It is impossible
to pedal my bike
through morning air
carrying sadness or anger.
The light is alive,
my knees young
and Queen Anne’s Lace
doilies
the roadside.
(No. 44 in a series of responses to Han-Shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Late for the morning ferry,
my only hope this aging motorcycle
I haven’t ridden much lately.
It’s damp, cold—tough
on the elderly battery.
Flip choke,
pull clutch handle,
turn key,
push ignition.
Venerable 1100 turns over,
not too bad for a first try.
By the fourth,
just a spent groan,
dimmed lights.
Dammit!
Then, something never dared
over years of our relationship.
I stop, breathe, lean down
with leather hands,
embrace the outer carbs,
cylinders, […]
An elderly Asian man
finds a seat near me
on the Route 550 to Bellevue.
About every third breath,
he emits a deep Buhhhh
from low in his throat.
This eruption shivers me,
though less than I might
have expected. He is not
so much older than I.
By the time we cross
Lake Washington, I quietly
try on a sympathetic
Buhhhh, about every
third breath. It’s not
so bad […]
Nothing can restrain the light.
Spring billows along the shore,
the roar of the sap
races in my ears.
Dark clouds to the north
and in my chest.
Wherever I look,
sadness and doubt.
Numbing tiredness.
The thrumming of ferry pistons
promises my exhaustion
a lovely short nap.
Misty morning bike ride,
spray on my pant leg.
No bother,
it will dry
and brush off.
Gray sky, water, air,
dull green wash along […]
Sharply dressed
State Patrol people
encourage us ferry riders to relax.
Mothers in airports are asked to taste
their bottled breast milk,
while web sites award prizes
to the most stupid of these measures.
In Iraq a new orphan,
both arms blown off,
knows life will never be
the same.
Our log home is small and simple-
We host no elegant affairs.
Some summer mornings my daughter and I
pick huckleberries for pancakes.
A sniff of the cedar air
braces me for my job in the city,
and during the ferry crossing I read a book
from the stack in the bedroom.
Dr. Huang is a cheery fellow,
and today we talk politics
as he zaps my meridians
with #.005 surgical steel.
“Politics is like a toilet,” he notes,
“smelly, but we need it.”
“Like making sausage,” I offer,
“you don’t want to see
what goes into it.”
Dr. Huang continues,
telling me how
blood sausage is made.
He swirls my energy a last time,
turns off the light, and
I […]
On my morning commute
I pass a panhandler
who insists,
“Top ‘o the morning to you!”
I hurry by.
Who does he think he is
rudely intruding, jocular,
and hoping to make a buck?
It runs
the dark road,
often coned by my bike light.
The steady line is my focus;
I breathe with it like a woman in labor.
Downhill it is my trusted guide,
but its deeper meaning is in the long uphill.
With its counsel I have reviewed my deepest concerns:
divorce, health, life course, the world.
Patiently listening to arguments
with myself and others,
it remains […]
