WHITE BUSHES WITH BEES

A plane was rushing across the sky,
parents were shouting in Westerly, 
interstates were screaming with cars, 
nations were dashing
toward the edges of cliffs,
while out on Shannock Road
a thousand bees were
happy with what they had. 

THEY RODE

They rode like the light 
when it lets itself flow 
through forests and along rivers
like The Mystic. They rode
for no other reason than to remember
to think about bright things -- 
the burnished river they rode beside, 
the bringers of the good news 
that is everywhere, 
the wisdom of roads 
and small stones in driveways
and birds scattering suddenly 
because of simple happiness --
just above him, in fact, 
as he helped these words 
work together on this page. 

MOZART AT 90 DEGREES

For him, Mozart's melodies
made the most of the muggy day,
sending discomfort off
like darkness comes to a quiet end
when dawn starts to sway
outside the windows.
He wished she was with him,
to hear how violins and cellos
always choose comfort and coolness for him.
Warm weather tiptoes up the steps
and softly knocks,
when Mozart is on.

WHAT SHE DOES

She helps him hold the world
a little more closely and lovingly,
helps him look more carefully
at how life
displays itself in partnerships,
how the smallest things
slide together like perfect puzzles.
She shows him how
to bring the gifts of life
into fuller view,
the way certain paintings
seem to come forth from their frames
just for them
when they visit museums together,
holding hands sometimes
to stay close.

IT WAS JUST A SHOWER

It was just a shower, 
but his street seemed to celebrate
and shout in happiness. 
Heaven was here 
as he sat on the porch
and saw the holy water 
washing the houses 
and helping the sidewalks 
seem state-of-the-art 
once more.
So many birds, he knew,
were noticing 
what this light rain 
was doing 
to this dark morning, 
so many minds 
were making fresh thoughts
as this fresh rain fell.

ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

One way or another,
something always happens.
Perhaps the wind roars
around someone's windows,
or an orange falls open
in a person's hands.
Maybe a voice of fulfillment
sings a song for a friend,
or lamplight lands on a desk.
A car could carry
a promising life to someone's house,
or a man could make a pancake
for the person her loves.
One way or another,
something happens.
Sunshine could simplify this day,
or a storm could cause the trees
to clap their hands.

ONE MORNING

There was nothing
out of which loss could be made.
Not the smooth silver computer
present before him on his lap.
Not the coffee in a brown cup
on the couch's arm,
nor the effortless wind
from the silent world
outside his window.
Plus, he knew that thoughts
of kindness and contentment
were being born by the billions
across the earth
at this precise moment,
and the next,
and the next.


So what could create loss?
The silvery light outside?
The moments
unwrapping like presents?

ON A SUMMER MORNING

He sits on the deck, and a single thought
opens like a window. Sunlight enters
his life, and a casual breeze
whispers his young name. A wonderful feeling
finds him as he sits and sips his coffee.
He decides that his life
was founded to fight evil.
He decides to soar.

ON A QUIET NIGHT

On a quiet night, there is nothing happening
but what should and must happen.
The holiest thoughts are there
for us to use, as instructive
as the modest stars above us,
and the flow of feelings is as free
as it ever is. The silence extends
to the ends of the earth. The hearts
of all things are nothing but silence.
No noise lives in stones or in the fingers
of our neighbors, or in the trees
that stand like trustworthy sentries.
A quiet night will love us,
and will let us love our lives as well.
There will be rivers of thoughts
where there was wilderness inside us.
There will be the bliss of starry skies
in our minds, where there used to be rust
and disregard. There will be coarse voices
made soft. There will be quietness
to care for all things.

NOBODY

Nobody came to see him last night.
There were no stars in the sky
when nobody came, and no wisdom
in the books on his shelf.
There was nothing in the newspaper,
and nothing in anyone's thoughts
but breezes blowing across oceans.
It was just nobody and him
in the center of history.
There was happiness,
but its shirt was gone
and its pockets were silent.
There was hope,
but its hands held nothing,
and nobody knew it.

