Pacific

Crowding down the steep cliff stairs

black-suited surfers, their long boards

scenting brine, one hundred bodies

speckle the gray-blue plain below

where long slow rollers offer nothing

so why the crush mid-afternoon

at November’s end? A quarter mile on

the explanation — cresting frigates of spume

another hundred experts carve runes

next to aspirant juniors upending.

You’d never guess how bitter the cold

this non-pacific break of known water.

Puddle Jump

Swap antics of bird & squirrel

closeup at eye level

for dawn’s daily spectral glory,

cream magnolias for jasmine

walls, summer for fall, another

turning, one more good reason

not to settle down. Thoreau’s

home was a river under his boat,

friend a woodchuck he hypno-

tized by remaining still, poking

at it until it succumbed entirely

to Henry’s observational wiles.

Old age is a time to move

deftly, puddle to brook to wave.

Aubade

Above the flagrant dawn rags

of scrip, skywriting traces

pencil gray, a long message

a never known tongue erases

text the celestial spheres write.

Orange bleeds the bottom line

punctuating what’s not kenned

red melting the tablet to liquid

clay, the record of sold & bought

some clerk’s calculation.

Before this conflagration

the redwoods stand as acolytes

as tresses, tall racks of lace

layers shade from beige to pink

to robin’s egg to aquamarine.

Who could or would want to read

when air’s to see, wisps of wire

spiral an axle, mohair

spins to halos of fairy threads.

Once the blaze subsides surprise

a graph of gray stays, fine

postscript, memory of saying

phonemes awash with lost sense

a flaring fishtail agape

swims out from a weedy maze.

Change

For the first time in two & a half years

I live in a family — three generational —

laundry, washing dishes, cooking meals

for five. The chaos percolates chores

that take my mind off my mind, things

to do when reading fails to suffice,

when winter rains keep me inside

after the poem’s dreamed & drafted. Long

hours — I would count them — before

my conscience allowed me to open a beer,

before I closed the shades that looked down

on a neighbor woman who hacked up

her lungs nightly before team medical

carried her off. I fear her change was fatal.

Shelley’s Skylark Hatches My Turkey

We try to ignore Thanksgiving

but for me the thought of turkey,

for Ben the idea of gravy

grow beyond lurking

into me shopping today, no parking

spot is what I imagine

though I’m off in the pink

dawn — it’s not even six.

On my list a bone-in turkey

breast, potatoes for mashing, stuffing makings,

greens & fruit & drink.

To add zest to the malarkey

Ben invites the nerdy

neighbor & his kidlings.

Pie is what Aaron’s bringing, unless he flakes.

My granddaughter’s jonesing for

her first slice of pumpkin

whereas I ponder mince

or lacking that, pecan —

remember childhood evenings of walnut cracking.

All to say, we’re signing

up for plenty of cooking

& afterward, cleaning

up the mess, all to break

fast with family & friends, a last-minute lark.

Ament

Ament means catkin or idiot.

How are these the same? What is kin to

a cat? What does it mean to be meant?

Poets posture what words say & do

& make them more than they are.

Does hair of the hare hear heart’s ease

or heartache? Johnny jump up or

yellow pansy? Peas or pear or rose.

My Sports Cars Are Long Gone

First came a '69 Fiat Spider,

apricot colored. The understeer

spooked me on S-curves between

Concord & Wayland where I art directored

a local-news-only sheet,

one hundred ads a week, mostly

clipbook art waxed onto n-column

boards. I later owned a Datsun

240Z & suffered most

the day I backed out the garage before

closing the driver-side door —

that cost a bundle. My last

was an ‘81 Mustang I spun

360 on I-495.

After that Mazda, Nissan,

Subaru,Toyota — safe rides.

Words I Put with Sky

like blue & high

are foolish.

Only mystics say the sky

is close
or closing in

when in truth it’s fog

or snow or night or fear of

what we don’t know

or only know the beginning of

like death

or the neverending middle of

like grief, like childhood.

Ducks

I closed my application essay for a masters

degree in writing by noting the presence of ducks

in all my stories — Pekins, Indian Runners,

Khaki Campbells. My Hawaii flock

patrolled the twenty rows of coffee trees

for beetles, snails, slugs, & centipedes.

