HE HAD NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT

He had nothing to write about.

Winter was gone

with its gifts and finesse,

and the furniture in his house

had nothing that needed to be said.

A soiled dish in the sink

didn’t inspire him, and

heaven didn’t seem to reside

in his lined fingers

or the fine weave of his

dress shirt, the one

that wished to tenderly

warm his chest

on this day that was chosen

to be something exceptional

for him and the plenteous universe

he astonishingly resided in.

ONCE HE SAVED SIXTY-TWO PERCENT

Once he saved sixty-two percent

of his kindness and caring

and kept it in a carton,

but a decorous sunrise said that

kindness couldn’t be bought

or owned, and caring

only stayed when it was

let loose to be itself.

So he carried the carton

to the meeting of several streets

and set it down

for others to find,

and he felt a little light

flowing out from all things.

HE TRIED TO TAKE HIS THOUGHTS

He tried to take his thoughts

in certain directions,

but they threw his plans

in their wastebasket

and wandered wherever they wished.

They were thoughts as wild

as the winds that went alongside

his life, letting him know

that nothing can  calm

this universe that sings

and unfolds in splendor,

just as it desires,

days of surprise

after days of radiance.

A SIMPLE LIFE

His is a simple life,

like a stone sitting
in the midst of a field,
a flowing river,

a single star lost in the sky.

He never knows

any scientific fact about anything,

and never thinks thoughts

that are new or breathtaking.

He just sits silently
among the blossoms

of the universe,
moves easily
like a shy stream,

or a star that loves

where it is.

THERAPY

When his life becomes too busy,

he sometimes thinks of things

that are resting.

He thinks of pencils relaxing on desks,

patiently waiting to be used –

of carpets quietly lying on floors --

of doors standing peacefully

but with perfect posture,

poised to open or close.

He thinks of mountains taking a break

just where they’ve been taking a break

for thousands of years,

of rivers running

like serene runners running for fun.

He thinks of his own hands

that often relax at his side,

and of the few gentle dollars

that sometimes take it easy

in his pockets.

SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM

Sitting  in the living room
while flames find their way
among logs in the fireplace,
he looks through his feelings
to find something he's lost.
He lets the light of his life
shine like a search light,
but with no success.
What he's lost is little
and lying among the distant stars,
but he doesn't know it,
so he never stops searching,
sending the sparks of his thoughts
through his life.

THEY WANTED HOTDOGS

They wanted hotdogs

and hamburgers,

he wanted winter

with its white jacket

and the joys of starlight.

They wanted thoughts

that throw themselves

like baseballs soaring

into the bleachers,

he wanted the help

of hills and the whispers

of streams in the summer.

They wanted to wear

their lives like comfortable capes,

he wanted whatever

was here in his hands.   

HE WROTE A LETTER

He wrote a letter 
made of air and clouds. 
It carried his finest feelings

as it floated off.

Soon he found a silent stone

and spoke to it,

and his words were made of miracles,

and they made the stone

speak like all the stones

we step on each day.

It didn’t alter anything:

the air arranged itself

around him, 
as always,

in stylish ways.  

A LOST SELF

One day he lost his self.

It was a shy, scared self,

and now it had disappeared,

like darkness does

when morning

makes its fires among us.

He sat and stared out

at the universe

which now was not heavy

and held him

in its never ending hands.

SOFT SOUNDS

This morning he was surprised

by the sound of the furnace

finding its life again in the cellar.

It was a soft sound,

like someone sighing

at the start of another task,

or a stream taking its easy way

among stones and snags.

Among the stars, also,

there must be that sort of sound,

he said to himself,

as the universe slows and speeds up

in its travels

with him and his family.

NOTHING

There was nothing

he needed to do.

The darkness was doing it all,

with its stars and its

silent footsteps

outside his house.

A whole day

was being brought to birth

without his help.

Wherever he looked,

a lamp seemed to be

switching on,

and signals were being sent,

but there was nothing

he needed to do.

THE WINDOW AT JAIMIE’S

Just the window
is enough for him,
for his heart
that holds heavy
and light winds.
He washed the windows
till they showed
the construction of the world
that waits for him,
with its holy places
prepared to hold him
in comfort and fondness,
the way a wind
holds the yellow leaves
just now sailing past
the window
made in wonderland.

