dawn.

The bench I watch the west from

is a pew to the wide sky and white caps.

What I negotiate here, what I navigate,

what I need is a way to walk on land,

as well as He traversed the waves.

Early Harvest

Hollyhock high as a house,

yapping dog smaller than parson's shoes.

Gray wall of fog mutes

the pink tiles and garden whistler.

To grow things is to know things.

But I've assumed too much

having met my first atheist corn rower.

Not for me to prove seeds swelling to fruit

are for courage as much as cobbler.

Talking to dirt a comfort 

to being born of dust.

Scarecrow's got some sense.

Looking up for rain. It comes

with or without praying,

can't argue that.

Takes a certain talent to ignore

miracles. Imagine the poems

I could write

if this whole world

were up to me.

Pigeon English

A man seeds pigeons,

doesn't have to be a man,

eight bucks a month for coos

and guano,

crows come too

cawing for attention.

Not pretty, 

nobody watching

the scatter get pecked,

some fall by the wayside

and sprout.

The strange maize escapes the birds

and waves a foot higher

than the broken sidewalk.

My neighbor, never seen,

spreads the gospel of grace

to critters bobbing heads

and pedestrians carrying bread.

BS Poem

Be still

and know I am God

Be silly

and know I am God

Be serene

and know I am God

Be strident

and know I am God

Be special, be singular,

be surprised

and know I am God.

Be sincere and know I am God.

Be salt, be Saint So-and-So,

be sober, be salubrious

and know I am God.

Note to self,

Be self being selfless

and know I am God.

Polaris

Peeling sunned shoulders
means summer, berry stains worth
the scrapes,
sleep barely in the sheets
window fan
comfort
milk thistle
milk shake
braving the lake
skimming the river
picking out stars
He knows by name.

St. William's Day

Boil water twice over
coffee grounds
to stretch a cup into
the next need for it.

Birthday coming,
I'm short a grill,
clover too high to
dance.

My Closer Walk With Thee
gets me through the kitchen.
Blank page staring
like a bus window leaving town.

Folk's talk about
having your cake,
meaning humble is the best
slice of pie.

Mother Told Me

Six wheeled trucks through
the residential,
low pine branch broken,
dangling accusation
on the march of cement.

Below the bluff house
of the forgotten Hurok
tsunami jetsam confounds
the beach.

A carbonated footprint
on the sands of time,
celebrating trees
with plastic magnets.

My mother told me
to forget poetry
and write bumper stickers.

The margin for prophets
wide as streets paved in gold.

Cha-cha-cha

The sweet spot

found the blink of an eye,

infant boy on my shoulder

a full minute longer.

My grampa cha-cha

making sleepy smiles

and training my calves for the

marathon of the next twenty years.

Its grace,

not bloodline, giving

me goosebumps

and burp duty.

I married into functionality,

fill in the blanks,

take the steps

step-fathers take.

Quick, rock back,

quick-quick-quick.

I saw my parents dance

once, in fifty years.

What they gave up for us

I want to play over and

over again, before its time

to change my diapers.

Drizzle

Satisfaction

guaranteed to miss

appointments.

The first strawberry picked

a day early,

the chorus entered twelve bars

late. Stare at the sun

you can't see behind the moon screen

of the kitchen window.

A son returns,

a grandson turns 

from a camera flash,

and the anniversary of demise

lands on the calendar again.

Only eternity

outlasts confusion.

The certain heart fills

a certain part of

the puzzle, the outlook

and the in, look like rain

before drizzle.

I put off penning,

the blank page no calmer

than this stage of our lives.

This too is perfect,

no matter the grammar.

Leopold

Life
and life making
a boy or a girl.

That moon
pulling oceans
with a head of hair.

The clock can't count
a catcher's mitt
pacing the hall.

Manger, mansion,
Momma, breast,
blanket.

The name game
riddled
and solved.

This day, pink sky
blue plums,
your place in the sun.

Grand schemes,
grand pianos,
grand baby
born.

Another Year in April

Blue through clouds
is the eye of God's promise.
A ray is a way of hope.

All that rumbles
in the bottom of our hearts,
will rise as steam,
after night fall's rain.

Any day you wake up
is a good day.
My Momma taught me that.

The next day she wakes
will be the Last Day,
when we look at clouds
from the other side of blue.

The Tangle

Lilac and chestnut
sweeten the tromp,
wild radish and mustard
high as a streetlamp,
pink plums tangle telephone lines.

The awaited sun,
since January,
since March,
alights,
not just the crazies and homeless
barefoot the beach.