NEW NAMES

He received a new name today.
It says he is someone new,
someone the sunshine will bless.
This name never blames, only praises.
It lives in his heart,
and wears its letters
like a prince inside him.
It might as well be the name
of Summer, or Celebration,
it's that special.
Tomorrow, he'll receive another name,
and the next day, and the next.
You can do this too.

THE BROKEN SKY

One warm evening
the sky was suddenly broken.
There was a crash
and a shout from friends
afraid of being separated,
and then the pieces
of the precious sky
descended upon our simple lives,
our lives that shine
at every compliment,
that sing whenever someone loves us.
We stood outside
and saw the shards of the sky
settling in the trees
like invitations to happiness,
like calls to stop struggling
and just see.
There was sky in the streets
and sky in the pockets of friends.
We came home to our families
with specks of blue
and grains of gold in our hands.

HE WAS DRINKING

He was drinking the darkness
one night, and he never stopped,
so the darkness didn't stop either,
didn't stop stuffing his life
with the little pleasures of darkness --
the way lights shine
only when it's dark, the way
water in darkness can sparkle
like shaking stars, the way
a wish sent into the darkness
doesn't die, but spreads
its wings and disappears
and helps him have hope.

THIS MORNING

There were sweeter songs
this morning. The water in the shower
sang of days of peace,
and all his steps across the rooms
convinced him that people
were singing in happiness
in many places. The blood
in his veins wasn't struggling
but singing, and his hands
rose and fell when he asked,
just like the melodies of Mozart.
He knew the face of the earth
was smiling as it listened.
The lamps of his life
were all lighting up
as the music of Tuesday
was starting.

SIX O'CLOCK

Six o'clock, he said
to a student ...
be here by six o'clock,
and then he went
where there were no clocks,
no deadlines,
no do's and don'ts,
just spring sunshine
in its joyous dress.
He jumped up
a few times,
just to find the spring
in his life again,
the buoyancy
that brings him
and the sunshine
and his conscientious students
around to six o'clock.

NO POWER

"Afternoon in Spring", oil, by Don Gray

There was no power at his school,
so he sat outside
and used the sunshine
as his power, and prayed
to the powerful flowers
in the garden, and gave thanks
to the forces in the fresh grass.
It was good to get strength
from a light breeze
blowing by, 
and from  a tree
full of youthful birds
that had no need of
laptops and lights.

FOOTSTEPS IN THE LIBRARY

He heard footsteps
across the carpet --
a student carrying
his books to a table.
He thought of footsteps in a forest
when he was a boy,
when news was brought
of the wide wilderness
surrounding his life.
He lay in a little tent
and tried to see in his mind
the making of stars
millions of miles away,
and the way silence
stretches around us
with no bounds.

His small footsteps
to the circulation desk
sounded far off,
like stars stepping
across the universe
above the tiny town
and its small school
and library.

HELLO

"Hello," he heard,
and then a happy sparrow
sang some old song,
and a stretch of grass
gave a shout as a breeze
blew across it,
and six clouds came together
and created something handsome
above his head.

He held up his little life,
looked at it,
and let it blow off
in a brand new breeze.

SHY RAIN

The rain was shy,
with nothing to say
but some splashes
on the stones beside the school.
It came quietly,
like it was looking
to pass by quickly
with no one noticing.
He never knew rain
would worry about being seen,
or that clouds, maybe,
would make themselves small
so someone outside in spring
would see the sunshine
instead of the clouds,
and the clouds could carry on
with their journeys
in silence and solitude.
He, too, was shy,
just seeking to blend
with the background,
so he understood the ways
of this bashful shower
as it sought to escape
and just be itself
in the woods
beyond the school.

STRAIGHT

He wants to stand straighter,
so he searches for things that are straight
to show him the way,
but surprisingly,
he finds very few.
The far-off clouds always curve
and lean over,
and most trees
make crookedness seem handsome.
The years have disfigured
some of the hills he sees, 
and even the streets
twist around in misshapen ways.
He guesses 
it's sometimes good
to be bent,
the way trees are
when they lean down
to look at the spring grass,
the way the wind is
when it tilts along a hill.


