The Net Thrower

A shadow breaks free
reaches into a dance-move
one arm tracing the arc
of the planets one leg
angled in flight
the other tree deep-
rooted, balanced

Those fine, knotted intersections
held back in their gathered mass
now float aloft wrinkling
and unwrinkling in waves
of geometry folding
and unfolding

To capture the moment
release a chaos of ink
to seek synchronicity
land it on the page
caught up, wriggling
to get free

He knows of the dark mass
under the surface
so he returns to the edge
of day and sea ready
to undo life's energy
huddling in tide pools

Upolu Airport Road Pastoral

I’ve always liked the view despite the clouds
the telephone poles their sagging lines
playing slack key up and down the straight road
the way the northeast winds suggest each turn
of the languid mobius windmill blades

the way the cattle people this scene fretting
into each other’s skins in these wide open spaces
or the egrets who rise up from their cross-eyed
meditations and hold steady their white
brush strokes against the lapis lazuli

the fierce channel where Maui heavily
weighs being an island against being
a mountain anyway what's in a name
that a search engine can't tell me
all I know is one foot in front of the other

and thoughts from forty years ago
looking to land — too much is never enough
we seem to say but now I wonder about
the mess we’re in how separate we feel
just because we can pick up our feet

or take pictures with our iPhone
see that cow over there the one who
attacked the backhoe back when this was just
a field you know before the windmills came
that was a sight the cow charging the digger

defending her turf her patch of earth
she knew something we were slow to get
the winds of change and the roots
of technology running deep right here
in mid-Pacific where the whitecaps
hide the latest splash of a whale from us

Paradise In Fourteen Lines

over the sea and far away
the seven sailing stars above
clouds encircle islands like a lei
and the whales still talk of love
some travelers stay awhile and leave
while some people find a home at last
some give back more than they receive
some say they used to move too fast
paradoxically this land called paradise
looks deceptively slow and easy at first
but life’s on the edge and a word to the wise
before your endless vacation bubbles burst
never turn your back on the ocean
and watch out for the goddess of lava in motion

The Generosity Of Numbers

I like the generosity of numbers, the way they fill pages with their flourishes and tails, the way their eyes pop open or close tight, and their strict lines, too, their parallel bars at times, their intersections and severe cross-hatchings, as if they're saying All is precision. All may be counted. And indeed, they tally up the waves and wind, the barometric undulations of our elemental days. How thrilling! How generous indeed. And what if we'd lost them in a funk? Where would we be? Driving who knows how many miles per hour. Enduring how many or how few degrees F or C. We'd never measure up, now, would we? Or take the book, the best line, the quotation we savor with all our might, and now we cannot find the page which numbered would deliver us from the fate of the lost soul at sea — in a world without numbers. Oh yes, they are our boat, our craft, the leaping dolphin, too, or three, or twenty-seven. They are the days of the week, most thoughtful of them! The minutes and the years...

The Effects Of Bee Pollen On The Male Libran

It's a bird! It's a plane!
Why can't it be a man?

Honey! Honey! he said
as she cycled down the road

sounds of children
in the near distance

— Honey! You forgot
the shopping list!

Suddenly a gentle
but firm wind pushes
against his breastbone

his arms instinctively
throw themselves back
and his legs belong to

Baryshnikov they're
not his anymore
he's, he's floating, rising

the children's voices
spin by like he's the merry-go-round
and yet he rises

why is this happening
what the hell was in that
cereal she gave me this morning?

Could it be
the coffee?
Oh God!
It's the bee pollen

He knows now the entire
spoonful was too much
she warned him: Only a taste
only a few granules

and now look
Where is she?
Why doesn't she
see what's going on?

Why doesn't she
turn around?
Can't
she
see?

