Parting, Page 2

  March sunshine.

  "A good painting,"

  Jeanne said, "but

  you could get lost

  in the detail… "

  the beautiful ends of rope,

  the chipped paint.

  Peaks Island

  Vidya Niwas

  The pursuit

  of love, sex,

  fame, money,

  forgetting,

  enlightenment—yes, as

  Arvind said one night,

  "It's all bullshit."

  He was seeing clearly,

  standing by Vidya Niwas,

  wheat on curving

  hand dug terraces,

  leopards hunting,

  snow / moonlight

  high above.

  Dharamsala

  In a Yard on Island Avenue

  weathered table

  piled with pears

  gray / brown / yellow,

  four wooden chairs

  evenly placed, one

  holding a red scooter,

  an orange flatbed

  and blue plastic dump truck

  parked by the pears

  a sense of composition,

  the slow music

  of tumbling fruit,

  a hand

  on a child's shoulder

  Quaker Ladies

  The Peaks Island ball field

  is green again.

  In the outfield grass

  behind shortstop,

  tiny white flowers

  with yellow centers

  surround

  the faded leather fingers

  of a baseball glove

  folded, palm down.

  A chainsaw snarls

  on the hill.

  Beyond that,

  waves curl against rock.

  Kathie Walking Gwen

  forward reach,

  each step rising,

  clear-eyed,

  widening smile,

  faint gray dazzle

  around her upper body,

  the dog pulling,

  rapt with scent

  back shore

  Nude

  the warm brave body

  upright, muscle,

  bone, nerve,

  blood coursing

  with star matter

  imagination,

  unbound by time,

  the flower

  in the vase

  For Finn

  Born forty years ago

  this morning on a sunny day.

  Driving through Zena,

  bringing you home

  on your mom's lap—

  Dave Mellert by

  the side of the road,

  holding his mangled arm;

  I told your mom to wait

  at the store, got Dave

  into Kit's old Cadillac,

  did a u-turn and burned

  it for Kingston.

  "Caught in the chipper."

  Blood seeping, Dave weakening.

  "Hang on."

  We ran some lights;

  he made it;

  they saved his arm.

  Three months later in Buckman's bar,

  he came over, "Thanks John."

  You don't talk much

  in the mountains,

  but you remember.

  SOS

  O Love,

  deliver me

  to this moment;

  let me be

  with this bird

  on a telephone wire,

  heedless of the chatter

  flashing through its grasp,

  singing to its mate,

  who also sings,

  honoring the hawk

  circling,

  praising the red berries,

  the blue waves

  crashing white.

  Peaks Island

  Dive

  The Acupulco cliff diver

  leaps, feet pushing strongly

  against rock.

  He falls forward, arms wide,

  brown in sunlight,

  all eyes on him

  as he straightens,

  plunging down

  to the wave

  rolling in to meet him.

  Lost from sight,

  decelerating, tumbling,

  he is held, embraced

  in emerald quiet,

  a moment before

  a slow, peaceful,

  kick to the surface.

  Laird

  on the 8:15,

  big pickup loaded,

  tarp and net tied down,

  Colorado plates

  autumn chill in the air,

  be warm later;

  he'll be back next summer,

  nothing goes wrong

  his horses raise their heads,

  they know he's coming.

  Peaks Island

  In Fall, Spring

  September shadows sharp

  on green grass,

  the migration begins,

  the flow south.

  Light returns to Patagonia.

  We stack wood, gather

  seaweed for the garden;

  we will live by fire

  through starry nights,

  crystal pageants of the heart,

  while gauchos ride

  open-shirted, singing,

  to their señoras.

  for Shunryu Suzuki

  Maria's Garden

  House, fence, studio,

  white, white, white.

  Closely cut green grass.

  Thirteen gray stones

  in three groups

  gathered

  to comfort and beget,

  shapes hunched

  with tenderness,

  a memorial

  to Maria's love,

  a blunt guide—

  if we survive,

  it will be this way.