He'll keep his back
as straight as possible,
but he'll still have praise
for things that bend and bow.

LISTENING

He heard
his mighty heart
holding itself steady
in his chest.
He heard a tree
telling its story to a storm,
and the tires of cars
singing the songs of open roads.
When we walked,
he heard coins calling out in his pocket.
He heard heaven
quietly opening its doors
every moment of his day.
He heard happiness
sailing in his bloodstream
like the softest boats.

WAITING

He was waiting

for the computer to boot up,

but he was also waiting

for wide-open ideas,

and for the wildness

of letting in

whatever ideas come.

The computer will come alive

when it wants to,

but ideas bring their insights

second by second,

and he needs to know

how to hold the doors open

and help them come in.

Ideas don’t stay

unless we welcome them,

so his arms are always open,

even as the computer

is calling his name

with its promising wisdom.

A DAY FOR DARING

One day,
he didn't do what was on his list,
didn't go by the guidelines,
didn't follow the right road.
It was a day for daring.
The clouds cared little for rules,
the trees tried new tricks
with the wind, and
whatever came to his mind
moved like reckless things,
like fish finding new rivers,
like stars circling
in fresh patterns.

WHAT HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND

He overheard someone at school say,
"There's something you don't understand,"
and he said to himself, "Of course,
because there are trees
that turn in mystifying ways,
and clouds that come from nowhere,
and new ideas that don't seem
to ever actually start or stop,
and present moments like puzzles
with secret solutions."

He said there's a lot he doesn't understand,
and it's getting worse
and more inspiring
at the same time.

A MINUTE

He wonders how far the earth
speeds through space in one minute,
or how many leaves sprout
in the trees in his yard,
or how many thoughts
the human race thinks.
Once he watched a second hand turn
for a full minute
while the sun made explosions
in some trees. Another time
he focused on a single shining idea
for sixty seconds,
and the idea
didn't stop shining,
and still doesn't.

A MESS

One day there was a thought
that tasted like honey,
and another that tasted
like peas with sweet butter
spread across them.
Then a thought presented itself
like a plate of pasta
with a zesty sauce,
followed by a thought
that sent up aromas
of the best strawberries.
He grew confused.
The thoughts were strewed across
the table of his mind,
a mess, for sure,
but a serene sort of mess,
since all the thoughts
were just where they must be.

THERE WAS RAIN

There was rain,
and then there was winter
that wouldn't leave,
and then there was snow
in his thoughts,
snow that spread
so his life looked lovable,
and he let out his arms
like light wings
and lifted away from the school,
and the students looked up
and shouted,
"Stay with us, Mr. Salsich.
We need to know
about base clauses
and balance in sentences!" --
but he cruised across a cloud
and was seen no more.

WRITING A POEM AT SCHOOL

There were voices in the next room,
and across the lacrosse field
there were yells,
and a plane was passing over
in the soothing sky,
and his fingers were clicking
on the keyboard,
calling for feelings to come forth
and follow each other
across the computer screen.

It was a time of triumph --
for the youthful voices,
and the unperturbed plane,
and his carefree, hopeful fingers.

DUST

He saw the dust the mower made,
and it made him see the dust
of his own thoughts
as they pass across his life.
The dust outside swirled away,
like his thoughts that morning
had moved along his mind
and vanished forever.
He hoped to find
a few of those thoughts,
but he knew
you never find dust
once it disappears --
the dust from spring grass
or the dust from thoughts
let loose in your life.

STANDING IN SUNSHINE

A tree was standing in sunshine,
but it didn't do anything,
didn't bow and bend,
didn't dance or shake in happiness,
didn't seem any better
than trees in the shadow of clouds.
A flower was also standing close by,
not behaving in a special way,
not being any more beautiful
because it was springing up
in a limitless kind of sunshine
that was sprawled across
miles and miles of land --
sunshine that was wishing the best
to rivers and hills and towns
and to us,
to all of us
who stand in its brilliance
and are as bright
as we always are,
whether in sunshine or darkness.

WALTZING AND SPRINGING

He was sitting with his thoughts,

but his thoughts kept throwing themselves

around the room

and out the windows

to the winsome springtime air.