ON THE PRAIRIE

On the lonesome prairie
he prayed to every star
and silent hilltop. All his words
were like winds across the grass,
or the giving of gifts
from night’s friendly hands.
He had lost so much
in his old life,
but fires still burned
in his bright mind,
and summer seemed
to be bursting inside him.
Holiness was everywhere,
he knew,
and all his sorrows
had helped his life
look up and out
where winds wandered
without end.

WHEN HE WAS SAD

He rode his horse
beside streams and across valleys
of flowers that seemed to flow forever.
His horse was a helpful friend,
following the stars and sunshine
as they showed the way.
It wouldn’t be forever,
he knew, just till the time
when something would awaken
like a windy morning.
It would just be until
tired and worn out sorrow
said hello to happiness
and then disappeared.
It would happen.
It always did.
So he let his horse
hold him high
among the breezes and
brightness that is life.

WHAT TO DO

He often wonders what to do,

whether to walk from one window to another,

or take up a book

that breaks open as soon as he touches it,

or bend his firm feelings

backwards and forwards for flexibility.

He knows the stars don’t struggle

in deciding whether to shine or not,

nor does his heart have trouble

choosing how to push the boats

of his blood inside his body.

Still, it’s not easy for him.

Should he help his car

cruise out to the beach,

or should he show himself

the sunlight on the lettuce

in his backyard garden?

PLAIN OLD FEAR

It was plain old fear.

It had followed me for years,

and yet I had never seen it

as it really is,

but yesterday it yelled

in pain

as it prepared to die.

It didn’t actually die,

but simply disappeared

like vanishing haze,

or a wordless summer evening.

It was dressed in scraps,

its bones were twisted,

its face was like dusk

as it disappeared

among the limitless stars.

LEANING

Lean on me,

her hand said to her chin.

So she did,

while the wind outside

leaned against the houses

and the houses leaned over

to let the trees speak

and the trees leaned

with their leaves

and the leaves leaned

on each other like friends

and friends in Asia

and America leaned

into each other’s lives.   

DAREDEVIL

He’s a daredevil
when he drives to school.
He dares to do the speed limit
precisely as it’s posted.
He’s brave enough to
take his time turning corners,
to come to a total stop
at stop signs. He even smiles
and waves to strangers in crosswalks,
a gutsy act for a guy.
See if you can spot him.
He’s the slowest car
on the street, the one
with the chutzpah
to choose giving way
over getting ahead,
the one
with the daring driver.

CLOUDS

They can help

when you need a heart-filled

fall of rain, or a stretch of shady days,

or a little coolness

to care for your troubles.

They can cry with you,

and can float above you

like life preservers,

and can cover your day

like a quilt. Light

and soft like you,

they are still strong

like you.

THE WIND

The wind blew,
but not just by his house.
He knew it was blowing
in Nebraska, and near
an old broken man in Maine,
and behind the eyes of someone
whose family has forgotten her,
someone who lives in this world
like a wind herself,
a gust that goes by you
and you keep going
to the store to get groceries,
and she blows out
across a sea with no shores.
He sat with his book
and listened to the wind,
the words calling out
like lost friends.

CREATION

It starts in commonplace things,
in a glance, in a voice.
It can start as we're standing
in the supermarket
with loaves of refreshing bread
in our basket.
Hands moving stylishly
as they tie the laces on shoes
could be the beginning.
A piece of perfect toast
could start a procession of thoughts
that never stops.

ONE WINDOW

He had only one window

but it brought what he needed --

the night with its modest secrecy,

the morning making its light,

two trees standing just

as they’ve always wanted to stand.

Say he lived in paradise,

would it be any better

than his single small window

with wonders smiling in

at him?

 

GUIDANCE

 

She said he should strum

a mandolin in a small room

so the room will sing.

She said he should turn the pages of a book

like he was lifting veils

in front of lovely faces.

She said he should kneel

at the feet of every feeling

and climb the trails of kindness.   

WHERE IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN

 

For her, friendship has persisted.

In the praise she feels from the sunrise,

in the serenades she hears

as she cruises on her bicycle

across the brother and sister streets,

in the clusters of grapes she savors

as often as possible – in all this

there is the sound of friendship

passing through her life like quiet cars.

