She might walk delicately
across the centuries-old floors
if not for the telltale boards
which complain and groan
and the laughter
she pauses to hear–
while allowing a laugh, herself…
She might breathe peacefully
by the window
overlooking the oak ridge
if not for breath taken
by sudden memories–
It is clear
she is hindered, in part
by those, sometimes cries
in disbelief at her voyage;
the road that led her here
to Los Alamos…
and she might sing beautifully
if not for her reluctance;
she knows the songs by heart
but there is someone else
singing them in the bar
and it is not for her
to question what is–
but to somehow
live anyway–and be glad
for it all.

If I remember
your dark eyes
not so long ago–
they were wary
circumspect, intent
on pleasure
but giving…now
an empty deck
that needs painting
a spring landscape
to embrace
and clothes hanging
at odd angles
past the time required
But none of these placates
the residual
imploring features
I select, to torment
myself with smiles
and questions
as to why…
And the doves, on Sunday
fly off with their explosive
bursts of flight–an eruption
of wings–apt counterpoint
to their peaceful, nested looks
Maybe that’s where you went–
off in search of morning
and the doves
are only reacting
to your footsteps.

Down to the bone
of nothingness
then dust
but finer, like
the sand of afternoon
turned amber and red
watching the shadows
like old friends
on the patio;
the leaves fall in–
gather the day
its seconds bent
on departure
minutes with wings
in the restless hour
A knock on the door
and you are mistaken–
trickery of wind
or wild imagination;
so much the better;
then this again
the bones writing
a thin tribute
with their pink sheath
of skin.

This is where
the thoughts rise up
and here, on this
white bed alone
is where they lie down
like an ebullient, cheerful girl
I knew once, decades ago
in school–who turned
to flowers and a simple marker
by the side of the road
in west Malibu; gone…
but the memories ascend
each morning for
their animated instants
like my old friend did
so often at The Park–
a smile, a wave, the flash
of her bright, beaded necklace
from the late Sixties
and she is gone again
like someone I barely knew
as my own reflections
touch me in the morning
fleetingly–and leave
as if, they too
are not my own.

Traces of wind
at the canyon mouths–
the plants bend
as if by unseen hands
but you know the answer
as blue as the sky
is obvious–but unexplained;
yellow as morning’s
unhurried sun and
before any wrongs–
a moment, or several
of perfect calm–
the birds perched
on wires…stolid, still
expecting nothing
but a scrap or two
to make their day;
and it’s the same
down here below–
vigilant vagrants
taking pleasure
within the mild
imagined pain
of living and knowing
only the smallest
of truths.

A mother
with her hand
to her head
at the corner
of Alma & 7th–
I didn’t know
her dilemma
but the trees–
eucalyptus and
sycamore looked
sympathetic–bending
in the afternoon wind
like anything
could go or come
and then
the mother
and her son were gone–
across the street
to another horizon;
I could see
no further gestures
except leaves
falling randomly
from those trees.

Don’t take
my paintings
off the wall–
they look good there;
out of touch
and beyond understanding–
round, painted masks
frozen in their grimaces
or making crude
mute, tribal remarks–
Don’t take my paintings
off the wall
because I don’t want
to sell them–
I prefer living amongst
these almost-living faces
with their perplexing looks–
even to me, their creator–
where did these odd
bizarre & unsettling
people come from?
Not the continent of Africa
or the ancient cities of Europe
or somewhere lost
in the South Pacific–
of that you can be sure;
this gallery of expropriated
and excommunicated
painted prisoners
stays where they originate–
right here at home.

Faces on the high edge
of a mountain trail
on a lip of the world
before Sunday’s final plunge
in search, not so much
of surrender, but of
the sublime–greens
like a state of mind
a celebration of pale bloom
but it wouldn’t last
that afternoon—you found
a pebble the shape
of a blue tear
and offered it to me
but I turned it down
saying “No–you keep it…”
Maybe I was selfish
or wrong;
The canyons never cared
more about yellow flowers
and purple fields
than we ever expected–
a gift, that interlude of calm
but were we truly ready
for all we saw? I don’t know–
now I feel I’ve forgotten it
and how the day
actually unfolded
like an old poem.

I saw those
plastic paper bags
both light and dark
blowing across the street
and freeway, out there
that day…and they all
looked like animals
on the run…frantically
crossing the street;
especially one black one
which I was sure WAS an animal–
but it turned out to be
just another bag…
after effectively fooling me…

And I heard voices
and lots of words in my head
as usual,  as usual…
yes, that’s two
unusuals…and it seemed
like someone was talking
or speaking them, but
of course, they weren’t….

The small
atrium
on the hill
where the trees
grow peacefully
is like a bridge
between you
and tomorrow…
But if you go there
to visit–please
be calm, quiet
and respectful
because, the knowing
and silent few
who come here
for solace
don’t want the
interruption of
the outside world
and the noises
of those uncertain
to disturb
this treasure
they’ve found.