304–Bird Music

here the morning sounds are

garbage trucks mixed with

birds squawking or tweeting

according to their individual

birdness my birdness squawks

a lot but there are mornings

so sweet in communion with

you my song must rival the

sweetest bird’s they have

taught me to sing in all these

seemingly god-forsaken places

where in reality you perform

your deepest music suburbs

were made for machines and

asphalt listening beyond sound

i hear skimming over

the roads a hum of love

and light unknown to the

marvelous sea

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How Do I Know

The point of practice is to avoid fooling yourself.
—Zen saying

It is not that I am in love.
It’s just that the aspen leaves really do
look like ten thousand suns hung

on the limbs of every tree,
and the air really does smell sweet,
not floral, but a deeper sweetness

that comes as things grow old.
And the wind really does caress
the skin as if it’s a tenderest hand.

And the smile on my face is even wider
inside where no one can see. All
the small mouths on each cell of my body

are praising today—though I am
caught up in the same tangle
of shoulds and to dos and musts

as I was yesterday and the day before.
And I know the leaves will fall. They
are falling even now. It’s not

that I am in love, though that is true.
The day simply is a miracle, opening
like a gate, like a hand, like a mind.

303-Addressing the State of Affairs

i address the empty room

there are so many possibilities

i begin, we could just power down

get tribal again and dance a lot

the crowd smiles condescendingly

so i go on or we could let go of greed

and attach ourselves to the Beloved

in each other give ourselves and our

goods away leaving no need for all

that energy to protect our possessions

again i see the rolling eyes hear the

impatient sighs so i change tactics

or….you could get rich by just opening’

your mind to think in terms of physics

really see how everything holds so much

joy and abundance that we could pool

our resources and start companies that

would save the world

just before i said save the world i noticed

a few people sitting up and listening but

i lost them with that line so now i know i have

to come up with something fabulous or

it’s over so i close my mouth, walk outside

take the hand of that gorgeous pomegranate

tree that is gloriously growing in the front

yard and begin to dance and sing and that’s

the only time anyone joins in

Rumi Goes to Kindergarten

And when Miss Lackey says, “Children,
this is so sad, someone
left the lid off of the marker,

and we know how valuable they are,”
Rumi raises his hand and says,
“September is a time for death,

do you think death is a bad thing?”
And Miss Lackey tips her head
in an inquisitive way, as she does,

and then kneels down close to him.
“Did you do it?” Miss Lackey asks Rumi.
“Did you leave the lid off the black pen?”

He smiles. “Your task is not to seek
for who has done what, rather to find
all the walls you have built around the way

you think things should be.”
Miss Lackey gives him a lopsided smile.
“Rumi, do you mean me?”

She sends the rest of the kids to recess.
Meanwhile Rumi sits in his chair.
“You’re a funny one Rumi,”

Miss Lackey says. “I’m a fool,”
he says, jumps on the table
and starts to spin. “Five more minutes,”

says Miss Lackey. And Rumi grins.

You are the path and you are the field
beside the path, you are the leaf
and the flutter.

You in the gaps, in the moonless night.
You even where I can’t find you.

302–Poet Communion

really don’t mind not being

a poet’s poet these days

when i attended a rare reading

here in the southern half of

the california coastline a couple

of days ago, i did not miss the

fawning fans the crack of a poetic

word joke still the communion of

poets is a loss i won’t soon forget

here in my wasteland that knows

so little of the companionship

of poets