The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

 

from this week in January, 1998  (I was 53)

 

The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

The ascending road climbed into cloud

The air wetter than fog and warmer

got under my collar as I walked

The sound of two rocks clapped together

hung loud and long

Someone else was on the way down

She passed by a hundred yards later

hurrying her pace to a clumsy trot

soon as I broke into her view

revealing her wordless fear

as if she had not also split my solitude

I knew the sound had been rocks

she plucked from a roadside land fall

Cracked together like experimental gunshots

I continued into my own invisibility

Rising deeper into thick illumination

the road undulated onto the invisible summit

The nearest oaks to where I stood were trees

The shapes beyond were something other

 

Up on Cold Mountain

 

from this week in August, 1973  (I was 28)

 

Up on Cold Mountain

no moment is humble.

Every action is magnificent,

there is no hearth to sweep.

 

I know something of Cold Mountain

I have been there alone.

Summer nor winter did I see Han Shan.

 

No doubt he resides there.

We did not find each other;

we did not drink tea.

 

Upon Cold Mountain

no man speaks to his reflection,

no man speaks to his shadow.

 

Measuring Distance

 

October 13, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         Measuring Distance

Standing on one ridge

looking across the canyon to the next,

distance is deceptive.

The line of sight is direct.

The turkey vultures glide it in no time.

The mind flies as easily across

and does not understand the resistance of the body;

does not understand flight as unified commitment.

No command is given to fly.

And the trek down the mountain across the creek

and up the mountain

is the correct way to measure geography,

pacing the actual terrain,

making observations beyond geometry.

It’s a practice in the correct sense of place,

and perfect really, if you can’t fly.

You don’t have to get very high

 

October 10, 2005  (I was 60)  used year 1, 3, 5

 

You don’t have to get very high

to realize how low we live

 

the nearest hill will do

a natural inclination puts you above man-made

 

Sit in dappled shade

and solve a problem slowly

 

To carry the hill home

build your house upon it

The sun was shining behind me in the morning.

 

June 19, 2005  (I was 60)

 

The sun was shining behind me in the morning.

I drove the wagon down the dim low spot in the road.

What rains had been were not here now.

The descent was not steep, the shade was cool,

the mud not deep, I tracked us steadily through.

The sun promised itself on the slope ahead,

warmed our backs; sweat beaded our hair.

Forward the bright inclination soon glared in our eyes.

The wheels threw dirt then clay; the hillcrest lay in shadow.

We got stuck in my ignorance; the sun is setting.

The path behind is golden, our destination dark.

It’s a cool despondent night of frustration and fear.

With cold resignation we gather wood for fire,

eat canned food with plenty to drink.

The stars perforate our thoughts with light,

recognition of our comparative good fortune and a plan

to push the wagon to higher ground at dawn.

Deer flees

 

from this week in April, 1974  (I was 29)

 

Deer flees

Nijinski through the trees

wide eyes look once

The old buck runs

wet black woods at night

Knowledge has made him fragile

passion and arrows agile

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill

 

from this week in March, 1979  (I was 34)

 

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill.

I laugh when I hear Dylan sing,

“I’ve paid the price of solitude,

but at least I’m out of debt.”

I’m going to hit the deer trails,

look for a blue deer.

The trees laugh when I think of tomorrow.

(They lived all those years

so they could live today.)

I understand their laughter

I’m going to trot myself under their jocular leaves,

find myself running alongside a blue deer

who finds itself running alongside of me.

The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

 

from this week in January, 1998  (I was 53)

 

The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

The ascending road climbed into cloud

The air wetter than fog and warmer

got under my collar as I walked

The sound of two rocks clapped together

hung loud and long

Someone else was on the way down

She passed by a hundred yards later

hurrying her pace to a clumsy trot

soon as I broke into her view

revealing her wordless fear

as if she had not also split my solitude

I knew the sound had been rocks

she plucked from a roadside land fall

Cracked together like experimental gunshots

I continued into my own invisibility

Rising deeper into thick illumination

the road undulated onto the invisible summit

The nearest oaks to where I stood were trees

The shapes beyond were something other

you goddamn right I’ve got questions

 

from this week in September, 1973  (I was 28)

 

you goddamn right I’ve got questions

I got a hell of a lot of questions

I collected so many

I don’t need answers any more

I just gotta learn to weave baskets

be concerned with dying cane

meshing those fibers into self-container

a gift made to be placed upon a shelf

a quiet duck upon a still pond

If he flashes white under wing

he will rise and be gone

the reeds lean together

the rhythmic quilt of intersecting ripples

reflects the image of a dissolving cloud

 

-first published in Arts Event In Shallow Water, 1975

(A Week Later...)

 

September 17, 2001  (I was 56)

 

              (A Week Later...)     

I climbed the hills last Tuesday knowing

the airplane drone was gone from aum,

a profound absence in a brief lifetime.

I took undistracted notice of the birds.

I was occupied by the silence.

It has long been my habit to send

a prayer of simple recognition to souls

I happen to notice in aircraft overhead.

This sky was a pure blue of emptiness.

 

It was not the sky of the new world,

it was the heaven between worlds.

Again we lost an innocence

we did not know we had;

something we’ve done many times.

Tomorrow would be the first sky

to dawn upon an unfortunate century

where warring gods prove their fallibility,

or where man reflects the gold of daylight.

Measuring Distance

October 13, 1977  (I was 32)

         Measuring Distance

Standing on one ridge

looking across the canyon to the next,

distance is deceptive.

