Lend an Ear to Hoichi (renga)

Fallen samurai,

salt waves embrace the broken,

moon on haunted shore.

The biwa weeps on blind hands,

but no ears hear these chill winds.

In Praise of Discourse: The Unreal Truth

though stronger coffee grinds

You (are) woke in the morning,

to find/fog on the door; her

lips touch the silhouettes of unreal

with longer fingernails

You (are) wont to live in the secret,

classrooms; your current lovers’ /unborn

dreams scratch future chalkboards

so happy to have them

You are w(h)et in swordfishes

hero thoughts; swashbuckling/gangplank

oceans poke you back

"for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)/ it's always ourselves we find in the sea" e.e.cummings (it was his birthday yesterday 10/14/1894) I noticed Amy George had posted this quote after I wrote this poem, quite coincidentally - it really seemed to fit so I borrowed it, thanks Amy!

we are never ready (tanka)

As Autumn turns cold,

half-eaten pecans yet fall,

littering the walk.

Squirrels have discarded them

because of bitter green hulls.

The Moon InConstantinople (Limerick)

In Constantinople they cried A sword in Constantine's side The inconstant moon had signaled their doom And the Byzantine Empire died

Sundown at White Rock

The pelicans are dreaming

as the sun rolls down

out of low clouds, to the side of the hill.

They are the advance team,

the rest to trickle in

over a darkening month or two.

Are they supposed to be here yet?

They are white enough to be ghosts of pelicans

in eternal migration,

just checking in, until the real pelicans arrive.

A stiff breeze off the spillway

makes for a struggle.

Legs burning, rounding the twist,

I am slowed by the skates of children,

their dogs on long leashes;

slowed long enough to glance

past one man and his five fishing poles,

to aureate slivers of mainsails at sundown

and a line of egrets, or shooting stars,

a foot above the water.

I hit 25 on an uphill climb,

passing a younger man at a thin place

in the road, where wild parakeets

build electric cradles to a 100 kilovolt hum

Mendocino Meditation on Two Paths of Old Friends: A Tanka

There is no rhythm

to the clanging of the bell

hanging from the buoy.

Our camp fire, the barking seals

infused by the fog horn's moan.

for my friend Khalden

All Dogs Leave Too Soon

They are such difficult flowers, hothouse orchids, we water with care; they love at our mercy. Though strong and beautiful, fiercely loyal, they cannot stay. They arrive full of belonging, and willingness to trade some of their nature, to stake a large claim to a small piece of ours. All dogs leave too soon; and join the growing lines of hieroglyphics, scrawled in the arcane tombs of our love.