A Poem for Maureen

A Poem for Maureen


I had slept on the lower hall couch,
It raining so hard as to wash away the world
  As night summer thunders often do

Waking when the rain had stopped, all others in bed,
  It was up to my cabin in the woods I head,
Deep in the woods and up the hill
  Out the kitchen door, over the meadow path,
Where only dripping trees remained
   Of Nature’s past torrential wrath

Without a moon, without the stars,
  No flashlight in my hand,
I tread uphill with caution, touching toe
  First to find a rock or sand,
As I must keep upon the path,
  Within its trodden well walked band

Until I found that I was off,
  My foot before told me the ground fell off,
As I was on the edge of a crevasse,
  The depth of which I could not know,

So I stood,

No natural or manmade light,
  Only about me total night,
As if it was in space I stood,
  And not within a mountain wood

And I float,

Unsure even which way was up
As I was flying in a Bardo,
  A senseless place, not life nor death,
Where mindless fears, imagined demons,
  All walk and rule unnatural space

Out of my mind

For they cannot be real,
  Here in this place where I can’t feel
Except these rampant fears unkind
  That I brought here within my mind

Outside of time

For how long I stood there …
  All I was was unknowing,
All I was was unmeasurable
  Unstaked black distance from a death to new life,
The latter of which marked when for no reason,
  Maureen,
You flipped the switch on your cabin porch light

And I was reborn

Back in the world, dispelled of the night,
It’s said the mindful pick their mothers,
  Would I had a choice, I’d pick no other,
For your kindness brought me back to life,
  You made my world, you gave me sight

Plant Potatoes

Plant Potatoes


First you plant potatoes,
  Buried in a little hill,
Water as you ought’a,
  And you let ‘em grow until,
September come around,
  And now you dig ‘em out the ground

Eat the big’uns, put the lit’luns,
  In a sturdy paper bag,
Save ‘em in yer basement,
  or your cool garage until,
After frostime in the spring time,
  Bury in a little hill …

The Mourning Dove

The Mourning Dove


The brood doves’ consort is a Highland Piper,
A silhouette upon a peaked neighbors roof,
  Where he broods in grief

Too late had she returned to the nest,
Past the warmth of summer,
  Now into autumn’s cool,
Yet there she is, twigs up to her breast
On a nest upon the driveway lamp,
  An end of summer’s endurance test

How much longer can she guard a clutch
  Who’s chance of hatching isn’t much,
Or will she sit on them all fall
  Under the watching Piper’s pall

The Face Plant

The Face Plant


It seems a natural act,
  Sunflowers bow down to the ground
As their flower petals fall,
  They do so slowly, without sound


In Spring they grow straight upwards,
  Reaching high up as would trees,
There to make it easier for
  Summer’s humming birds and bees

I truly find sunflower scent
  Is pleasanter than most,
Their brown florets let aromas of
  Warm cinnamon on toast

Yet be careful of your nose
  There’s yellow pollen on bee knees,
Which if too heartily sniffed is surely
  Bound to make you sneeze

Then come the days when they will turn
  And ready for the fall,
Seeing heavy canes all bowing
  Is the saddest sight of all

And then they kip face over
  Lying abject on the dirt,
Until the day seed faces sprout,
  Sometime about next April first

Mermaid

Mermaid

I and a friend took a bus to the end
Of the island, where all the beautiful people come,
She too was on the bus, I didn’t know her then,
She too was with a friend, why would I care?
We walked down to the public beach,
Went on a way, far out of reach
Of parents with their kids, we let them be

Soon after we unfolded our beach chairs,
I turned and saw her sitting there,
Not uncomfortable, I was comfortable,
When came that Man moment we have at all ‘nude’ beaches,
I stood up and dropped our my shorts, thinking only
“How much lotion should I apply, and where?”
Though no one watched, I’d not coat it there

Under the July sun, glistening bodies all about,
She and her friend too sunbathed without tops,
I looked away, the gentleman,
… not my first day on the beach

Like a touch of cold water,
She chilled me from behind, asking;
  “Could you please take our picture?” offering her phone,
They walked back to the cliffs, stood arm in arm,
I framed them in the camera mode, they leaned in close,
A safety, plus my pulse too was clicking,
She thanked me for her phone, and I felt strongly
My friend and I needed a swim, in cold water,
A place where I could hide my pride
  … and safely be unseen