It was troublesome to try to control

those undisciplined thoughts,

the way they wandered wherever they wished

and thought whatever

they felt like thinking.

He soon found himself surrendering

and then starting to toss himself around,

just like his thoughts.

His little house lightened up

and let the roof float off,

and then the walls went away,

and there he was,

under the sky,

waltzing and springing

with his disorderly, adorable thoughts.

SWIVELING

His chair at school swivels,
and so does happiness
as it looks in all directions
and dares depression
to say its name.
No one is out of sight
of happiness
as it holds steady
and swings around
to see who needs it,
who's lost in sorrow,
who thinks she's seen
the last of happiness.

He swivels in his smooth chair
and sees happiness
in good health
going round and round
with its gifts.

CLARITY

The windows weren't clear,
but, in a way, the whole world was.
He wondered about things,
and his wondering
was as lucid as the light-blue sky,
and his feelings seemed to shine
as if an artist
had just fashioned them.
He thought of the throwing of balls
by kids across the country,
and knew it was
simple and straightforward,
as was the standing up of skyscrapers
and the elegance of kindness
as it carries itself among us.

He stood beside the soiled windows,
and his standing there
seemed to burnish
this already bright world.

STAYING

"We're leaving",
he heard someone say,
but then he saw the sunshine
steering its graceful ship,
and the thoughts of friends
flowing across the field,
and the cares of someone he loved
lingering in the shade,
seeking his help.
Someone was leaving,
but he let the world
walk toward him
with its hands stretched out,
and he took them.

WRITING WHILE STANDING

His feet felt fine,
holding him steady
as he showed his words
where they should place themselves
on the screen. He was not scared
of writing silly or stupid things,
or of finding strange truths
shining in his sentences,
or of seeing stars
and planets spiraling
among the words.
He was only afraid
his feet would feel left out
of the writing,
of the sunshine his sentences
might spread around
while his feet
just kept keeping him stable.

A STORM

A storm showed him
how silly his fears were,
the way it rolled around the school
with shouts of happiness
and hail. It helped him
hold his life more loosely,
like the sky was carrying the rain
in its comfortable arms,
never concerned about whether
it was a good sky or not,
just joining with weather everywhere
to whoop and holler in happiness.

A MOMENT AT SCHOOL

(A Twitter poem, 140 characters)


Footsteps in the hall, 
then hellos from far-off winds, 
then the folding together 
of stars in space, 
then thoughts making sparks 
and stars.

SILENCE

(A twitter poem, 140 characters)


"Silence," he said, and suddenly
his thoughts stopped, 
and feelings flowed with no sounds, 
and rivers miles away 
turned almost silent 
for him.

A CAREFUL TIME

"Country Corral", oil, by Laurel Daniel

He heard a bird calling in sad sounds
from a tree somewhere,
and kids were coming down the hall
holding their thoughts quietly.
It was a careful time for the earth,
a time for rivers and falling rain
to find comfort in flowing and falling,
a time for a tired teacher
to find his feelings thoughtfully
folded up and placed
under the shade of a tree.

There are trees
like lives with open arms.
He found a few of those
that day.

FAILING A TEST

He totally failed the test.
On the "Crying" part, he couldn't,
nor could he sincerely say
his feelings, which further hurt
his grade. On Section C, "To Do's",
he didn't do one of them,
and the "Calendar" section
sabotaged his grade
because he misplaced
all his appointments.
He couldn't even calculate,
in percentages, how much
he appreciated the things he owned.

It was a complete defeat for him.
About all he did right
was reach out to a friend
who was suffering,
and set a bird's nest
back in a tree.

SECOND BY SECOND

"Chocolate Glazed Donut", oil, by Heidi Malott

Sitting still is something
most things never do.
Even a donut on a plate
does miracles inside itself,
all the electrons and things
speeding here and there
in the sugary spaces.
The silent stars are never still
as they circulate through their kingdoms
in the countries above us,
and far from all the stars,
the thoughts we think
throw up their hands in eagerness,
second by second by second.

