216–Hand Biting

my brother doesn’t know how to

live in harmony with his wives or

his parents or his children he is

wounded to the core of his being

but his grief lashes out instead

of wailing probably because

no one heard him when he cried

how to reach out to him on this

his birthday when he wounds

every hand that reaches toward him

is a mystery to me so i sit here

late at night writing poetry

and keep my hand from being

bitten until i find a way

to raise the white flag

without losing any fingers

this is such a deep grief to me

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215–Where i dance

grand children in pain tear open the heart

when one of them hurts all the generations

of kin grieve i hold them as deeply as i know how

rage at the wolves that stalk their small bodies

dance with each of them in the heart of love

Know What You Want to Talk About and Then Write About Something Else

All should be transformed into a source of wisdom and compassionate living.
—Taitetsu Unno, “Number One Fool” (Tricycle, Spring 2008)

Sometimes at night we stroll and
we do not know where the perfume
comes from, but tonight I have found

from across the deep orchard a hedge
outside the wire fence where the wild rose
is ferocious in its pink blossoming. Its

headstrong bouquet is more gong than harp.
I would know it anywhere.
I try to be still. Try to be alone,

and my heart clangs like a bell.
I try to fall away. I try to disappear.
I try to hurl my discontent into the cloudy river.

And the river says What? to me.
And I do not know what. Don’t understand why.
Confused about how as well.

And I follow my nose to the next
rise of wild roses, stand beside them
and breathe. Every breath, I need to fight for

tonight. Nothing comes easily.

214–Traveling

not sure how i got here

sixty three years after birth

it was no grand plan of mine

just a common daily waking

sleeping and doing it again

now that i’m here though

i take to looking back over

the years of this and think

this time i didn’t miss out

on much except the money

and fine wine maybe next

time or maybe this is my

last swing around this planet

and i’m bound for some outer

world where traveling is

at the speed of thought

New Spine

There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
—Leonard Cohen

No there’s not.
—Finn Trommer, 5 “and a half” years old

All day I practice not knowing. But damned
if that slinky surety doesn’t sink in. No, no
that’s not a dinosaur print, I tell my son,
when he shows me a strange swirl in the sandstone.
Yes, I tell Wendy. You can plant the individual
garlic cloves, and then admit moments later
I just do not know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
There was a time when I thought I did. And perhaps
it is better now. These days, how I notice
everything—the shadowed wrinkles on the cliffs,
the high-voltage scent of wild rose in the morning air—
but it’s not everything, and I can’t help but wonder what I miss.
What I miss, well, the I think I know the list is endless. Perhaps
there were multiple suns in the sky—
I don’t know. I was looking down at the most curious,
strange and wonderful shadows.

214–Sweet Darkness

when night comes on sunburnt

desires sigh and droop just a little

less than in the heat you slip in

and cool down this life that is

hellbent on burning itself to death