Monday, March 20, 2017

Urban Square

Wayne Thiebaud, Urban Square, 1980, Oil on canvas, Oakland Museum

steel over streets
vaulting rivers fly
to the hard, blue sky
sharper than
ink, than
bright city

(22 Oct. 2013)

Thursday, March 16, 2017

In the Cold

In the cold
there's no room
for old fears; tears
that freeze on your
cheeks are

Lying under narrow eves
on porch or sidewalk grate
waiting for sleep 
or death
to ease your pain, 

you cannot remember
how you got this way;

for thought, like water, 
congeals to solid rock,
and you can't 
even pray.

(12 Dec 2012)

Author's Note: Estimates of the numbers of homeless in the US today range from 200,000 to 500,000, many of whom are unsheltered children.  This is a national disgrace.  Update 3/2017: President Trump's new budget inhumanely slashes poverty programs while increasing military spending.  He thinks this will make us more safe.


В холодное

В холодное
здесь нет места
за старые страхи, слезы
что мораторий на ваш

Лежа под узким кануны
на крыльце или тротуаре решетку
ожидания для сна
или смерть
чтобы облегчить вашу боль,

Вы не можете вспомнить
как вы получили таким образом;

для размышлений, как вода,
застывает в твердые породы,
и вы не можете
даже молиться.


Автор отмечает,
Оценки числа бездомных в диапазоне сегодня США от200000 до 500000, многие из которых являютсянезащищенных детей. Это национальный позор.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Evening Meditation

Our apple tree is exuberant tonight,
its white blossoms flare within emerald shades
of our big cottonwoods,

and the flashing red finch descends
busy among the bursting white flames,
when suddenly, by a small boy enraptured,
it poses as the guardian halcyon.

Love in April is like this,
measured in flashes
of red wings in trees
and scored in lines of
molten sunlight, pouring
through our knotty fence
into the silky darkness
of our star drenched night


Evening Prayer

Wind stirs in expectation
softly strokes my face.

The March sun reassures
warms pale flesh
through layers of thick sweater
and winter coat.

Under indigo hills
new grass flows,
yellow and green,

as past distant ranges,
to the sky-bright, rounded sea
it flees and sends
a gift of clouds,
in glory.

Peace to the grass of the fields!
to dark hills and drifting clouds,
and to the sacrificial sun

(21 March 2014)

Saturday, March 11, 2017

Suisun Spring

the green glow
of our cottonwoods
newly clothed in the gentle April sun ....

our apple tree,
still skeletal,
intimating cotton buds
promising green glory to come,

and the grass!
all winter-yellow evaporated,
shouting like a
third-grade leprechaun
skipping across the playground
in the school's St. Patrick's Day Parade.

but most unforeseen,
along the rough fence
the vinca
blazing with royal light
in the deep, verdant shade
of our cottonwoods.

(12 April 2010)