Firewood

My wood stack has a curve to it

       each morning I look out my window

       to see if it has fallen over

stacking fire wood is an art

each piece like each word

       is irregular

the hump of one fits

the hollow of another

       when I was young an old farmer

       saw me stacking wood and said

       “it’ll fall down”. I looked at my

       plumb bob straight work and

       smiled.

       It took 20 days, the stack

       leaned like a dozing drunk

       and landed face down.

I had built my stack east to west

one side parched by the warm sun

the other sucked in the cool green shade

now I stack north to south

and like these words, these lines

have a curve to them

take pleasure in imperfections

       carress each piece, each word

look through the window

       of your life and follow the curve.

Crumbs

There is a time early in the morning

when the East turns faint

and color still slumbers

gray lay upon gray

edges of things are unformed.

The tentative songs of birds

coax warmth out of the thin light.

I think of these birds

trying to figure out which call

   belongs to which bird

as if a name would make them more beautiful.

I love these creatures

  but alter their rhythms

feeding them crumbs from supermarkets.

out there on my deck rail

   lay bread broken in an offering

a feeble attempt that they might befriend me.

It is then that I see the fox

   a gray fox

a canine that moves like a cat

she stands there (did I say she?)

more cautious than any bird

   a quick nibble

       a sniff for danger

           nibble again

Oh that these crumbs would go on forever

   but the light brightens

   color creeps in

   brushes against her flank

her edges become distinct

   and she disappears.

String Figures

what do you do when you want to learn something

                and there is no one to teach you?

I remember from the grainy shadows of my youth

two girls passing a string back and forth

                a string formed in changing patterns, cat’s cradle.

 the cavernous anthropology section of the university library

                row upon row, stack upon stack

                I run my finger along the book bindings

                not looking down I stumble

                reach out for support

                grab a book as I fall

“Aboriginal String Figures and How to Make Them”

That book became my teacher

I tie a length of string together

and go through page by page

                “Jacob’s Ladder”

                “Apache Door”

                “Many Stars”

Follow the words

                do opening “A”

                step one

                step two

                drop the string off the little finger

                insert the thumb

                now do a Navajo Leap

So easy, but then I get to step five and I have to turn the page

                I look at the book

                then at my hands

                the tangle of string trying to make a getaway

                open my mouth

                stick out my tongue

                and go onto step six.

Haiku 1

Quiet evening

just me and

the mosquito

Bird Watching

The song of the singing bird

       directly over our heads

we arch our backs and squint

lean away from the horizon of reference

       and enter another world.

You jump and point – there! there!

       I stand at your back

       follow your arm, your finger

and there among the swaying leaves

       out on a branch

a gray breast of feathers

       covers tiny pulsing lungs.

The song begins again

       and then from a distance

       comes a faint answer

the breast swells and flutters.

We grab our book

search for a name for this

       but only find white pages

       covered with black marks.

Four Poets in Search of a Haiku

if this poem had been a haiku

there would have been a bullfrog,

a bullfrog sitting

up to his eyes in a pond

inhabiting one world

but seeing another

and when we step closer to look

a jump, a splash then ripples on the water

above the pond, a butterfly

clinging to a willow leaf

opens and closes her wings,

swaying back and forth

pushed by a gentle breeze

and when that breeze calms

the only thing that moves

on these snowy pages

is the eye of the black bird

I sigh ---

if this had been a haiku

it would have been finished

many syllables ago,

the ink would have dried,

the paper neatly folded

into the shape of a boat

and set on a slow moving stream

amongst scattered plum blossoms

Smile the Moon is Watching

The frosted tufts of grass cover the hillside

like a blue white chenille spread

the round ball of the moon

hung in the eastern sky,

so bright that my eyes ached.

I was wrapped in wool

puffing a frozen cloud that disappeared

before the next breath formed.

 off to the left an owl

started a conversation

with another in the trees to the right.

 I only had a mile to go

the dog at home knew I was out here

his bark would alert her,

 another log would be added to the fire

the kettle placed on the stove.

 I smiled at that thought

and picked up my pace

The Appointment Book

Just look at your calendar

   two weeks after your death

all these marks on the paper

   lead to the next blank page.

A kitchen table, an empty chair,

whispers crowd the silence,

tasks divided, then forgotten,

visions carefully noted and filed away.

A pot of soup simmers

    on an ancient stove

a bubble rises, breaks the surface

   changes color -- bursts and slips back.

Being separate, being important

    are fading thoughts

like a fleeting flavor in the broth.

a drop falls from the spoon

leaving a spot on the page.

Seen through the Outhouse Door

one green leaf

   jewel of the oak

   veined face turned towards the sun.

behind and to the side

   others

 leaf after leaf

 sisters of the forest.

hard thin needles gather

   in family groups in this shadowy ballroom.

thick pillars of redwood

   crossed by ochre

   peeling arms of madrone.

dust particles stunned

   in shafts sent by the sun.

a feathered blue diamond streaks

   from the left down to the right

   bounces onto a branch

and somewhere a fat squirrel

   sits back and laughs

The Rositsa Tavern

The door to the bar burst open. Blaring noise pored out onto the parking lot, as we stumbled out of our car. Holding our ears we entered the sweaty room.

The bar was at one end, the band along side. About 200 people packed the tables. An aisle snaked through the crowded tables forming an irregular “U” through to the back of the room before it returned to the dance floor in front of the band.

The waitresses, holding trays of beer and ouzo at shoulder height, passed among the dancers swaying as they stepped.

The band was a bunch of bald headed guys in tight white shirts, buttons straining. Three instruments that looked like guitars but sounded high pitched and feverish, an accordion and a bass. Their red faces bursting out some Balkan love song.

The dancers, oh the dancers …

At the start of a song people would bounce up from their seats, form a long line that snaked through the aisles then back to the dance floor, around and around. Hand in hand, a hop, a back step then three steps forward.

The leaders were always men. A large white kerchief held the leader from flying into the crowd as he showed his machismo steps almost falling only to leap up again. The second in line then had his turn in front. Hoopa, Hoopa the crowd called out.

It was too much. We had to join. Hop, back step, a pause then three steps forward …

White Crosses & Plastic Carnations

By the side of highways

     with precisely engineered curves

stand white crosses

     like cemeteries

     are cemeteries

no bodies are buried here

however death is surely present

          in the night

          out of the dark

          lights flashing

          blue, red, and white

          sizzling flares

          slow down

          a wave on through

          carefully passing other’s passing

          shining wrecks, tangled metal

          the air is thick with

          alcohol fumed curses

          a child’s cry

          a last breath expelled

                   unhh!

The crosses are always white

sometimes flowered

real flowers at first

then plastic (they last longer)

on a lonely desert highway

the crosses are enshrined

     grottoes of stone (they last longer)

but here on this spot

a white cross with

     red plastic carnations

     forming letters

     a “D”, an “A” and a “D”