She listens to the lyrics

of flowing water over dishes in the sink,

and it says that friendship

will find us when we’re lost.

Her life wears flowered skirts

because friendship insists

on staying where it is,

where it always has been.

FEELING WEALTHY

 

He collects baseball cards

like they’re shining silver dollars.

He carries them carefully

in his front pockets.

He feels wealthy with his cards –

his Musial, his mint-condition Mays,

his Slaughter, a card

kids would kill to have.

He likes to sit

beneath the successful sweet-gum tree

and talk to his cards:

Say hey, Willie.

Pound one over the pavilion, Stan.

Enos, show me how to hustle home

from first on a single.

 

These days

he strides down Summit Street

in style.

 

SOMETHING SPECIAL

 

The grass is dressed 

in its finest green,

the trees have their blossoms on,

and the sky is showing

some matchless clouds.

Even houses are dressed

to stand in the sunlight.

His arms, folded like friends,

are wearing sunlight

like a luxurious shirt. 

 

CONNECTIONS

 

A wild wind is a friend for him,

and the steam of a soggy day

can start his heart sending signals.

He prays to the modest sunshine,

to the sighing of shoes

on the supermarket floor,

to the tales the world tells him.

The events of an unfolding hour

are hands he loves to hold.

 

CONTENTMENT

 

He’s got what he needs –

veins full of force inside,

and a world of wonders outside.

He gets gifts everyday:

a quiet call from a bird,

the perfect flute of someone’s voice,

so many free breaths of air.

He’s rich with rewards.

Just now a bee in a bright shirt

blew by him,

and a breeze came across his arms. 

 

THE DAY HE WAS BORN IN THE PARK

 

There was a squirrel

sitting in his best posture.

There were praises being sung

by a plane passing overhead.

A small girl’s laughs

lit up the lives of those

who heard her, and happiness

strolled around in its invisible way.

It was his first moment

as a miracle. It was

the rosy face of the world

staring at him suddenly.

It was the things of this life

cheering for themselves. 

 

 

THE EFFECT OF TRUTH

 

The effect of truth

is quietness and assurance forever.

You can see it spreading its goodness

across the river, and down

on the face of the sea.

You can hear its quietness

taking care of the world,

its promise speaking softly.

See it on the undisturbed hills,

or see it sitting next to you

at work, or shimmering

in your soup at noon. 

THE HEAD OF A TEENAGER

 

Inside it there are thoughts

like cars and trucks in traffic –

horns honking, fenders crashing,

lights blazing in the center

of a vast darkness. Sometimes,

especially during sleep,

it snows peacefulness and pleasure inside,

and then the traffic stops

and satisfaction strolls the sidewalks.

But most often there is the furor

of youthful thoughts rushing in circles,

slamming on brakes, or speeding

down highways in the head

toward disaster or paradise.

If you stand next to a teenager,

you might hear clashing, distant noises,

you might take a step back

for safety’s sake.

 

 

AS GOOD AS IT CAN BE

 

His pencils are resting

where they should be.

The green lamp’s light

is as good as it can be,

and the stain of coffee on the paper

is a superb stain.

His hands, flawlessly folded

in his lap, are wrinkled

in a wonderful way.

Alone in his perfect apartment,

he is just right,

a senior citizen with textbook baldness

and the great gift

of growing old.  

 

THANKS AND PRAISE IN EVERY PLACE

 

One day his future is singing a song

beside a frozen river

beneath the sweater of the stars,

and the next day

he hears lords in castles

calling his name. On Thursday

there might be mystic moonlight

in his future, and on Sunday

there could be kingdoms

he can call his own.

His dreams for himself

are in the midst of the city of Happiness.

He glimpses guarantees in his dreams,

the fullness of sunshine,

and thanks and praise in every place. 

SURF UNDER THE STARS

 

She is a good person.

The sun casts happiness

across miles of fields and villages,

a lamp lights up

a small, sorrowful life

simply by switching on,

and goodness is always stroking her,

like the air does,

like the breeze of a fan does,

like millions of mild feelings do.

She likes to lie still

and listen to the music inside her.

The flash of her goodness

can always be seen,

like surf under the stars.