What am I supposed to do

What am I supposed to do
when I wake
to this world
from faded dreams
like
winter daybreak 
veiled in foggy darkness
thirteen point eight
billion years
of potential 
spark inside 
every cell
that I call
myself
before you
praying 
sitting 
in that chair
facing sunrise 
through the window 
each new day
far off
the fog 
shrouded 
trees
know what to do
as their leaves
ready
for the star
called Sun
to prepare 
break fast
while I brew
two cups of coffee
that seem 
a fitting outcome
a tip of the arrow
of time
my time
our time
yet I wonder
if the quiver 
holds  
more arrows.

A Blink of the Eye

It happened so quick

I paused to reflect

afterward 

to be precise

it seemed 

it was all before 

what was left

was afterward

with but hope

that memories 

would remain 

intact

did the red rose

greet my nose

did the foam 

of the wave

greet my toes

did the finch

listen

to my sighs

while I await

the peach to ripen

under

the summer sun.

Diving for Truths

Plunging down

into the unknown

I reach and take

again and again

then out of breath

I break the surface

gasping 

for familiar air

my hands 

still tightly gripped

I wait

my backpack heavy 

with

colorful shells

abandoned homes

of those 

with stories

never 

told.

The Map

I need that map

to find that place 

I need to go

else postpone 

my will 

to go 

I wake this morning 

lost a dream

yet I find

time marks that spot

on the map

she kept in mind

for me

to find

Where are the words?

Where are the words?

When waiting for them

to arrive

I stand beside

empty tracks

awake in the still

darkness 

day doesn’t break

I can’t remember

holding a just arrived

letter in hand

ballpoint penned words

vague memories

night sky stars

silent pin points

evening primroses

waiting for dawn

a black cat

awaits its next

meal

a pencil in hand

and a rover on Mars

finds not one

cigarette butt

left by a wayward

poet.

 

Meditation #1

Meditation #4

Meditation #7

Meditation #3

Madras, Oregon | August 21, 2017

Bob Dylan

... and it continues 

to this day

he, a magpie, of sorts 

collected not only 

pretty

but the unusual 

head scratching truth 

missed by others 

yet seen  

for the first time 

open minds 

that open eyes 

were blind to see 

he filled his pockets

on streets and alleyways 

his clickety clacking typewriter

revealed  

now empty pockets 

a mind smudged 

with black ink 

hammered 

to white paper

messages 

from the future

revealed

to our memories

of the past.

Where have all the Bloggers Gone?

It was as though 

the Santa Ana winds 

came suddenly 

in the night 

so that in the morning 

I sneezed

and again

the warm air

now alive 

pollen 

and whatever 

more

yet the 

stilled air 

the mountains

like 

one of those 

super realism paintings

the spine of LA

with the march of peaks 

holding back 

the onslaught of sand

the Mojave beyond

we nestled on this side

the Pacific

holding us at bay

and all those writers

poets and artists 

for years at the break

of dawn

tapping their hearts out

filling their blogs

for who?

they only hoped

an audience?

awaiting the words

to spill over 

as the coffee brewed 

we had our favorites

always open for 

just one more

the mundane 

made holy 

as minds reached out

for kindred spirits

to share the moment

a place in time 

this time

our time

on this mote

of rock

we call Earth

then someone blinked 

who? I don’t know 

but time caught up

with some

as if a cane

excused one so

others never held

onto anything for long

so letting go

for them

was as natural

as it is 

for me

to hold on tight.

That Day

The foot slipped
off the rocks 
with gravity 
to blame
for the twist
and the limp
that followed
down the mountain
divided the moments 
with tiny blue 
and yellow flowers
in bloom 
the shade beneath
the pine and fir
cooled the breeze
between winces
then a large boulder
edging the creek 
provided a respite 
as the boot was unlaced
the sock pulled 
icy water
numbed the twist 
as he caught
a glimpse 
he thought
a brook trout? 
the mazy lines
olive green?
red spots with
blue halos
then gone
as his eyes
rested   
a garden of bracken 
the other side
and only later
did he discover 
a dried fern frond
a fiddlehead
in his knapsack 
the only proof 
he had left
of that moment
from a long ago
summer day.

Manzanar

If You Prefer

It was during that walk
in the woods 
or if you prefer
a forest
alone and just
sunlight streaming
to a mottled earth
of green ferns 
and a rocky path 
and the breeze 
was so that 
it enveloped me 
with a kindness 
of warmth 
until I paused 
to sit atop a fallen 
sugar pine 
and was struck 
by myself 
and a beetle 
on the log
I watched and wondered 
so exquisite a creature 
could be alone too 
but now we two
and the warm breeze 
on a mountain 
and I looked 
then on hands and knees
followed that beetle 
climbing that felled tree 
and it struck me 
that he may have been
guilty to the act 
a descendant of the party
that fed on and stressed 
that towering pine 
so that one day 
it gave up
and laid itself to rest
and now I stared 
an hour or so
until tears
flowed 
with euphoric
joy
to be graced 
by God
and that moment
so long ago
forever is
my touchstone
for this thing
called life.

News

It’s funny that  

he bore witness 

to news 

written on stone 

images of deer 

tracks of bear 

and buffalo  

now  

breaking news 

on screens 

that glow 

never mind 

newspapers 

stacked 

in dark corners  

never to see 

the light of day 

trees 

long ago 

felled 

by a whipsaw 

now hanging 

on that restaurant 

wall 

the old man looked 

and sipped his coffee 

and knew

the writing was 

now 

on 

the 

wall.

Fish Lake, Utah

Monument Valley

Newspaper Rock, Utah

Heaven