Learning Your Way

To begin with, you won't know the language.

New countries are always hard,

and you'll probably wonder often why the hell you came.

On some height you may pause, winded,

to see the city laid out below,

but fail to notice that this breathing place

is well along the road.

Here you can become a native,

but you don't yet know what that means.

Hoist your troublesome bundle again and keep walking.

December 23 2022

The sound of one hand clapping

is a mirror without its reflection

a mind emptied of noisy thought

a heart released from fruitless desire

and the words a poet doesn’t need to write.

August 12 2022

Border crossing

We're in a time of borders crossed

or about to be crossed.

The yard is past the tipping point--

there's no recovering from forsythia--

but as yet we only sometimes think

about telephone calls.

He's sleeping more.

Meanwhile, her gown is hanging on the bathroom door

to get the wrinkles out,

and tomorrow she'll walk across the stage.

Reading life always brings us to the turning of its pages.

Tic

Let this hand repose.

This breakfast placemat can be its bed,

not a tapping ground:

no Morse code spelling out the burden of today.

Hand, you’ve telegraphed all this before;

there’s no news in what you’d say.

It’s my only job,

this letting go so I don't fall,

and I won’t send any other message home.

Winter takes it seriously, his job.

He charges just for showing up,

but he really would like to help you.

Unfortunately, he tells you,

he can’t fix it now;

he’ll have to order the part,

and it might not even get here

till spring.

December 24 2021

Hen came to the deck door,

softly asking;

what, we didn’t know.

We were agog:

we haven’t had a chicken here in years.

But no, you can’t come in;

go back to your lady friends.

She jumped through the railings

onto the crazy lawn,

and wobbled to the big rhododendron

at the bottom of the yard.

Next morning we had to entice her

through the open gate,

so she could run off the wrong way

into the woods.

Google confirms

that my name is a question,

which pleases me.

When I tell you I am Michael,

the proper response is,

“No one.”

My niece asked on Facebook what makes us happy.

I will answer the shapes of stone

and the circles of lichen that bloom across granite surfaces.

There's ledge behind our house that I call Sleeping Dog Rock

for the way its back curves as if in sleep.

Deep folds line it, almost cracks,

which tempt me to a chisel, but I would never wake it;

soon enough, but after we've moved away,

the rock will break,

revealing its indisputable answer.

Leave a heart-shaped stone

in your gravel driveway,

to show it can survive the weight of wheels,

the weight of snow,

the wait for spring.

Don’t bring it inside

where warmth is easy;

think of it living in darkness

hour on day on year.

There’s no darkness

in the heart of solid rock,

and it’s clear what it helps you to remember.

Home is where you all find

a place and a way

to fall asleep together.

I think mostly of the dog,

who chooses over his bed

the narrow space

between our bed and the wall

for the sake of being closer.

He starts and groans

and snores and smells.

I know my daughters are in their rooms,

and she is next to me,

so I can turn out the light

to let the darkness cover us,

and lie down

dreaming in my chosen place.

March 26 2022

Aquinnah

It has been a long walk to this lighthouse.

My mother pointed to it from the lookout.

I was young. There were no fences then,

but beach roses and poison ivy intervened,

and I had to run down the cliffs anyway.

For many years the eye was only

something that blinked, red and white;

a distant acquaintance coming into view

around the final bend in the road.

I was busy doing. I didn’t think of it.

Now my family is here,

and I can ask them to go with me.

There's a specific island triumph,

when you reach a place you have always seen

but could never get to before.

This is a bit like that.

It is surprising to find a lawn.

It is surprising to learn

that I could have visited years ago.

I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.

That’s all right.

You had other business.

I'm used to waiting.

You never know when someone will need you.

January 15 2022

Wading

Our dog wrote a poem:

dog

he walk in

water

dog

in water walk

he walk

in river

walk he dog

he grin

he walk

in river

water

walk

he

dog

The wind respects no flags.

It will hang your favorite nation up

in branches, till it's just a tangled rag,

or wrap it around a pole for the rain to darken,

so it could be any country,

orange, red, green, or blue.

Don't kid yourself. Remember:

We're all the same to weather,

and flags fly only at the pleasure of the wind.

January 21 2022