Tree And Trumpet

There's the tree rooted firmly in that corner of the garden, branches bare this time of year, though buds appear to promise that these ancient limbs are no less capable than their supple neighbors. Lichens rust, gray and green may be found clinging to one side where the prevailing cold enters this scene. A robin redbreast clasps a crooked arm. She gives us her bold and complex song. We strive to hear repetition and find none, although there is an inner song that changes little, one of jubilation riding just this side of doom and decay, but for now, her song holds forth, catching us up in her quest for life — could be a fat wriggler amidst the dirt and twigs — could be more than we expected from a mere bird, anticipation of the shovel, say, and the hand of the gardener who will open up the earth a minute just in time for breakfast.

We see our breath this time of year, especially that dew-heavy hour when dawn comes in with enough light to go around, so much we take it for granted. Not so the tree, whose sap though slow to rise this side of February, will indeed move through the xylem cells and push pale blossom first and later on the leaf, heralded by the pastel fall. And so we express our wonder at the show of Spring, the intensities of Summer and Autumn's withering beauty — seasons and senses filled with smoke and light, glimpses of gold and reassuring greens.

Stacked together like books on the shelf we reach out and take these colors and their awakening codes to our room or spread them out upon the table asking for more when we're the ones being asked to bring what we already have. And what might that be?

Wakefulness. Patience. Silence. Laughter. Applause.

Listening now to Leonore #3 on the heels of #1 and #2 my goodness the weight and pace and clarity is extraordinary. All the momentum of the first two is there but so uncluttered and driven, not stripped away but consolidated — an economy of sound but no less rich or full. More rich, more full. It's as if the spaces now created in this third version find us pulled in, drawn magnetically, compelled by echo and fading lights, quickened by resounding timpani and brass, enlivened by strings striking and dancing across the mind.

There's the trumpet — so far offstage he's in the hallway where the security guard questions him. Oy, mate! Wotcha doin' lurkin' out here, then? Well, the answer might be, Do you want the cavalry to come or not?

Yes, please...

Centipede Tracks

Centipede tracks in the dust defining the anatomy of the past — like the time you took your siesta under the swing set and dozed off to the faint percussions of far-off conversations in that coffee shop in the rain the way it fell in big drops one per cloud passing over the wires, one at a time, too, from each runnel of the corrugated roofing — you know, those corduroy roads the plantation trucks claimed as their own. Those were the dust storm days with a small confusion at the weekend as Shinto and Christian split the difference in the morning air. Go ahead, say you weren't there. Say the bits fell apart with every swipe of the machete and every crumpled chit they used instead of money, but I'm telling you it all comes down to this place right here, the components whole again, everyone living in each other's head and the excruciating sting of the truth burning off all the hairs of your right arm.

Song For Aunt Helen

Song For Aunt Helen
— On Her Eightieth Birthday

You set the whites out on the hedges
Pulling bleach down from the sun
Gooseberry pies cooled on the ledges
Each day sang its work hard won

You were the young and faithful daughter
Milking the cows, making the bread
Fetching the eggs, carrying water
Long after everything was said

All across the hayfields you did go
Taking the tea to feed the men
Season to season, fast or slow
Blackbird, robin, thrush or wren

Nieces and nephews near or far
Followed you about, cried on your shoulder
Horse and trap to bicycle and car
Summer came and found you older

And when the old ones passed away
Winter surrendered to the spring
The bitter cold gave up its coat of grey
And you untied your apron strings

Up to the capital you traveled
Searching for another way to live
Everything you knew had just unraveled
You wondered what you had to give

You crossed the wide Atlantic Ocean
Saying farewell to your beloved home
Ships and planes and trains, slow motion
Afraid you would forever roam

All across the city you did venture
Following your heart, your head, your hands
Making friends on your adventure
Setting roots down in new lands

How quickly now the fiddlers play
The ring upon your hand, the man close by
A tear of joy and love will have its day
And time will tell this story with a sigh

You are our wise and faithful aunt
Who’s given us so much and for so long
The one whose life says can! not can’t
The one for whom we sing this song