I'll Remember This Much

About 1962 

Willcox, Arizona

Let’s not think about where 

our old neighborhood went.

The street names have remained,

but searching will not find much of

anything removed. It just looks different.

Remember how we played basketball

in December’s chill and frost,

fingers becoming stiff and red,

and how the O’Connor’s blood hounds

chased the ball until one of them

bit a hole in it?

In spring, when all flowers blossomed,

the land seemed merciful and soft.

Then summer, with a few days too warm,

displayed new mirages in the distance,

silvery and ghostly and mysterious.

We rode our bikes out toward them

but soon realized we weren’t 

getting any closer.

I remember especially the autumn 

of my eighth grade, when boys and girls,

shimmering in fall colors and full blush,

noticed each other differently, 

gradually becoming aware 

of our awkward civilities, 

of boys’ cracking voices, that whatever began 

blossoming the previous summer 

made us fidgety and confused,

having no idea what was really happening.

In the tenth grade I realized what had

really happened, and that memory

has tickled me ever since.

From: Memories Of Things

Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 46

Reflections Of A Journeyman Seeker

I’m terrified of deep water, sharks, and barracudas;

of long dark tunnels with no end or light in sight.

I have been a lonesome traveler, a Journeyman Seeker,

at home in prayers, a fan of metaphor and paradox;

a window builder, a carpenter, a teacher,

a lover of wine, Beethoven, and Mary Oliver;

of my children and grandchildren and dear friends;

of art, pianos, poetry, caresses, and sky blue eyes;

of an embrace that says I will never let you go.

My journeys have taken me 

to the depths of the Grand Canyon, 

the rugged heights of the Sierra Nevada,

to deserts, forests, and the Columbia River Bar, 

to the Pacific’s boisterous, unrelenting surf,

and into the inexplicable presence of the Divine. 

Everything I have seen and done has been a blessing.

I have mellowed with age, my face weathered, my hair thinned,

disregarding anything a mirror has to say, a small price paid 

for stepping into and out of nature’s spiritual mysteries, 

embracing passion and risking a vulnerable heart laid bare,

for without passion, we won’t know where love will take us,

we won’t know a way into the depth of love and trust, 

we won’t know the wondrous heat of a lover’s fiery kiss.

From: A Preface to the Universe

Unpub. MS p. 57

Subversive Meandering

Listen without ears to the voice

that calls you, Come this way.

The intangible things that breathe 

have no names but are life.

Something in the mist and fog

of our mystical musings awaits us. 

One step more into 

the cosmic wobble, lovers,

always one step more.

Heart, mind, compassion, empathy.

Our souls. Even those that are 

imaginary and fictional, we name. 

Words become us, however reckless.

Nothing that lives can be safe.

Stop listening to the music

and become the music— 

bang the drums, play the trumpets,

sing the prayer, be what you are.

Should we trust anyone’s 

proclamation of faith 

who doesn’t argue with God?

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 15

Getting There

at seventy-seven

Funny is age,

getting there day by day, 

without really noticing, then

wham-O! here they are. 

The years.

The memories.

There was nothing to warn me 

that this was coming,

that sense of sorrow that in my chest swells,

the ache we’ve all had just before

shedding tears from pains or losses,

though some might be shed later,

in their own time,

without warning or reason.

Gently it takes me into a place past all knowing.

I don’t know the why of it,

and I don’t try to know,

but Knowing does come out of it.

And there is sweet nostalgia,

rising, like softened anxiety, 

a five-year-old innocently looking 

into the world, a little scared,

visions of curiosity and wonder;

(the world works how?),

the excitement of all things new,

now saying to myself,

Oh, what I missed, what I missed.

Today I step more softly,

and remember there is joy all around.

The heart knows 

what the mind cannot understand,

how it feeds the soul,

how it balances the body,

stays reason and lets loose the wordless seasons,

opening blossoms— sorrow, nostalgia, and joy— 

each its own beauty.

