A Chapter of Verses Read online

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
r />   Exploring in the rain,

  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