The Enormous Chance
Hi,
By way of introduction, here are a few poems from previously published books. Only new ones from now on. Thanks very much for reading!
Back In Town
Billy Frailly’s got a new shirt,
shaved and walking down the road
ready for anything.
When I was in fifth grade
Billy powered his bike up Church Hill
(black Stetson, yellow kerchief).
I helped him shovel out Mrs. Cowell’s
parking place. He did most of the work,
but he split the money fifty-fifty.
He’s an outcast now;
no frontier he can reach.
But he’s not crying, and we know
there is no virtue, only consequence
and the sometimes music
of a new shirt.
Woodstock, NY
~
For Finn
Born forty years ago
this morning on a sunny day.
Driving through Zena,
bringing you home
on your mom's lap—
Dave Mellert by
the side of the road,
holding his mangled arm;
I told your mom to wait
at the store, got Dave
into Kit's old Cadillac,
did a u-turn and burned
it for Kingston.
"Caught in the chipper."
Blood seeping, Dave weakening.
"Hang on."
We ran some lights;
he made it;
they saved his arm.
Three months later in Buckman's bar,
he came over, "Thanks John."
You don't talk much
in the mountains,
but you remember.
Woodstock
~
Morning, Maine and Honolulu
Early mist breaking
on low tide, mud smell.
Ducks, the small birds,
the rooster down the road
begin to sing the air,
the light, the whole
enormous chance
grateful as the old people
reclaiming Pauahi Street,
seeing each other in doorways
after the night.
~
In The Vast Pacific
Slow and sweet
on stained concrete,
hips swivel and lift,
hands retelling history:
this is how we came here;
this is who we are;
tutus with ukeleles
keep the beat,
laughing, sitting in a row,
flowery mumus to their ankles,
Union 76 gas station,
men on the sidewalk, eating,
drinking beers, talking story…
bursts of music and aloha
climb into the vast Pacific night,
flicker for a moment,
flash to the stars.
Kailua
~
Praying with Tiapala
Sweet smoky incense,
golden Buddha overlooking
offerings of fruit and flowers,
Tiapala chanting, face
like a mountain
above tree line,
a lifetime, a thousand years
intoning prayers and sutras,
as a dolphin leaps or
a cloud drifts,
singing the way.
We join and follow,
swaying slightly in rhythm,
becoming slowly
what we pray for.
Tiapala strikes a gong—
pure sound vibrates
into birdsong, evening,
the deep welcome
of Mauna Loa.
The Big Island
~
Hoot's Triumph
In front of The News Shop, glistening,
green, chrome, black leather,
throbbing at rest—
Hoot’s Triumph,
ready for the road,
5:30, a summer morning,
cool and gray.
Hoot finished his coffee,
held one hand up,
revved the bike twice,
and took off.
He was heading for Denver,
bringing his wife home
after a separation. What,
1500 miles from Woodstock?
Earsplitting. He accelerated
flat out past the green, around
the corner at a 45 degree lean,
down the long hill, shifting
all the way.
We listened, mouths open;
he must have been going a hundred
at the bottom.
“There goes Hoot,” someone said,
finally.
That was in ’66―Vietnam,
lies, waste, the cultural partitioning,
the beginning of the decline
of the U.S.A. Worse now.
But, we can rebuild.
Hoot got his wife back. And,
as they say in the mountains,
“He did it right.”
~
Bach
Each morning,
in a small courtyard
across the alley,
a teenager walks
slowly back and forth
reading a schoolbook
or manual,
repeating phrases
in rhythm with
the peaceful movement
of her legs through shade;
she turns as a line
of Bach turns,
defining old ground
newly, dark hair
bumping gently
on her cotton shirt.
Chandigarh,
India
~
On The Road To Dharamsala
Goat bells: muffled,
low pitched.
Quick high whistles
carrying in thin air,
cheerful, spontaneous,
a complete music
unscored, for
goats, herders,
new pasture,
cliffs, sun &
melting snow.
~
Kamal
Kamal drunk, declaiming
by his brick two-room house,
one up, one under for the cows,
high over the valley.
He drinks his army pension,
works the rest of the month
with his wife and teenaged sons.
“They beat me,” he tells us.
“I haven’t eaten in 48 hours;
I have a very bad wife.”
He is stronger than any of them.
His wife is loving. Strange.
He raves into the night
for hours using practiced
dramatic gestures,
pausing to sing, pacing
back and forth.
I asked Mickey what
the Hindi words meant.
“It’s all bullshit," he said.
Yes, Kamal
is acting badly again―
reproachful,
indignant, angry
to the point of violence,
long hands pleading
in the moonlight.
~
Kamal Repents
Cross-legged on his roof,
rubbing his face briskly,
extending long arms,
circling his wrists,
Kamal surveys the valley.
A devotional chorus issues
from a loudspeaker below.
At the solo, he
begins to sing; his voice
reaches and spreads
throughout the settlement.