She and her friend came after too,
A few yards down, watching her I dreamed, as we,
Unknowing, naked children in our same sea bed,
Dove and jumped within Poseidon’s green waves,
Whose sea fig leaves only preserved our innocence,
Yet soon the cold sea did its job, cooling my blood,
I walked back to my beach chair, and watched

She climbed to sit upon a sea rock,
Her friend frolicking nymphlike in the froth before her,
She taking white sea spray upon her breasts,
White gouts of foam ran down her laughing face,
I had to put my shorts on

Late came time to return for the bus,
She with her friend, dressed again as we,
Leading to where we would need part,
At their bus stop, miles before we came to ours

Wanderlust,
We have returned to that beach since,
She’s not been back, not one footprint

Why Did the Chipmunk Cross the Road?

Why Did the Chipmunk Cross the Road?

A Sunday morning in the Zendo,
Doing his discourse, Roshi asked,
 “This time of year, late August, you see so many,
  They scuttle out, they run back,
  Another scuttles out, and runs back,
  Why do many run across this time of year?”

He didn’t ask me directly,
But I always heard his koans
  As meant for me to know

And he was right,
  Back and forth between Woodstock,
Many times on the road,
  I’d see them run out before the car,
Turn back to the safety of the brush with a squeak,
  Out before the car, back even more quick

And there were so many, every hundred yards
  Another flattened chipmunk pelt, these little tiny rugs,
Some in different positions or attitude,
  A tell-tale red gut splatch by the fresh,
Too often another chipmunk sized spot on the pavement
  One tire circumference down the way,
And on so in succession, fading ghostlike
  Down the lane

Imagine, so small, young, roadside, in the weeds,
  Having crossed the road,
Comes a rumble! Thunder! Loud noise! Wind!
  Storm! A Storm! Got to run home!
Out in the street – Terror!
  Back in the brush – Terror!
And no, we don’t always make it back to the bush,
  Running to safety, meeting death

This was around the time I told him I was leaving,
Roshi asked me, “Where are you going?”
  I answered,
“My Father sold the house, but he’s kept an apartment for my younger brother,
  He’s going back to school in September, I’m going to stay there”

The Great Blue Heron of Basho’ Pond

The Great Blue Heron of Basho’ Pond

Sunday and Roshi began his discourse;
  “Who has seen the Great Blue Heron of Basho’ Pond?”
An uncommon challenge, his sparing us
  The usual inscrutable old Chinese Koan

For days after I could only imagine
  That magical avian demigod,
Likely more Pokemon than bird,
  Its blue feathers coating the sky,
Its phoenix godhead blazing to burn away the
  False facades of Nature,
In itself, the more I imagined, deeply ornate,
  Flying in MC Escher tessellations,
Iconic and mystifying,,
  Heart of its own Tibetan Mandala  

Thought I, dreaming on, ignoring,
  Tibetans build their Mandalas of sand,
Working sometimes months in detail,
  Only to ceremonially brush all away

Until I met the Heron, and it asked me,
  “What are you doing here?” and
“Get you to market and earn your keep!”
  That’s what an iconic Heron says

See, our ‘Basho’s pond’ was a real pool,
  Swamped out behind an earthen bridge up the hill,
Made with dirt leftover from when
  Bulldozers leveled the baseball field
And dammed the mountain stream,
  The lot was once a summer camp

Sitting on that bridge,
  Patience and time always dissolve my constructions,
I saw it walk out from the swamp bottom,
  Punks and reeds,
It wore a mange, it watched back its shadow,
  Throat twitching as it practiced to swallow
Basho’s popcorn tadpoles, which
   Surely he’d come up from the river for

All in all, just an ordinary bird,
  Defying Old Roshi’s grand gestures and words,
Molting feathers testified to a true physique
  That relieved me of all excessive mystique,
In skinny yellow boots,
  Standing knee deep in the creek,
Pointing his beak to where today
  Are all the heavens we need seek

After my scolding he flew off,
  Back to the Esopus, no doubt

I also saw Basho’s Mink, carried
  A green frog in his mouth,
     Frog legs for dinner -
        (mizu no oto)