priests heard
about my unauthorized shrine
they came with cameras and hammers
and broke my god on television.
They named me heretic and rebel,
for none but the high priests
have license to make gods.
The Place
I sit in a place
that is no place,
emptiness over me,
emptiness under me,
emptiness around me.
Something scatters
stars in the void.
A joy unwinds
from a depth in me.
My feet touch ground.
I rise and run
with a new strength.
Golden Gate Bridge
Chickens on a truck
scatter white feathers
on the orange bridge.
A west wind puffs them
over the rail to the Bay.
See the sail boats
waltzing with the wind.
After Psalm 137
By the waters of Hiroshima
we wept for the burned children.
We cast chrysanthemums
on the stream and whispered their names.
Destroyers required our mirth,
saying “Sing festive songs.”
We hung our guitars on the trees.
We will not sing such songs
to dishonor the ghost children.
Aubade
Go warn the moon
the sun is coming.
I hear the rooster
clearing his throat.
Go warn the moon;
don’t let the sun
catch her unwary,
baring her cheeks.
Go warn the moon:
too late; too late.
The rooster is crowing.
The moon is blushing.
Butterflies
I watch the butterflies.
Their wings are spotted
with orange and black.
They touch noses
with the purple flowers.
I wonder, are the flowers
smelling the butterflies?
Coyote Skull
A friend brought
this coyote skull
to bless my house.
He found it in the desert,
brought it home,
varnished it,
and gave it to me.
He said he believed
it would prevent demons.
I keep it on my mantel.
Demons play with it.
Epitaph
Stranger passing by,
stop and rest your feet.
Watch the butterflies
dance on the summer wind
before my marble eyes
that cannot see their wings.
Watch them, while you still can,
under the summer skies.
They don’t dance long, stranger.
Ghosts
When the wind hurls the mist
from the river at the stars
and the coyotes beg
the moon yield her heart,
Cheyenne and Arapaho
hunt phantom buffalo
in the whispering grass.
A truck klaxon
counts coup
on the night’s quiet.
Buffalo and hunter
fade in the moonlight.
The wind swallows
the coyote petitions.
The mist scurries
to hide in the river.
Haiku
The peach blossom sits
on the river; the banks flow
steadily upstream.
In Exile
The cat sun
worries the tails
of fog mice
running the valleys
to shelter in gray
holes in the sea.
I wonder if snow
is falling on the blue
canyons of home.
July Moon
The full moon
perches on the redwood.
The stars hang
from the thin cloud
like silver berries
on a gray bush.
The fog child
plucks the stars
and gorges itself.
Will it choke, I wonder,
on the fat moon?
Loveland Lake
Rice paper kites
climb toward the sun.
Wind stills, kites dive,
tangling in trees
pregnant with spring buds.
Kite tatters echo
splashes boys make
throwing pebbles
in the lake. Kite tails
flutter rag fingers,
begging to fly.
Wild geese rise,
flaunting their wings
to tease the broken kites.
From Wu Ti
The autumn winds are cold.
Chrysanthemums and asters
bloom by the garden wall.
An arrowhead of geese
pierces the gray clouds.
I cast my black fly
in the spray-white creek.
The water drums a roll
on rounded brown rocks.
The wind tattoos a snare
on scarlet maple leaves.
I long to dance with the leaves.
I want to waltz with the waters.
Sorrow slows my feet.
My legs have withered.
My feet stumble on pebbles.
Moths
Wind ruffles the clouds.
Orange-winged moths
mate in the wind’s whirl.
The dancing pairs
fall to the meadow
exhausted with love.
Dead wings
cover clutches
of eggs in the clover.
November
At the window I watch
the treetop twigs
nervously scratch
at the sky’s belly.
They would tease out the snow
to bury the grasses
that rattle like bones
as the wind passes.
Letters on my table
wait for my answers.
I’ll answer them later.
The kettle whistles
the water is ready
to embrace the tea.
I let it whistle.
The telephone jangles.
I let the recorder
pick up the message.
