At the end of one another begins

Dec. 31, 2016  (I was 71)

At the end of one another begins

The leaf falls as the twig buds

Dishes are washed as the meal is prepared

The shooting starts as the truce is signed

The show is over stay tuned for previews

Get dressed and load the wash machine

Just heard taps and they blow assembly

Old acquaintances should be forgot

A new day dawns so like the last

Each growth ring further from the heart wood

The sound of fireworks more distant each new year

What we thought were circles are actually spirals

Old flames merely embers of memory

Smoke swirls out of mind

Other fires are kindled elsewhere

Spread Sheet

Dec. 30, 2017  (I was 73)

                        Spread Sheet

The accountant sets the figures in rows and columns

The arrangement of these ranks and files

is a story to be understood

swift smooth forward movements of addition

Leaps of multiplication make future projections

Offsets are deficits backtracking subtractions

that tell a different tale tone and direction

revelations on the other side of the point

The accountant knows fractions are where lives are lived

in the minutiae of the daily entry

that very human attempt to measure profit and loss

extending the graph of the big picture

once confined to a cabinet now stored in a cloud

When what you’ve made has said goodbye

December 29, 2015  (I was 71)

When what you’ve made has said goodbye

be not assured that it is gone

It often returns unfinished it claims

with accusations you could have done more

and expectations that you will

When something you’ve made is actually gone

it rarely says goodbye leaving you

with the finishing touches still in hand

a convergin’

from this week of December, 2008  (I was 64)

            a convergin’

it was just a coupla nights ago

the rhythmic pluck of an ol banjo

comin outta the raydeeo

matched the scratch on the distant track

motion and notion ‘prochin nickedynack

banjo sang train sang and I sang back

Swirls of snow

December 27, 1974  (I was 30)

Swirls of snow

powder the air of Cold Mountain

From my breath crystal mist

obscures and reveals             

Blurred vision clears the mind                          

thought vapors enhance the image               

the moon illuminates the wind

scatters light over the crags

The devalued photo

December 26, 2008  (I was 62)

The devalued photo

on the two-inch screen

taken two seconds ago

shows a tropical butterfly

in a tropical forest exhibit

at the aquarium

The photo snapper

looks at the photo

a foot in front of their eyes

their finger still on the trigger

ready for another shot

while the butterfly

still jiggles like a puppet

in the leaves of the mangrove

Our photographs used to fit

in a single oversized family album

with an extravagant cover

deteriorating from useful love

across three generations

looked at studied

again and again

They were history

now we have blips on a chip

They never leave the camera

just a confirmation

that what we actually saw

is virtually still there

more proliferate images

than moments left in our lives

I’ve ignored daily evidence

December 25, 1976  (I was 32)

I’ve ignored daily evidence

disregarded the point of each lesson

So now it is I’ve flunked visceral learning

I have not had the compassion

to massage my own neck

It’s not that I lacked the feeling

but settled for powder in the stomach

when I could have conjured organic bicarbonates

bubbles in the brain

Dilated pupils should not be overexposed to sunlight

elementary enough

but not more primary than good posture

nor more essential than breathing good air

It is a corruption of the knowledgeable

to believe occasional indiscretions will be overlooked

in the face of their general wisdom

I would like to see something Joseph made of wood

December 24, 2012  (I was 68)

I would like to see something Joseph made of wood

something of substance to make him real as Mary

to see what part of brightness was he

the reflective part of the man

in the carpentry removed from divine notions

the working of utilitarian artistry

something manipulated by his tools

service consecrated to a patron devotee

or in a bartered rendering of equal value

Carl Sagan could interpret stellar photographs

from this week of December, 2013  (I was 69)

Carl Sagan could interpret stellar photographs

By the color of celestial objects

he could determine or at least speculate

upon their chemical composition

understand by their quivering

whether anything was orbiting them

how many million light years away they were

or even if they were mere ghost emanations

whose dead light was reaching us eons after

it had actually expired  I suspect

he totally admired the paintings of Jackson Pollock

I had a job and finished it

December 22, 2012  (I was 68)

I had a job and finished it

seemed like it was taking forever

but forever isn’t really that long

I was sure I did it quite well

Now I’m sure others would disagree

but it’s over and I know it doesn’t matter

same as the stuff other folks did

To ascribe significance as a universal ignorance

ignoring what is obvious in any perception

To be sober is to be drunk

health but an illness of mind

talent a particular form of clumsiness

the humor of sorrow serious laughter

the peace of violence a silent explosion

Someone’s labor gets the ink off the paper

and back into the pen and the meaning

of that is inescapable

I remember when Disneyland was fun

December 21, 2012  (I was 68)

I remember when Disneyland was fun

a time when you would notice everyone

who was there and what did they wear

and where did they want to go first

I sat on a bench on a porch on Main Street

as if I were a resident of the town

Neighbors strolled by whom I would greet

with a nod or a smile and they would slow down

to respond before traveling to another land

And I was there again yesterday I think

along with everyone and their kitchen sink

The population explosion happened right there

much more crowded than ever in Times Square

To keep people moving took a squad of Marines

No Little Mermaids just Tiny Tot sardines

squeezed from no place to no place to go

Out the gate it finally felt great to forget

you had been taken

Heroes write in second person

December 20, 2010  (I was 65)

