The Magic of Loss

When something is lost

It’s important to see

What remains

This is a story about discovery







The bowl is more than empty

It's a chasm

And yet the swirling colors of memory

Are perfumed with a poet's music



No, let me explain

With scalpel in hand

The surgeon cut away

The pained and frightened queen



The young prince was left

To rearrange the pieces

In the tower of contemplation



He called the princess

out of her dark closet

To put on her gown and

Teach him how to climb trees



Together they are conjurers

Of magic swans and bees

They travel out to far off galaxies

And heal myriad spirits

Walk in dark places

Where wondrous beings perform



No one could have told me this before

That hidden behind every tragedy

Is a gift.

First Snow

The first snow
like a slap on
a baby's bottom

The blushing trees
gazing on from
another world

The geese left early
and the squirrels
are abed

Only I am left
to see the drifting
flakes - and wonder

Warm glowing leaves
soon hidden, retreated
to their fairy realm

While evergreens
feel every needle come alive
in the magical air

Their green patches
sheltered by the canopy
like memories

And only I am left
to see the blanket
of white - and wonder.

The Art

The need for interior
the dialogue with characters
discussing plans
now I remember a gray woman
in brown with indeterminate hair
talking with her hands
she gets my attention
but I don't let her know
this is the art of lying
the art of being

People try to explain
the main points
they effuse and importune
feeling their extremities
and the common earthly balance
but all too often these
efforts fail while
exposing the rest
in time it doesn't matter
and love spreads itself thin.

I Breathe Mountains

I breathe mountains
sip trees
inhale highways

Tap out the beats
on the railroad
feel the pulse
of telephone wires

Dream in the uncut hedges
and high grass
scent pond scum

Feel the wind
through branches

Huddle up for buildings
where frozen souls
clench their buds
in perpetual
suspended animation

I find shade leaves
on the tracks
and boys running
in red shirts

Birdsong winging
Over buildings
curling treelines
reaching for the sky

On the train
from Poughkeepsie going south

I breathe mountains
and tap out the time
in the heartbeat

Of the sweet sweet land.

Dreaming in Venice

I dreamed I was swimming
In the canals of Venice
With elephants
A dolphin
And my granddaughter
As a reformed mermaid
Or perhaps
Transformed mermaid
Would be more true

People were swimming up
To her
Antediluvian paparazzi
“Show us your colors –
Your colors!”
We laughed.
This was what they
Always said when she
Still had her tail

The elephant carried a baby
Curled up on her shoulder
To keep him dry
He was dark heavenly blue
With patches of gold
And rust red
Like barnacles
On his skin
He was smiling
As babies do

Behind the young Indian boy
Who swam like Mowgli
All arms and legs
Exuberant inefficiency
The dolphin glided,
I thought
If I swim closer
I’ll be able to touch its tail

It was mysterious
In shape
Its round tail oddly
Resembling a propeller
I could tell it had
A purpose and direction
It was dreaming too
With eyes closed
In the warm waters

My granddaughter's legs
Were long
As she managed the currents
Again I noticed the
Elephant’s smile
Where were we headed
So happily
And with such purpose?
Were we all psychic
Friends?

Mindfulness

Thought is an ocean
Waves and swells
with influences
dissipates and subsides
on the in-breath
and crashes down
with the out

Mindfulness is
watching this
without attachment
or confusion
or agitation

Neither wave nor boat
nor whale nor bird
nor swimmer
nor the rising up
of water
into cloud.

For Christopher Cameron, one of the most graceful navigators of the mind's ocean I ever met.

Lights, Camera, Action

Movie theaters, those giant ocean liners
Getting up, I’m searching for my land legs

Life on the big screen, the convoluted plot,
The probing characterization

We observers of drama
In the safety of the darkness

Must take off the 3-D glasses
And pick up where we left off

In the daily script
Of our dangerous lives

Outside where the bruises
are most lurid on the inside

We are all little mermaids
Who bartered our tails for love.