want to go for a walk?"
Boomer bobs his head in agreement
and runs around in a circle.
"Okay," I say.
I turn over,
throw off the blankets,
raise my upper body
and swing my legs around and over
the edge of the bed.
I sit on the edge of the bed
with my feet touching the floor
and my hands at my sides,
all holding me up as my upper body
leans over the edge.
I am still half asleep.
I look around to my right for Boomer,
but he is no where to be found.
Boomer went for his last walk
some thirty years ago.
THIN, WISPY CLOUDS
Some time ago, I was lucky to visit Machu Picchu,
stony ruins and bits of green,
perched precariously on a mountain ridge,
close to the sun, moon, and mountains,
all worshiped as gods by the ancient Incas.
It is a place where thin, wispy clouds
seemingly emanate from jagged mountain peaks,
framed by a blue sky.
While there, I met New Age believers,
all dressed in white,
running up the rocky trails
with bruised bare feet.
Under one huge outcropping,
to the slow beat of drums
and chanting,
some New Agers burned incense,
prayed
and slowly danced in circles
with their arms raised to the sky.
Undoubtedly, like the Incas before them,
the New Agers enjoyed a mystical experience,
the kind that some have always believed
is Machu Picchu.
I am sorry to say that I didn't feel anything:
nada, nothing.
Maybe it was because
I didn't chant, pray, dance
and breathe incense.
Maybe it was because
I didn't open my heart and mind
to the infinite possibilities of life.
Or, maybe, it was because
I simply didn't believe.
In any case, for me, Machu Picchu
was nothing more than beautifully handcrafted stonework,
a testament perhaps to religious faith,
engineering, cooperation
and dedication.
For me, a truly mystical experience
has been sitting in my backyard,
surrounded by trees on a warm spring day
while dozens of birds chirp and sing
and thin, wispy clouds
pass against a blue sky.
HOW IS YOUR SOUP?
"How is your soup?"
"Fine," says my 80-year-old mother.
It is a warm summer day.
I have taken my mother out to lunch
at an outdoor caf?.
I notice something white pass by
out of the corner of my eye.
I point and say, "Look."
With a disapproving tone,
my mother says, "It's a moth."
"Technically, it's a butterfly."
My mother replies, "How do you know?"
"A butterfly flies during the day
and has pointed antennae.
A moth flies at night
and has feathery antennae."
As I lean back in my chair,
I wonder how many of us go
through life as butterflies or
moths or butterflies mistaken
for moths.
How many of us have had our
dreams cut short
or stifled
because people thought
we were one thing or the other?
Or, maybe our wings were the "wrong"
color, shape or size?
My mother says, "It is a beautiful day."
I smile and reply,
"Yes, it certainly is."
LATE WINTER
As tall pines throw cold shadows
across my side of the street,
a late winter chill
pierces my body.
I bury my hands into my pockets
and walk faster
to beat off the bitterness,
but I can't seem to keep
my hands warm.
I stop, cup my hands against my mouth
and exhale.
Vapor rises and hovers
over my head
like so many words that now go unspoken.
When you decided to forego a third round
of walking darkness,
we sat together.
Remember - we held hands.
Your hands were cold,
but I could always warm them up for you.
When the nurse woke me
to tell me that your time was near,
we were together.
Remember - I held your hand,
but as much as I tried,
I couldn't warm it up.
(sigh)
I pull down my hat,
tighten the collar of my jacket,
and start walking to the other side of the street,
where strangers are standing sentry
against sunlit walls
to ward off the cold.
STORIES
It's very dark
with a new moon.
As I look out from my doorway,
I can see the Milky Way,
a glowing creamy swath
across the heavens with thousands
of twinkling stars.
Fluttering around
my porch lantern is a moth,
confused by the lantern's
"moonlight."
Do you think the moth can comprehend
that the "tiny moon" he is flying around
is actually an arc of electricity,
generated by falling water in the Sierras
and carried across California
by thin cables to my front door?