Heroes write in second person

so you can imagine you are they

and they can imagine they are humble

It also allows a little fudge on the truth

If there’s a bit of hyperbole here

and some ameliorating there

it was you who thought it

and you going through this who did it

I wrote it exactly as you said

it’s up to you to decide

whether it’s undeclared biography

or personification of the fictive truth

unsound expectation

from this week in 2005

            unsound expectation

I had expected the sounds from all below

to settle into the comfortable hum

within the sonic universality of aum

I’ve been accustomed to this perception

in the heightened awareness stimulated

by focused intent on the physical climb

But yesterday there was an unfamiliar whine

above the drone and apart from it

It was less plaintive than the squeals

of freeway semis shriller than train wheels

fighting against the curving rails

a sound distinct from historic wails

of horror beyond humanity

that humanity so often creates

I know this subtlety relates

as all sounds from the common source

I just did not expect it in this state

I underestimated us of course

The text in my mind this morning

December 18,2003  (I was 59)

The text in my mind this morning

was full of the assonance of O

I try to remember the words now

once occasion oppression overbearing

I don’t know now

but it had to do with us recognizing

the hour of America was over

We’ve immolated our witches

owned our slaves

bombed the biggest bombs

bombed cities bombed jungles

bombed deserts bombed mountains

of bombs drones of bombs

The world does not trust us

because we are not trustworthy

Our biggest citizens are corporations

Our little citizens are obsolete

Our biggest business is fighting fear

We make sure there is enough

to keep the economy going

The man on PBS did a documentary

from this week of December, 2013  (I was 69)

The man on PBS did a documentary

to record the habits of happy people

and he determined through numerous interviews

the happiest people surround themselves

with family and friends a community of others

but he does not take account of those

who may have been very happy not

taking part in his little movie

A Throw

December 16, 1975  (I was 30)

            A Throw

Perceiving the impending fall,

the equestrian rises out of the saddle

clearing the mount, and extends

body lines along the lines of force.

Upon impact, the faller

absorbs the energy

rolling a line as long as possible

converting vertical motion to horizontal.

Whereupon assessing bodily damage

and usually finding none permanent,

the pedestrian retrieves his mount

and ignores tomorrow’s papers.

It’s in the woods and it will find you

December 15, 2014  (I was 70)

It’s in the woods and it will find you

if you sit beneath the trees and watch

or just close your eyes and listen

birds will call you there

It’s in the woods somewhere behind you

woodpecker knocks another notch

Close your eyes again Intuition

let’s you know it’s there

Sit in the present tense content

the moment does not pass

It’s us not time that’s spent

in the tree and on the grass

Love the noun is an abstraction that

from this week of December, 2011  (I was 67)

Love the noun is an abstraction that

can only be indicated by love the verb

Love the verb is better indicated in the less

overt and sometimes superficial typical

physical action (hug kiss hand over

heart)  More subtle indicators can be

emblematic or more heavy handed

symbolic  It is not the enduring aspects

of love that are difficult to invoke

it’s the fleeting ephemeral unstable

quality even when it feels eternal

To relate that is as elusive

as discovering the real thing

It should never be quite what you think it is

Rothenberg at midnight in December

from this week in December, 2011  (I was 59) 

Rothenberg at midnight in December

The night watchman has cleared the streets

We emerge from the smoke of the Altfrankishe

and a deliberate encounter with strangers

The cold air is good in the lungs

we exhale frost against the moon

We walk frozen stones under St. Jacob’s archway

permitted a quiet encounter with history

We follow the church shadow in the dark

as so many have done before

Peter the Rock asleep in the Garden

Moonlight falls upon the Lord in Prayer

depicted precisely at his desperate hour

We are witness with new awareness

At this time the city is ours

The chill plays upon my spine

from those other centuries

those other December nights

Those other walkers welcome us

into the niche of their granite company

I give it solitary contemplation

across the cobbles to Rodergasse

bowed to the wafer moon

Steam Heat

December 12, 1976  (I was 32)

         Steam Heat

First time I was stoned

it was on steam heat

Mad dog winter bite your ass off outside

me lying on the carpet

five year old face up against the register

hearing only the blower roaring

eyes closed against a desert wind.

A bar of iron in my hands

December 11, 2010  (I was 66) 

A bar of iron in my hands

remains a bar of iron

as many times I heft its weight

and examine its dimensions

I do not melt it to pour a mold

I do not shave shards on a lathe

I do not weld it to adjoin or construct

I put it in a damp basement to rust

as patiently as the cosmos

watch it turn back to ore

with conscious awareness that it is happening

That seems not worth much now

Who can measure and weigh awareness

It is still a bar of iron