What she really wanted

Taking a white sheet of paper and pen
she made a list of all the things
that had felt really fine
in her life

Sharing extra cold white wine on a deck with the ocean
stretched out in basic blue below
with someone who laughs

The bedroom with the low futon mattress cotton bedding
a window out to bamboo and birdsong
all to herself not that she necessarily wanted to be alone
but still

It was the balance between self and others
That and a glass of wine and some green leaves
without interruption
It was not a whole lot and yet elusive
as any pot of gold

On Planting

Have you seen her in the moonlight
she kneels on the hard earth she wears
a hat as if the light of the reflected sun might
tarnish her spirit or 
wrap the mystery of pomegranates and toasted almonds
so deeply into her skin she would emerge a new
color the deep purple of eggplant 
she plants bulbs beneath the silver white platter
watching her every move from the sky
as if she was about to grow narcissus 
daffodils hyacinths lily of the valley it turns out
she is growing leap frogs
and next week she will plant water lilies
the dark earth under her trowel will melt into
a pond and the silvery moon will watch her 
now from nearer her knees.

do si do

late and wishful he waits alone
the truckstop is on I90
chrome diner, lonely as a weed in asphalt
it has its own cherry tree
and grown from seed an apple tree that blossoms
it never fruits
waystation for drivers through the night
loaded with tomatoes and sometimes peaches

wandering in at an hour for crows in heat
she carries a paper bag of hope
denial was never her strength
bitterness was never her weakness
she is a hard kneed woman
all two yards of her

towards sunrise the entire place will
smell of torn open coffee bags
slightly burned toast and eggs crisp on the edges

Paradise Diner
you wander in the air tastes of something
you may have felt once waiting
for someone to call from the hospital
sometimes the news is all cupcakes and cider
to go

Coloratura

It would have worked better for the soprano coloratura 
Had her face happened fifty years later
Instead of painting lipstick so far outside the lines
She could have had injections
And those eyebrows
Up close it made no sense at all
That they were drawn in 
Surprised arcs into her forehead
Like muddy rainbows
while her real brows were strong lines down by her eyes
Her face up close needed kinder attention
Someone to love her softness
And marvel that from the rosebud like lips
Came a song that would gather tigers with its power
Challenge the weather
And likely lift boulders to lofty spots in the sun

The Braided Tree

Today I saw a tree
It had a hundred trunks
They flowed down from the top branches
Laced themselves together
And reached right into the soil

The tree was narrow like a pencil
Tall like a forest conifer
Leafy wispy and woven
Unlike the others
Whose trunks grew from the ground up

I could tell right away
It had grown itself top down

Walking close I saw the way
the trunk had braided itself
there were footholds and handholds

Grasping tight I pulled myself upwards
Scrambling straight up
brushing cheek with bird wing
Until I was next to the sky
Enfolded in blue
The earth below now belonged to others
And I belonged to the sky

Such is Life Day

This day smells like cinnamon
and tastes like maraschino cherry you made
on the chipped enamel stovetop
I covet every time I hide in your secret
garden where we sip tea
from half sized cups set in pretty fluted saucers
the pattern is called
dance of the grasshopper
It was devised on spruce pine day
boys were shooting off rockets
shy smiles of unimagined success
moon launches on far Fridays
backpack slung onto a railroad car
hooch in a paper bag
flung far as duties left undone
songs not yet sung
one string hanging loose on the guitar
in my back pocket is a square envelope
holding the D string
Is it the one?

Homecoming

When next you see me
a beachy glow
will enfold you
In puakinikini fragrance
soft petals
promises of sunrises

The scent of the air
Will whisper
you will know
all about being back
in your first deep breath

you will feel yourself
fall back together
you will wonder anew
at the softness of black sand

you will be
in that place
where even a nomad
lingers long

April Begins

April you are upon me like a familiar lover
Laying over me promises
Suggesting nuanced splendors in my ear

Of course I succumb to your tender embrace
Warm winking and wet kisses
Growls and sighs amidst the birdsong sweetness

We have awakened together
And you have extracted promises from me
And I from you
In these days, we will move as we will through space
But as for time, it will be slow
Slower than the winds carrying clouds
Slow as the growth of the ohia
Slow as the hapu’u sigh at any midnight

And time
Time will become another story the wind tells
And we can listen and then tell our own story.

Outside There is the Sun

But here I sit coldly
It is the cold of the uncertain plotting of life
perhaps more so of the unfurling of life
the unsteady gait of final chapters

As if on a distant hillside
The old ones of my life have aligned themselves
Still skirting death and yet
They hold hands and flirt with the darkness on the other side

Inviting the grim mask of those tomorrows to step aside
I hurled myself at the jungle
clearing cutting tossing aside armloads of debris
Cutting a new path a clearing an exposing of living trees

Until my arms burned
The birds assured me there was no lament
no helicopters say the volcano is quiet
It will not last but there will be laughter and tears

Everyone is trying to name the answers
If you look in the back of the book
You will see
No one knows what they are.

Things that matter

These things matter
a floor of much walked on wood
or stones into which dirt sinks like water

the gentle touch of a big dog
fur damp from rain outside
lightning forcing stark contrast

the effect of very dried fruit slices
or paper like bark

I have always liked light on water
ripples like time
or laughter

slivers of joy
lights of mirth