  Peaks Island

  Birth Song

  Trust begins

  in another's arms,

  opening to warm hands,

  soft truths—

  the sun rises, yes,

  pulling you with it

  out of the sea;

  morning

  is your birthright,

  love, your

  lifelong song.

  Peaks Island

  No Edge

  Sea and cloud,

  a thin line

  east to south

  faintly darker

  through light rain.

  A heron passes over

  the wooded hill behind,

  legs trailing,

  steady wing beats,

  seeing the other side:

  the bay,

  the small city,

  the continent rising west—

  hunting in a beautiful view,

  part of it,

  as am I,

  and you.

  Peaks Island

  Parting

  Sitting behind me

  on the stairs, while

  I put on my shoes,

  bumping down a step,

  surrounding me lightly

  with your legs and arms,

  your hair,

  delicate and shaggy,

  resting on my neck,

  sad, quiet,

  no hero ever had

  a better farewell,

  or left

  so sure of home.

  Waltz

  When your love

  cannot be there,

  and The Vienna

  Philharmonic plays

  The Beautiful Blue Danube,

  you can feel bad,

  or you can dance—

  arms encircled,

  formal, tender,

  turning together,

  turning with the sweep

  of strings, the hopes

  of centuries,

  turning and turning

  together forever.

  Sunset

  Red sun

  through birches,
>
  winter whites & browns.

  To the east:

  a darkening

  band of lavender,

  Outer Green Island,

  low, snow covered,

  glowing upwards.

  For Ginny

  Smiling shyly over

  her cooking—Thanksgiving Dinner

  made in a tiny galley—

  a straight dress for the occasion,

  dangling multi-colored earrings,

  amused, irrepressibly radiant,

  the best looking grandmother

  on the Indian Ocean

  now breathes easily beside me,

  watching the video as

  the Atlantic rises in the cove,

  and I find that I loved her

  years before I knew her.

  Sometimes

  Sometimes you have to

  talk of terrible things:

  cry of terror, strangling,

  wordless, helpless,

  rigid body crashing to the floor,

  violent convulsions,

  a minute or more,

  subsiding,

  gray-faced, retching,

  bitten tongue bleeding,

  dazed, broken, reset somehow.

  Lying beside her, touching,

  touching,

  touching, together,

  after a blow from the ax.

  Dawn

  across the gorge,

  palm tree silhouettes,

  charcoal on gray

  cinnamon-rose

  brushes one high cloud

  a rooster crows;

  another follows,

  then another

  tiny white-breasted swallows,

  climbing, diving,

  take their breakfast

  on the wing

  Ubud,

  Bali

  Out Of Recycled Parts

  Two black circles,

  a turquoise triangle

  pointing down,

  pedals at the tip,

  Cole's bike,

  single speed,

  practical, fast,

  cutting through

  confusion.

  Peaks Island

  Gunnel's Delight

  passing us

  upright

  on your bike,

  head turned back,

  eyebrows up, amused,

  delight

  shining through

  the thinner sunlight

  on the shore,

  celebrating / sharing

  love's no age

  Peaks Island

  On the Road to Dharamsala (selections)

  Surfing

  In the darkening harbor,

  turning back,

  up, over a wave

  before it curls

  against the breakwater,

  glimmer of silver

  draining from rocks,

  brown skin, black hair,

  knees bent, arms alert,

  again and again,

  until night—

  one red light, one green,

  the Pacific,

  stars.

  Nawiliwili,

  Kauai

  At Akiko's Mochi Pounding

  “Good House has another meaning

  in Japan. Means: in a better

  part of town.

  Maybe, Blessed House?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K.”

  Shigeko becomes calm,

  brush held straight

  above the paper.

  Her first stroke,

  slow,

  establishes proportion.

  Wet black lines

  follow faster,

  idea infusing ink,

  ink becoming sign

  alive with

  heart and mind.

  She pauses—

  tapered bristles

  lower, flatten, draw out,

  and lift,

  characters and moment

  met.

  Wailea,

  Big Island

  Pidgin

  In the Kohala Diner,

  “Dat buggah jury rigged,”

  “watering the weeds,”

  “horses dey get da good stuff,”

  “he is more to me

  than my other brothers,”

  “you have him

  a little longer yet,”

  “My boys going to Iraq.