THE FULLNESS OF LIFE

He wanted to find a proof
of the fullness of life,
so he looked at the light
that left signs of itself 
in the garden and on the stirring grass.
He looked at the loops
the birds made in the bright air,
at the free fall of happiness
on swelling lawns and parks,
at the pride this powerful earth
seems to show in the spring. 
Then he looked at his unsophisticated hands,
at his senior-citizen shoes as they shone
in the light the morning made, 
at a few small stones in the garden, 
at one green grass blade
bending with the blissfulness 
grass often shows.

WALKING ON GRASS

"The Good Grass", oil, by Justin Clements

When sorrows sit on his shoulders, 

he sometimes walks on grass

instead of sidewalks, setting his feet
on the promising green surface
for solace and reassurance.
He realizes again that goodness
grows around and under him,
and that sorrow is not the master
of kindness, but its servant.
He knows that nothing heals
like letting his fussing self
flow away and vanish,
and the goodness of green grass
does that for him,
helps him hold his sorrows
like flakes of paper
that fly off in the softest breeze.

WHO HE IS

He often wonders who he is.

Is he a complex collection

of cells and connective tissues

and bones that easily break? 

Is he his thoughts and feelings

as they fly through his life

like hawks or hummingbirds

or quarrelsome old crows?

Is he a piece of the breezes

that blow by him as he sits 

beside a river with a friend,

the friend who found him last year, 

when he slowly started to see

who he really was,

like a submarine surfacing

and seeing something like paradise?

RAIN DURING ENGLISH CLASS

The rain wasn't racing up against the windows,
nor was it a wandering rain
that went aimlessly here and there
across the prospering spring countryside.

It was a rain that remembered
how the universe continues to design itself,
slowly and harmoniously and everlastingly.
The raindrops sang an undisturbed song
as they descended on the darkness
that is sometimes the human race,
and he didn't think the darkness minded.
There was music in his heart
as he heard, with his students,
the tunefulness of this latest storm
in the endless and flourishing history of rain.

DURING STUDY HALL

Someone he thought of
as he was standing by the bookshelf
sent his mind off searching
for feelings that shine like stars.
He was lost for awhile,
while his students whispered
when they should have been studying,
but he soon came back
with brightness surrounding him,
so that his students said
he looked like love itself
had spread across his 70 years.

RIDING WITH HER ON RIVER ROAD

"Two for the Road", oil, by Mary Maxam

The big heron
helped itself to the wind
and went off to the west,
and we followed our feelings
down River Road.
You can't remember sorrows
when you're sailing
on your bicycle
with your best friend,
someone you found
like a flower in a beautiful field.
You followed the stars for years
and finally found nothing at all,
but caring for this quiet person
on her new, snow-colored bicycle
has brought you
the best of this universe,
the best of its spread-out, shining gifts.

THE DAYS AHEAD

Sitting outside, 
he saw his little life 
leaning toward him 
with happiness in its hands. 
"Here," his life said, 
this is for you", 
and it set a thousand days 
of satisfaction at his feet.
He unfurled his fears 
and let them fly off, 
and then he stared 
with delight
at the days ahead.

COMING AND GOING

Coming and going, 
he gets what he needs -- 
a night of spreading kindness, 
a day of joyfulness 
that falls upon him 
like pieces of soft paper. 
Something says the best news to him
almost always -- a wish
from a wind passing by, 
a bright baseball in the grass 
like a sign that something special 
shines inside all things.

HE TRUSTS IT

He trusts it,

the present moment,

a force he feels

will always stand beside him.

The whole sky

could sit inside

the present moment,

and mighty storms

of softness are stirring

inside each one.

He walks in confidence,

for a friend

is always with him.

THE KINDEST NIGHT

It's Christmas Eve, the kindest night
he's ever known, a night
that never stops shining,
even with no stars
and silence all around.
He's with the wonder of his life,
a lady come from the far kingdom
called Kindness, or sometimes
just Love. Look out,
he wants to say to the world,
look out for love,
because it's always
right beside you,
always as sparkling
as this special night
of silent brightness.