Warm, warm
of heaven
softens the wait for Jesus.
Weather or not,
we believe,
but it is easier
in bloom.

Graffito

Elk stands,
mallard roosts,
a big lagoon
named Big Lagoon,
the drive to Pelican Bay State
Prison.

The boys have tattooed heads
and necks,
insignia knuckles,
state issued pants as low as gravity
and code permits.

Forgive Us Christ King
is carved in the plaster chapel wall,
grammatical rescue, sound
theology.

A sleeping Villa Boy
startles to join the choir,
mercy chasing all the days of his life.

His forgiving heart
slips eternity
past the guards.

The Curve of The Earth

There's an ugly plant

in Africa.

A crusty star aloe,

looks like something a dragon

spit out when Adam was struggling

to pronounce wildebeest.

Its root holds dust dear as a child

and the flower bobs centuries old

under the sweltering Serengeti moon.

When the rain comes in buckets and tubs

in Northern California

I think of the thimble full it would take

to make the desert dance

and how Isaiah promised blooms

would supplant thorns.

My throat gets dry

as I argue.

If God meant for this,

then why is there that,

knowing full well

He asks the same thing of clouds

and neighbors.

I saw the curve of the earth there.

The horizon has that much play,

to bend things,

as if the earth has a choice to smile,

or frown.

Fog Fold

Our ocean slams the sand under fog.
The gulls won't fish this slop,
train inland to peck trash
at Wal-Mart.

The buoys in chorus,
the light on the head rock
give bearing,
on glassy days they're quaint,
like Scripture and hymns.

A poster on the meeting board,
under plastic for the rain
that falls on the just,
and the just so,
sells a lecture on 'The Folly
of Faith' for five dollars.

Ought to draw some disgruntleds,
except for the storm.

My windbreaker wraps
my preposterous soul
against the pull of the moon,
my worn portrait of Abe Lincoln
folded in my jeans.

This side of the grave
ignores the tide,
but every sea
has another shore.

Clever won't cut it,
when the waves break
higher than a man can
stand himself.

Equinoxial

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.

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.

Lightning

silhouettes

a trunk.

Man like arms

and hair

up raised.

Jesus slept through

worse than this, so

it must be the dog

keeping me awake.

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.

Road Trip

Keeping it buried

in a book

has come to mean clean,

nose to the grindstone should I slip

and forget gathering gas

to bring him home from jail.

Four hour ride to tell

we're vegetarian now,

Mama might grow her hair grey.

I'll say ,"Yes, I'm still preaching Sundays.

No one's embarrassed.

We sold the furniture,

hoping to be gone

before long."

I don't mind lifting my pen,

it's my sights that get blinded

by the windshield sun.

Cloud of Praise

God is the only One

who's heard it all before,

every whisper tone tenor

in every Georgia juke joint

joining the jumble of julip glasses

and pay day smiles,

every under the breath grunt

of the pineboard piano player

counting his honeys and black worn keys,

the vocalisms of a fronting throat singer

that may have been golden or silver in youth

but has bronzed and brassed

with the crowds applause

or indifference.

"Why's the devil got all the good music?"

is the revivalist organist's accelerando.

"Well, he don't actually," is what God says

from the back corner booth

everything that has breath hanging on His 

every word. Rackety crickets pop

outside the window, crispy flying things

fry in zapper blowing under the porch awning.

Willow leaves whistle in their own night, 

nightingales prove the point in their black eyes

is a star from the far side of a cymbal ride

that has even the lamest feet tapping.

You want glory realized?

Trace the walking bass

to the blindless place in your heart

and the all seeing skirts of the dancers

that raise up the dust we came from

in a cloud of praise.

On Deck

All my prayers

are sailor's words,

trying to push the rain.

For three days

soldier grey cumulus

hid the arc of hawks.

Before pillows cool my head

I'm up, counting moons.

Is He walking on waves tonight ?

I'd call out through the storm,

but I know you too,

are waiting to hear your name.

Anchor

Straight as the crow cries

a dawn between storms

lights the rain weighted daisies.

Barrel bellied bees bungie

on long lavender wands.

I've got the straw beds down

between bean and beat rows

in case Jesus comes to lay His head

in the cool shadow of sunflower crowns.

I hope He finds me here

with a gentle pea pickin' heart,

butterflies curious if I'm as sweet

as swaying cosmos.

"I've come for the lost,"

and me mapping my way with lies,

forgeries, forced advantage,

foot in a snare,

hand in the cookie jar...

overnight a young green tendril

seeks anchor at the beanpole

of Calvary.