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TRICKSTER
He imagines what it might be like to come down out of the foothills and roam the mesa, unseen unless he wishes, a complete freedom. And even if he chooses to be seen, he can take whatever shape he wishes, and they would see him only as he chose, for only as long as he…
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ARDEIDAE MORNING
He stands still staring at the ever changing surface of the pond, which he knows holds infinite possibility that he does not wish to disturb, lest the moment be forever lost. Nothing else matters to him as he calmly, and ever so slowly, lifts his leg in tree pose, and reaches out with unfurled wings…
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THE MESSENGER TIRES
He says, in a quiet aside he hopes no one will overhear, that he has grown tired of being an angel. And not for the reason we might think, he adds with a wry smile. The work is not all that difficult, in fact there seems to be less of it week by week, but…
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WORD
If I asked you for one word how would you answer? In your dreams, do you have both arms, can you write your thoughts on a scrap of paper and tuck it away? You had a lover, once, and he would trace his finger along your thigh. Do you miss that touch as you rub…
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THE FORM OF A POET
It seems odd driving by Mount Hope Cemetery knowing Adelaide Crapsey’s grave is there. If Basho were there a much smaller grave would do under summer’s sun. Shakespeare is buried in Stratford-Upon-Avon so this can end with twelve lines to spare.
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THREE HAIKU
Giant cranes are perched on thin spindly legs, necks bowed steel beams scratch the clouds. Needle-like church spires reach through the gathering mist clouds begin to bleed. Walls stand in the field one stone piled on another grass withers in shade.
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SHINJUKU
The sun rises slowly painfully, stiff from the cold night air, creeping upward, barely warming the streets. In Shinjuku Central Park the trees are still despite the cold breeze. The small group gathers for morning stretches and Tai Chi, smiling toward the fountain and the ten foot waterfall they call Niagara. The siren cuts through…
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DREAM WALKER
I listen for you in the night, your breathing sets the rhythm of my dreams. It was not always like this. Much as the cat craves a gentle stroking of her back, I long to trace your spine, measure each vertebra by the length of my caress, but I don’t want to pull you fitfully…
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DAWN
Early morning Tokyo awakens, gray, moist. In the small park the crows listen for the Temple bell then bowing to the Buddha, call out their morning chants.
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HOW IT IS
I came down out of these mountains once, emerged from clouds that built, blackened the sky, bleached and were gone, I slid on snow pack, I came down into the sage and piñon, lit my fires and purified myself. I ran with jackrabbits, imagined bears were coyote, coyotes cats that might curl in sleep…
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an old writer and his words 