Slowly, musically,
suffering is forgiven;
blame becomes blessing;
Kamal repents.
~
On the Back Shore
crusted magma
whirling through
a starry sky
wave sound,
beach roses,
night air shared,
the middle world,
where life depends
on dying for
beauty,
call it love
Peaks Island
Maine
~
In Fall, Spring
for Shunryu Suzuki
September shadows sharp
on green grass,
the migration begins,
the flow south.
Light returns to Patagonia.
We stack wood, gather
seaweed for the garden;
we will live by fire
through starry nights,
crystal pageants of the heart,
while gauchos ride
open-shirted, singing,
to their señoras.
Peaks Island
~
Anything Born
Each morning,
coffee, toast,
play Bach's
Prelude in C,
make a fire,
salute the sun.
Take a shower,
walk.
Give it up.
Anything born
is born naked.
The leaves
are dropping
from the trees.
Peaks Island
~
Presents
In the days when
I thought another would save me,
I worked to be worthy.
But you can't earn love.
Love is free as the stranger
who put a lei around me on
Kalakaua Avenue, her scent
and arms brushing my shoulders.
She walked away;
my knees began to shake; and
I cried for the first time in years.
Half a lifetime ago.
Now, five thousand miles
from Hawaii, a young woman
approaches wearing
a black bowler hat, white shirt,
dark pants, her face oddly pale.
Face powder, lipstick,
a clown or a mime.
I clasp my hands in the namaste
salute. She takes off her hat—
short auburn hair, delicate
features—and bows deeply.
She plucks an invisible flower,
straightens, regards it slowly
from two sides, smells it
with exaggerated satisfaction,
and presents it to me.
I inhale, hold it up to admire,
and toss it high over my shoulder.
Her eyes follow. She pulls from
the hat something held closely
in her fingers, raises her hands
to her mouth, and blows deeply
three, four times. She ties
an imaginary string around its base
and slides her fingers down as
the string rises above her head.
She hands me the balloon,
and I find myself lifted
to my feet and then higher.
I stand on the park bench,
my arm tugged upward
until I let it go.
She claps silently
as I jump to the ground, then,
with a sad face, she holds
the empty hat upside down
before me. Slowly,
I pull a fist full of coins
from my pocket,
and release them
into the hat.
She smiles, delighted,
and bows once more;
she has entertained,
been paid. But the presents,
the flower (a rose)
and the balloon (yellow)—
they cannot be bought;
they float freely;
they are descending
within reach.
Portland, Maine
~
Dharma Walk
slim in white
head to foot,
moving steadily
through crowds,
shoppers, vendors,
smells of grilling chicken,
chilies, steaming rice,
revving motorbikes---
her eyes
freed of desire,
irrepressibly alive,
greeting Buddha
every side
Chiang Mai Gate
Thailand
~
Hallelujah
life, a silhouette
defined
by the darkness
into which
it disappears---
yet, this morning,
by Angel’s Cafe,
an eighty year old,
hair swept up and held
with a simple comb,
walked confidently
on the cobblestones,
delicate cotton
singing with blue
flowing to her ankles
Chiang Mai
~
Mary Cassatt
In an Italian restaurant
in Chiang Mai, designing
a table for a van in which
I will live, a toddler with
short fuzzy hair is attended
by his mother and two Thai
waitresses and Mary Cassatt
who, childless, painted maternity
just so, tender & watchful.
The little boy rubs his nose.
He will not remember, but
he will stride forward
confidently.
Chiang Mai
~
O Rosy
Dusan said you died
a beautiful death, "at peace,
the complete peace given only
to those of great integrity."
Ten years since we lay together
in the small bedroom with the roof
window, making light of life.
We loved you,
your kindness flowering
from a field of sorrow.
Lying beside you, feeling
the pain never spoken…
O Rosy, I have not your alchemy,
have little of your kindness,
how do I change this to gold?
I can’t see for tears. Can only howl
like a wolf: Rosy
O Rosy!
~
Saturday Night at Daret’s
Praising
the rough justice
of nature---
the ravenous young,
an old woman sitting,
chopping, peeling, scraping
all day long, her gentle,
free, forgiving smile---
we have “had our innings,”
as Rosy would have said.
Only those who dare
the no space
between humility and pride
escape
the cruelty of time.
Chiang Mai
~
Beth
Karma or
a hand of cards—
thirty years
to clear away
sadness and abuse.
Now you smile
the beautiful smile
of what is,
nothing excluded,
nothing false;
and I am
inexplicably set free,
on the Dharma path,
able to be plain.
McLeod Ganj
India
~
For Kalsang
When I see the moon
and think of you
in sunshine, I will jump
up and down!
Your feet will laugh,
no world between us.
McLeod Ganj
~
Lion's Mane
Our loves,
by death
and divergence,
one by one
we lose them.
Each leaves
a color
loosely woven
with the others,
astride
our naked shoulders,
a lion’s mane—
precious, radiant,
with us
to the end.
~