The dawn cedes slowly
to the impinging sunlight
birds greet the new day
The great egret lifts
her wings embracing the cloud
the winter sun smiles
on the barren branch
the red-shouldered hawk awaits
her mate and the sun
sandhill cranes wander
along the shore of the lake
looking for nothing
the moon is a cup
waiting for night to fill it
venus sits empty
There is nothing like, no
words to adequately describe,
that moment when a cloud-
hazed sun lingers wishfully
just above the horizon, grasping
the sky with brilliant talons
of light, fearing becoming
lost in a darkness that will,
on this night of the new moon,
engulf us all in its inky shroud.
We know, or pray, the sun
will return in hours, just
as the sun knows its work
is never done so long as it
has light to give, hoping
that final collapse is eons away.
As it finally settles beyond
sight, we smile, retreat
to the table and consume
our dinner and wine, our
daily companion forgotten
until its dawning return.
The morning sky
maculate with tiny clouds
scattered about the endless blue,
denied the promised rain.
The wind grew angry
having nothing to propel
through the azure emptiness
and rifled the trees seeking music.
There is nothing to know
on such mornings, no language
needed or permitted, there is only
the sky awaiting the sun’s arrival.
We are invited to watch,
asked to gaze deeply into the void
for great beauty lies within
just beyond the pale of vision.
Beside the still pond
dragonflies hover lightly
senbazuru dawn
The Great Egret stares
the still pond returns his stare
dawning sun laughing
Clouds swallow the moon
moorhens chanting their vespers
sleep overtakes us
A dragonfly sits
waiting for us to take wing
gravity says no
Dusk reflects dawn much as
dawn reflects dusk, and it is
our fear of night and deep need
for direction that sets them apart.
Imagine a photograph of the sun
hovering just over the horizon,
compass-less we do not know
what preceded, what will follow.
We prefer day and dawn, for
it is then we feel in control,
our thoughts leashed, our fears
locked away from sight and touch.
Dusk promises only night,
the darkness where our fears
find corners in which to hide,
only to spring out unwanted.
So we turn away from the sky,
unsinged by its flaming beauty,
hide ourselves from and in fear
as nature laughs at our foolishness.
On this night
he walks silently
into her dream uninvited,
but she is used
to the incursions.
On other nights it
is she who sidles
up to him in the depths
of dreaming, each
slipping away
ahead of dawn.
On rare nights each
enters the dreams
of the other, paths
crossing at
the synaptic border.
On those nights
she looks for him,
he for her, each
grows fearful
the he or she
will be trapped,
alone, when dawn
arrives and the body
gently wakes, she
or he wandering lost
in a familiar
alien reality.
First published in The DIllydoun Review, Issue 1, December 2020 (Current Online Issue – the dillydoun review)
Antphonal songs
Mockingbirds greet the morning
Great Blue Herons stare
imagining their voices
night sweetly welcome the dawn
The great temple bell
awaits the morning, the monk,
its daily purpose
cast deep within the metal
always verging on release
Smoke of incense too
prostrates itself to Buddha
soon a morning breeze
promises enlightenment
or the freedom of the sky
The squirrel on the lawn stood,
his little eyes boring into me
as I stepped out of the front door.
He threw out his chest, and I
half expected him to beat on it
with his forepaws, a rodent Tarzan.
I, of course, had no choice but
to stare back at him defiantly,
making clear I wasn’t easily cowed.
Finally, I broke the silence, and said
“Let’s be honest for once, we both
know what we are, and we are
very much the same, for you steal
the nuts from my trees as I
steal the beauty of the early dawn.”
“Agreed,” he replied, “and there’s
a very good chance neither of us
will remember where we hid our prize.”
We sit on our lanai, which
the birds will tell you is
the backyard of their preserve
and watch the sun bid
its blazing farewell to this day.
The birds begin their scheduled
return, ibis in groups,
the self-declared top guns
flying in hot and flat, only
dropping their arrestor hook
as the approach the deck.
The egrets fly in solo
carefully circling, then
extending their landing gear
until they gently alight
and await their next mission
which will come with dawn.
Through it all the anhinga
perch on the bare branches,
offering their direction, happy
to play air traffic controller,
but the limpkins find
my whole metaphor foolish
and too loudly let me know.
When you speak the words
of the Buddha you are lost.
Light is everywhere in silence
but the tongue must hide
in the dark of the mouth.
Buddha’s words are flowers
unfolding in the dawn
by the side of the still pond,
the eyes hear the song
and respond in silent chorus.
an old writer and his words 