The rest of the day they spent upended

guzzling goop from the rain-fed pond.

They all had names — Frannie, Tom

(he voted himself alpha, could count to seven,

his head swiveling from one duck to the next),

Ek & El (One & Two in Hawaiian),

Biga & Poolie June — I seldom ate one.

Because he fought with Tom, I gave Ek

to a man who watched him fly into the ocean.

Late nights coding the PDP-10

Do you smoke? asks the questionnaire.

No, not since I was 40, on a date

after a martini & only one.

If so, how much & for how long?

Before that it was late teens, mid-

twenties. I smoked the way my mother smoked —

with others, indifferently, blew rings,

the cost something else I couldn’t afford.

Late nights coding the PDP-10

Michael shared his clove cigarettes —

now those were foul, & also kinda sweet,

stress release from finicky bit diddling.

Ralph smoked nonstop between giggling —

doped to the gills, the way he’d slump back

helpless in his chair, fumble for a fresh pack.

Keyholes

I blame the jacaranda —

bare branched mincing of

flagrant skyful of reddest

dawn, not oculus

but keyholes, yet they last

through my sausage & eggs.

I’m sad the mad display

is over yet if red were sky all day

I’d stop seeing, red would be

the blue, red would make me

long for blue, even if

the jacaranda broke it.

Vinegar, Salt, or Honey

my piss is mostly vinegar

a mass I’ve tried to dilute

acid in your face

is a tough opening

mornings I scoop coffee

into the press before

I’ve coupled the filter

a curse escapes me

I rushed into unknown space

to make my bones

where no one cared

if I made the cut

Thelma was strongest

fierce, capable, independent

helplessly unhappy

she endured

loved us for what

no one had been able

to destroy, honey

salt or vinegar

I had no clue what to go for

no knowledge of joy

every moment felt

had to be paid for

ripe cherry tomatoes

washed & air dried

out of so many

I eat a spoiled one

my vinegar is fear

instinct instilled at home

the open empty smile

offsets my weaponry

every morning first

a big mug of

English tea

sweetened with honey

as if I know

the blade is so sharp

you must be convinced

I won’t use it

Thoreau & Thelma

went outside every day

to find the unapproachable

nameless & wild

fellowship is familial

with plenty of space

collegial, intimate, separate

sometimes face to face

I stay lean

to maintain my edge

as if shrinking to a scrap

were hedge

vinegar, salt, or honey

we’re on the verge

of sinking into someone

who can’t save us

winter descends

a dismal weight, Emily after

Susan pushed her away

despair, disgrace

Thoreau, aside from Walden

lived with family

whoever was left

that saving grace

Perishing Deep

What I miss most is sky

shining pink sky

the conifers laced with pink

hard to say who I miss —

everyone, many or most

dead, perishing deep

red low in the sky

pink dying to gray

Thoreau says decayed

wood is not old

but has just begun

to be what it is

gray soft & velvety

as a seal’s hide

gold mango lemon

gray puffs & streaks

this is only November

the sun not

blocked by a building

lasts & lasts

not like the show

earlier & higher in the sky

all flare & shutter

conchoidal: a kind of

mineral fracture, smooth,

rounded, like a scallop shell

sky lingers, doesn’t want

to go, doesn’t want

night to come

draws night like a wrapper

to sleep inside.

Bench at Delaveaga

A red-capped woodpecker

too far away to ID

grips the lichened bark of a lately

wind-sheared pine, the ragged

sawdust-colored spike

heading six rings of branches

broken when the crown fell.

No hammer sound, the bird

abiding, idly looking around,

sunny day, no breeze.

Place

Phebe renders Greenville oldies.

Shelby’s generations, long gone

yet vividly alive, fill Benson

with hogs, dogs, fox hunts, & tobacco.

My parents’ set match final

takes place in a D.C. hotel.

A place changes when you know

someone who calls it home.

How & who? Where & what for?

Kittens plucked from a break-&-enter

raccoon, a hanging grandfather,

doctor dead set on hara-kiri.

If you can’t make the journey

at least take a seat, watch the movie.