I know my stories, the who and the how— 

joys, failures, tragedies— 

but the real stories, 

the ones I’ve never breathed,

only my heart 

knows best.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 39

What Hope Brings

I have traveled throughout 

the western states, and I have seen 

some breathtaking scenery

from Yosemite, the Cascades,

Snake River, the Grand Canyon,

to the turbulence of the Pacific Ocean

where it meets the Columbia River.

I have seen magnificent sunrises and sunsets,

Roosevelt Elk grazing outside my tent;

eagles, hawks, ravens, gulls, and breeching whales.

All of these things made my chest ache,

my breath deepen, my arms stretch out,

wanting to take all of it in to my body.

I have a notion that true love,

however defined, would be like that, 

and that lovers would look at each other 

like they would look at the beauty of nature;

their chests would ache, pulses quicken,

breaths deepen, and their arms would

wrap around each other in a way 

that says, I will never let you go.

Such is my fancy, my dream, my hope,

and hope will always bring good things.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere

Unpub MS p. 44

From Where Love

Three Short, Related Meditations

I.

To know more than just things,

words are not enough.

There must also be shivering

within our souls like surf 

that endlessly swirls and frets

around piles of rocks, water worn.

II.

A shortened life is never more

than half a breath away.

Our knowledge of sorrow will take us

into the depth of kindness,

calming rough-edged lives.

It isn’t possessing that matters.

For millennia, many have chosen

to make the best of love.

III. 

Earth changes.

Marsh water rises gently into mist.

Ah, look, there are other ways to wander.

Regardless the speed of our feet,

the wings of a falcon,

or clouds before the release

of water made new,

let us wander gritty and well-tempered

with a gentler step upon this suffering earth.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 28

The Same Trump

 ...and Trump posted a video depicting the Obamas as apes.

This is the same Trump who mocked disabled people;

the same Trump who said that because he's famous

he can grab women by the "pussy";

the same Trump who encouraged a takeover

of the Congress of the United States that ultimately KILLED five people;

the same Trump who didn't bat an eye when the mob

wanted to hang Vice President Mike Pense;

the same Trump who, on his first day in office in 2025,

pardoned those same people who stormed Congress;

the same Trump who has dispensed with morality and civility

and allows thugs with badges, guns, and face maskes

to arrest a five year old child.

And how much richer is he now than when he took office

a year ago?

Have people lost their shit detectors?

Have people lost their ability to be sickened by this behavior?

Have people lost their ability to recognize immoral actions?

Have we lost any sense of mercy, justice, and generosity?

Oh, dear God, awaken us.

Words On Fire

We need words 

rampaging back and forth,

up and down from everywhere, 

like blood drained from an opened vein.

Words that carry life and death,

danger and challenge, risk and terror,

love and kindness, fearful and brave,

wandering in the heart of darkness,

feckless and undaunted;

searing, razor sharp words slicing

the reigns of blind stupidity,

mediocrity, and tyranny,

shredding all of them

into millions of pieces.

In the end what we really need are words

of blazing love, blistering fire unleashed;

unabashed, bare, vulnerable, indomitable,

ready to ignite a fearful heart 

and go bravely into the wild passions.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere

Unpub. MS p. 28

I Alone

On a dual-tracked road

through the Coronado grassland,

the border wall stares down hard,

yet the mountain shines above it

with the first and last light of the day.

From: How We Wander:

Short Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 11

Twelve Strings

While Leo Kottke’s music pranced about the room,

I thought about sunlight in all its forms.

I thought about a cat named Zeke;

a dog named Cooper;

rain storms, lightning, owls, ravens, 

and the Pacific a mile away.

I thought about the mystery

infusing the ebb and flow of tides,

a mystery that’s in my blood and marrow,

but I don’t know how to name it.

All anyone will say is,

Just dance to it.

From: How We Wander:

Short Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 27