Old Schmitty was 88 when we met, back when
he used his last two working fingers
to peck out short, dense treatises
on love, nature, kindness.
We’d unpack his thoughts for hours
searching the Yeomalt beach
or watching the Sound from his driftwood wicki.
I lived just up the hill,
and I’d find him whenever I came looking,
on the beach or by his […]
Positive
a remembered mountain
lies around this bend in the trail;
more dense forest.
Leaving the theater,
searching for my car,
turning in the wrong
direction.
Driving around my Island
home of thirty years,
shortest routes elude me.
I’ve always been this way.
Each time illusions melt,
chaos,
providing a fresh chance
to see.
(No. 98 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
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.
February 2, 2003
Today, seven astronauts exploded high in the sky.
Seven skiers perished under Canadian snows.
Thirty-three shoppers burned in a Chinese mall.
While our nation prepared to shock
and awe the people of the Middle East.
All of this makes it difficult
to smile for the camera.
This is not a problem for the children,
riding high on parents’ shoulders.