  I tell them: do your job

  but don't turn your back,”

  words rising, diving,

  wheeling like white birds

  at sunset, baring

  the meaning above

  the meaning,

  this music

  sung from birth,

  laughing, judging,

  forgiving.

  Kohala

  for Dane

  Rust black a'a, so jagged,

  you throw a piece,

  twenty minutes to pick it up.

  A single line of gray stones

  undulates across,

  wave smoothed, chosen

  for a flat side,

  passed hand to hand

  from inlets

  battered into sea cliffs,

  each one carefully set,

  large enough

  to bear a foot,

  bear a load,

  for centuries.

  Ka'u

  Petroglyphs, Ka'u

  On this pahoehoe,

  dark, weathered, cracks

  curving along least resistance—

  I speak with straight lines.

  Until this island sinks below

  the water, or Pele angers,

  you will know how long time

  we live here, how many were lost

  to the fighting, to the sea.

  What I say is: how beautiful

  are our women, and today,

  I have a son.

  Praying with Tiapala

  Sweet smoky incense,

  golden Buddha overlooking

  offerings of fruit and flowers,

  Tiapala chanting, face

  like a mountain

  above tree line,

  a lifetime, a thousand years

  intoning prayers and sutras,

  as a dolphin leaps or

  a cloud drifts,

  singing the way.

  We join and follow,

  swaying slightly in rhythm,

  becoming slowly

  what we pray for.

  Tiapala strikes a gong—

  pure sound vibrates

  into birdsong, evening,

  the deep welcome

  of Mauna Loa.

  On Mauna Loa

  Earth trembling,

  water every side,

  brown rock pure,

  so high,

  clouds upslope,

  green below.

  Momentary

  dipping line of red, a cardinal

  flies deeper into

  macadamia orchard.

  Three locals,

  truck and chainsaw,

  steal koa from

  haole newcomers.

  Across the valley,

  a temple bell,

  struck by hand,

  calls us

  to compassion.

  No Need Say Goodbye

  Soft May morning,

  spent clouds drift

  to sea,

  birds singing

  in trees,

  on telephone wires.

  A roadside bank

  of nasturtiums

  glows red and orange.

  Cows graze

  far up the mountain,

  tiny dots—

  how can you say goodbye

  when all things

  are changing?

  Roads. Faces.

  Only the deep heart

  is constant;

  and to that,

  no need say goodbye.

  Ka'u

/>   Shannon & Clara

  breastfeeding at 4000 feet,

  gray spired rock,

  Douglas Fir clinging

  to the ridge.

  Sunlight on a fallen trunk,

  moss, dark bark,

  rotting sapwood

  salmon red,

  mother & daughter

  three weeks old,

  breathing in

  the breath of trees.

  Mt. Pilchuk,

  Washington

  Trudi 1941-2003

  Across the stream,

  trees, gradual climb

  to the ridge,

  snack at the lean-to,

  steeper scramble,

  smell of balsam,

  thin clear air,

  the Ashokan

  blue below,

  behind:

  green valley after valley,

  your ashes, you—

  the long sweet silence

  of the mountains,

  summer and winter.

  Pilgrim

  Ice grains spinning,

  swirling, filling,

  scouring brick, leaving

  nothing untested. Walk

  or freeze

  or stay inside.

  The panhandler with

  an artificial leg

  lurches slowly

  up the sidewalk. Usually

  I avoid him.

  Today, I

  take off my gloves

  to find a dollar;

  he takes off his gloves

  to receive it, grunting,

  a warm sound

  blown instantly away,

  restoring

  my own begging heart.

  Portland

  On The Road To Dharamsala

  First light.

  Goat bells: muffled,

  low pitched.

  Quick high whistles

  in thin air, cheerful,

  spontaneous—

  a complete music

  unscored, for

  goats, herders,

  new pasture,

  cliffs, sun &

  melting snow.

  Himachal Pradesh,

  India

  Goods Carrier, HP296054