Can the moth comprehend
the making of the electricity and light,
never mind the makers' designs
and intentions?
If the moth tried to explain
this marvelous tiny moon
to other moths,
what story would he tell?
Leaning against the doorjamb,
I look at the stars:
How awestruck
man must have felt
when he first gazed
at the moon, stars, and planets.
If man tried to explain the heavens,
maybe even our place in the cosmos,
imagine what wonderful stories
man told while sitting around
the camp fire.
As moths circle lights
across the world this evening,
imagine what wonderful stories
are being told.
MAYBE EVEN ENJOY A SUNSET?
When I lean over to study
a tiny insect,
not much bigger than a pinhead,
I think how miraculous life is,
how miraculous
that something
so insignificant
can eat, flee, chase, fight and reproduce.
And, maybe even enjoy a sunset?
When the maker of all things
leans over to study us,
what do you imagine
the maker of all things
thinks?
Keep in mind
that the maker of all things
created
multiple universes,
each universe has billions of galaxies,
each galaxy has billions of stars
and a trillion planets,
most of them probably
devoid of sentient life.
Do you think that th
e maker of all things
really cares
whether we are
left- or right-handed,
omnivores or vegetarians,
saints or sinners,
lovers or haters?
Oh, how miraculous life is,
how miraculous
that something
so insignificant
can eat, flee, chase, fight and reproduce,
build transportation networks and cities,
create wonderful arts, languages and cultures,
explore the heavens
and even touch nearby planets.
And, maybe even enjoy a sunset?
LAND OF TURTLES
It's past midnight, very dark
with a new moon.
Almost pitch black.
I can barely see a few pinpricks
of light between the clouds.
Waves are rolling in a few feet off
into the blackness.
It has been several months
since Janet, my longtime girlfriend,
passed from a consuming darkness.
I still talk to Janet each night
as I crawl into bed.
I tell her what I did during the day,
and I share my thoughts with her.
Then, I turn over
and pull up the sheets.
I am looking out at the black sea,
from which sea turtles
return every year
to this very spot.
Just as this sandy shore calls
the turtles,
the black sea is calling me.
It's splashing, clamoring and whispering
as it tongues the shore.
The sea is inviting me to walk out
between its soft waves
and its sensuous embrace
and sink
to its black depths.
As I begin to walk toward the waves,
something passes quickly
a few feet behind me.
I whip around and call out,
but no one answers.
I shake my head
and then stumble back
to my cabin in the dark;
the power is out.
It's pitch black inside
my cabin.
As I feel my way into bed,
I tell Janet about what happened
on the beach.
Then, I turn over
and pull up the sheets.
AN UNKNOWN ARTIST
Hanging on my wall,
there is a nameless "factory" painting,
an inexpensive, unsigned reproduction
by an unknown artist.
The painting is a picture of a boy
flying a kite in a golden field
on a warm summer day
between two rows of houses.
Of course, there are other details:
a dog, a bicycle, and some trees.
I am not sure why,
but when I look at the painting
it makes me feel happy.
Thousands of copies of this painting
are adding joy to the lives
of people all over the world
and yet none of us can know
who painted the original master
for this small miracle
of joy.
DIFFERENCE
Whenever you feel insignificant,
remember that you can make
a significant difference
in the lives of others,
particularly the less fortunate.
SOMETIMES
"Your house has two colors," she said,
while looking up at a corner
of my ceiling and walls.
"Yes," I replied.
"Why is that rainbow beach blanket on the couch?"
I replied, "Color."
She bent over and ripped
the beach towel off my white couch.
Maybe she thought I was trying to hide something.
"You talk a lot," she said sarcastically.
I looked back at her.
Maybe I raised an eyebrow,
but I didn't say anything.
She's right, of course.
I don't talk much.
I am a simple man.
I speak from my heart.
Sometimes, I write poetry.
A Blueness I Could Eat Forever Page 4