The line of sight is direct.

The turkey vultures glide it in no time.

The mind flies as easily across

and does not understand the resistance of the body;

does not understand flight as unified commitment.

No command is given to fly.

And the trek down the mountain across the creek

and up the mountain

is the correct way to measure geography,

pacing the actual terrain,

making observations beyond geometry.

It’s a practice in the correct sense of place,

and perfect really, if you can’t fly.

October Walk

October 7, 1973  (I was 28)

         October Walk

It rained through the night;

it was raining today at last light.

Electric moss lit the trees.

Slick leaves and ferns on the ground

gave light without the sky.

The deer paths needed hooves,

but I climbed to see clouds hurdle the west ridge,

dark riders pulling the wave and tearing away.

First I wanted it all on film,

wanted to record the echoing dogs still howling

and the quiet interrogations of every owl

on this day when the sun did not appear.

But nobody believes a movie.

Rising from a stand of oaks

a column of ground fog found warm currents,

spiraling spirit freed and fleeing home.

It was perception that made it all real;

it was a vapor perceiving a vaporizing.

Yesterday I climbed the hill

May 19, 1971  (I was 26)

Yesterday I climbed the hill

and found myself

communicating with

the transcendental truth

I came to understand

that being one

also meant that I could not know what one was

And that one way to not be one

was to alter consciousness

and then I could not be sure I was really being

more than one

let alone all

I came to think also

that guilt once recognized

was not useful

Sin has already been died for

and when I questioned what to do

I was told to do what I do when feeling true

That was what was required

I knew that if there was a time I forgot that

I would be told again

in a voice both gentle and subtle

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill.

from this week in March, 1979  (I was 34)

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill.

I laugh when I hear Dylan sing,

“I’ve paid the price of solitude,

but at least I’m out of debt.”

I’m going to hit the deer trails,

look for a blue deer.

The trees laugh when I think of tomorrow.

(They lived all those years

so they could live today.)

I understand their laughter

I’m going to trot myself under their jocular leaves,

find myself running alongside a blue deer

who finds itself running alongside of me.

The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

from this week in January, 1998  (I was 53)

The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

The ascending road climbed into cloud

The air wetter than fog and warmer

got under my collar as I walked

The sound of two rocks clapped together

hung loud and long

Someone else was on the way down

She passed by a hundred yards later

hurrying her pace to a clumsy trot

soon as I broke into her view

revealing her wordless fear

as if she had not also split my solitude

I knew the sound had been rocks

she plucked from a roadside land fall

Cracked together like experimental gunshots

I continued into my own invisibility

Rising deeper into thick illumination

the road undulated onto the invisible summit

The nearest oaks to where I stood were trees

The shapes beyond were something other

I climbed the hills last Tuesday knowing

September 17, 2001  (I was 56)

I climbed the hills last Tuesday knowing

the airplane drone was gone from aum,

a profound absence in a brief lifetime.

I took undistracted notice of the birds.

I was occupied by the silence.

It has long been my habit to send

a prayer of simple recognition to souls

I happen to notice in aircraft overhead.

This sky was a pure blue of emptiness.

It was not the sky of the new world,

it was the heaven between worlds.

Again we lost an innocence

we did not know we had;

something we’ve done many times.

Tomorrow would be the first sky

to dawn upon an unfortunate century

where warring gods prove their fallibility,

or where man reflects the gold of daylight.

Measuring Distance

October 13, 1977  (I was 32)

         Measuring Distance

Standing on one ridge

looking across the canyon to the next,

distance is deceptive.

The line of sight is direct.

The turkey vultures glide it in no time.

The mind flies as easily across

and does not understand the resistance of the body;

does not understand flight as unified commitment.

No command is given to fly.

And the trek down the mountain across the creek

and up the mountain

is the correct way to measure geography,

pacing the actual terrain,

making observations beyond geometry.

It’s a practice in the correct sense of place,

and perfect really, if you cant fly.

Deer flees

from this week in April, 1974  (I was 29)

Deer flees

Nijinski through the trees

wide eyes look once

The old buck runs

wet black woods at night

Knowledge has made him fragile

passion and arrows agile

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill.

from this week in March, 1979  (I was 34)

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill.

I laugh when I hear Dylan sing,

“I’ve paid the price of solitude,

but at least I’m out of debt.”

I’m going to hit the deer trails,

look for a blue deer.

The trees laugh when I think of tomorrow.

(They lived all those years

so they could live today.)

I understand their laughter

I’m going to trot myself under their jocular leaves,

find myself running alongside a blue deer

who finds itself running alongside of me.

Hiking Mission Peak

from this week in March, 1977  (I was 32)

         Hiking Mission Peak

Through the stand of eucalyptus

fallen leaves paisley teardrops

tall shade cool as a cough drop

blacktop over a path Ohlone’s once walked

Someone built a stile over a barbed wire fence

Now that’s society in dilemma I thought

Are there still ladders scaling the Berlin Wall?

Seats to duck behind during horror movies?

Classes to cut at the college?

Stupid Lucy to love on re-runs?

You sat before me spreading creases in your brain like legs

You had me fantasizing pink roses

I was leaning in the bush trying to get a whiff

Cows nudged one another and moved

They chewed and watched our progress dumbfounded

It doesn’t take much learning to become beef

The presumptuous sun grew tedious

One hill rolled against another

ever more angular promises revealed beyond

Ultimately nothing more than loftier perspective

fog rolling down the bay from the north

Nothing to eat and airplanes grinding in the sky