I want to see
the first flakes fall.
Lover and Moon
My love is sleeping,
dark hair spread
like weeping willow
over the pillow.
He does not see
the promenade
of the old maid moon
on our window sill.
Soon the moon
will tickle his eyes
and he will wake
to play with me.
Petals
The wind tickles
the crabapple’s branches.
They shiver with laughter,
and drop their petals.
The petals bury
faded violets.
Purpose
When I am old,
I’ll plant a garden.
I’ll plant flowers
to please my eye
and herbs for my nose.
Lilacs and pansies,
chrysanthemums,
blue rosemary,
and mint and thyme,
pollen palaces
for hungry bees
and petal mansions
for dragonflies.
Question
Why, moon,
do you let your deer
nibble my tomatoes
when I have poems dancing
in the tip of my pen?
Rain and Lichen
peeling away
green-spattered
gray lichen
from old boards,
I find splinters
and the dark tracks
of my wet fingers.
Once I stood
in another rain
and traced your name
on boards like these
while you argued
your reasons for leaving.
When the rain wets the lichen,
I remember you
and trace dark tracks
with splinters in my fingers.
Red Geranium
This red geranium
is missing three
petal clusters:
two eyes
and a wide mouth.
A yellow jacket
stops in its center.
See the red
kabuki mask,
yellow nose
snuffling the wind.
Sea and Grove
Sea voices cry in the wind.
Hawks glide over the grove.
Wild carrot flowers dance,
white ladies on green hills.
Surf blossoms white on the green sea.
A motorcycle passes on the road.
Its growl swallows the sea’s murmur.
The hawks wheel into the sun and flee.
Unheeding, the wild carrot flowers
dance till the moon lights the pastures.
Stone Man
White pebbles are rolling
in the brook by my plinth.
A sparrow is muttering
in the orchard above me
as daybreak reddens
the snows on the peaks.
I’ve been here since the masons
quarried my granite
and the sculptor shaped
my man’s semblance
and fixed me here
on this plinth by the brook.
I weary of standing.
Come, frost fingers,
and pry at my cracks.
Sand on the wind,
wear at my stone.
I would slough this shape,
I would crumble and roll
to the stream that laps
at the base of my plinth.
I want to travel
with the river pebbles.
Tears
Take your tears from the floor
and lay them in a line,
or rank them three by three,
or mingle them with mine.
Don’t waste them in the dust
or let them salt your wine.
The Dragon and the Iguana
Neighbor children
stole my strawberries.
I caught a little dragon
with fearsome eyes.
I tied him to a cabbage plant
to scare the wicked children
who would plunder my garden.
I woke next morning
to find the dragon gone.
A neighbor’s iguana
cut the string to free him.
Iguanas like children
who share stolen berries.
Iguanas don’t fear dragons.
The Plaid Giraffe
The plaid giraffe has gone.
She left some time last night,
slipping between the bars
of my playpen on cotton hooves.
The corduroy elephant
and denim teddy bear
look wistfully through the bars.
I see an intent to diet
glittering in their button eyes.
Rock Creek
Brown water pools
behind tangled stick fingers
clutching the river’s belly.
Gold leaves swirl in the current
where trout fan their gills.
A squirrel’s chatters a warning.
I toss a pebble at him.
He scrambles up the tree.
Thunder breaks a cloud
over the mountain peak.
The trout leaps and plunges.
Raindrops break the ripples
he left on the pool’s surface.
I shelter under a boulder
while the storm spews its fury.
The Gift
To whom shall I send these,
the lilacs I’ve gathered,
in the cool of the morning?
To a dancing maiden,
or a withered crone?
Perhaps I should lay them
on altars dead Romans
raised to old Bacchus
in drunken frenzies.
Their perfume is fading,
the leaves are brittle,
the petals are shriveled.
I shall give them to Marcia,
she’s wilting and fading
like lilacs in the noonday.
November Garden
Wind rattles the withered
hollyhock stalks.
A blackened rosebud,
frost
A Chapter of Verses Page 2
