JakTraks

Window Seat

Never seeming to tire of
peering out four windows
at the same four-season
quiet tree-lined street

lounging the window seat:
benevolent neighborhood watch,
or sitting tall their heads
jerking every which way

following what plays
(leaves ladybugs bees)
or lowering like a Sphinx
into a bath of sunshine

and the slowing of time.
Cats have lotus wisdom:
perceiving the world in
the only street they view,

there are people too
oddly content to gaze
a few familiar windows,
aware of every thing.

Day After Thanksgiving Haiku

three cats around me
cello concerto plays soft
space-time perfection

Solar Plexed

its in my solar plexus
no bigger than a pinpoint:

a tiger stalking for fresh meat,
coyotes transfixed by a clear night sky,
frogs out to leap and snap their tongues,
dachshunds and dobermans wagging in windows
alley cats nosing an unusual scent,

the hard and soft of a child's birth,
fireworks and flaming BBQ sauce,
days at the beach with shovel and pail
wearing a Mona Lisa smile,
a daily delivery with no shipping cost,

farmers planning and planting
tending and harvesting,
a red box of tools by the green hammock,
a suit for diving to 20,000 leagues,
the narrow wet mouth of a river;

call it passion or call it love.
finding yours -
no matter its conceptions and shapes -
you know it belongs to everyone.

***
[artwork: color-wonderful/photobucket]

Rules of the Game

We play the game "Survival is the Goal"
offensively to wield a club of clout,
defensively so what we love may stay.

Late autumn falls again, the daylight's doled,
all women track the moon's circular route,
dense clouds drop rain to rinse out life's decay

and ferry nutrients deep into the soil.
Assume we then our axioms the same--
we're pawns unfortunately made of clay

aware the piece does not outlast its role
we cast for hope by throwing dice of doubt
to know we matter more than what we weigh,

our moral mud is plied to save the soul.
Yet we may choose the rules of mind with heart:
abiding those makes gods of us in play.

True Blue Rose

This eternal rose is always a bud,
Always unfolding, always fully open;
Reason recognizes its perfume
Unsullied by assume or justification -
We call it love, are fed by its beauty,
May trust the scent to point precisely north,
A course for Life, one bold breath away.

Puff, Tango, Plash

This morning, remembering
the daily hour drive east to college
into the sunrise sky
dance of imagination
widening sleep-drawn eyes
with solar soaked art,
dewy kiss, day's first smile,
light's color-coded prayer
for all of us
across its one horizon.

Violet puffs and pipes the dawn,
tango of tangled orange and reds,
pointillist dots petal pink and lime,
plash of gold and scarlet mountains
reflecting Tibet,
sometimes indigo alone
bleaching to cloudless turquoise,
or closed blinds black and gray,
each dawn a postcard to "Dear Me,"
signed, "I'm on my way."

Finding Enough Light

I
Java lays down
slaps his tail on the carpet,
I'm waiting it says
impatiently.
He knows I'll cave . . .
and I do.
Rub a dub dub.

II
Its been raining for days;
now the sunlight falls
on this paper, my sweatshirt
too warm, coffee cooling.
Many will be cheered by the bright,
but lost on me
who just hissed at the cats.

III
Some plants find enough light
in the shade.

Alternate Endings

Rumi wrote his poems from Heaven
Frost penned at his farm,
Whyte writes from an inner edge
Dickinson from the heart.

Different places, yet the same,
Still I'd like to know
Where I write from most the time,
Where Muse and I are one.

Perhaps I write on top a bridge
(Perhaps the bridge: my poems),
To my right is cosmic flight
To my left are stones.

Underneath, mystery flows
Its running quiets soul,
Wind stirs embers in the mind --
Muse begins to row.

Poles of paradox: rock and space
By them I'm torn apart,
But on this bridge where two are one:
My Muse and I find art.

[alternate ending]
My muse and I both fart.

Down the Slide of Life on Waxed Paper

In grade school 1960's I was taught
in the second half of all our lives
brains lose cells
without regenerating,
the brain they said goes moldy, loses spark.

What a tightly wrapped box beliefs can be,
we didn't know that neuro-genesis
can happen even as our years wiz by
down the slide of life on waxed paper.

The old idea was a stultifying
inevitability. Lights off.
Now we know the current
flows into our future
holding open possibility.

Axioms all must end in question marks
or asterisks to signify a footnote:
though we know this to be true today
it could line the bird cage of tomorrow
for this is how it works: white pushes
black pushes white.

Sensitive beings seek to see and matter,
rational ones make discoveries,
mind moves to recreate itself --
the three shift perception and belief.

We stop a moment. Then seek to see some more.

A Sink Full of Paradise

For ten seconds
the dirty dishes in my sink were holy,
why then and never
again like that. Now I carry the knowledge:
the precious nature
inherent in plates, and our talent to witness
as a flyer for islands paradise,
allure of that one uplifted conversation --
a single perfect golf swing lets you play
for hopeful years, the rush to recapture.
Today the place
is looking most mundane (and dusty) so I
re-read the brochure,
bump-up the phrases in my mental bin,
relive the swing,
before washing my sink of ordinary.

Watching Ice Melt

Each day's a new block of ice
frozen at dawn, running down hill
as hours melt to thin memory,
rivulets pooling together somewhere (or nowhere).

Do memories visually pool with their like
forming layers on layers of similar scenes . . .

Are there tanks with various settings, collecting
specific qualities of recollection:
light water, heavy, murky or luminous,
drinkable or highly poisonous
(even though humans are not there
to analyze and provide such labels). . .

Is there a memory mixer, all histories
dancing or awkwardly gawking at one another . . .

Does the daily runoff evaporate
becoming the slight, fluffy or ominous clouds
of future days, our past drifting past . . .

Perhaps all recall is neutralized, or nothing
concerning us today but patiently waiting
for each person's next go-around
or visionaries' taking a sneak peak.

Sun Moon Void

Writing poems,
either sparks of light
or, so what,
sun, moon and void:
today from shadows,
tomorrow a clear lens
next Saturday -
darkness from Pluto.

Light never
can hide from itself,
no expectant
search or "ah" in find,
nothing that isn't
itself to receive.
What would light write
without craftsmen,
nothing I suspect
in alphabet.

I Think I Was Cumulus

Walking down the road
a blowsy October day,
moving fast under weak rays
in and out, for warmth.

Overhead clouds race:
a herd of workers catching
the six pm train on Friday,
eager to start the weekend.

Looking straight up
I rose a little, and began
flowing with the clouds,
flew, charged, raced, rolled
with them, my legs
two tails on a kite.

Does anyone see me;
lady in the yellow house
with red flowers,
family with the pine
like a one-armed cactus?

A car approaches and
looking to see it, land
as if a practiced fairy
smooth and light on a petal.

If you ever wonder
what goes on with clouds
blowsy October days
I can tell you . . .
they are laughing.

Tell Me, Why Rocks?

I have always known
my soul is with the rocks;
heavy, they are grounding,
light, they skip water.

I try to embrace this,
most of me naturally does
except a section wanting
flight with birds, or comets.

Comet! Why that's it!
Sir stubborn part can be
a flying rock, duh;
still it wonders, why rock.

Why not a Tiger Lily
or sweet mountain stream,
the fully skirted pine
or slice of an April sky?

As a child I loved all rocks
ragged and sharp, silk smooth,
stones multi and mono colored.
I must talk to the child.

Throwing Seed

It feels the bravest thing to do:
create your life as you want it
when the longing's not to hold a hand,
but throw seed into contrary winds
to fall where they may between blusters
taking root or not. Still, somewhere
in the one and only book of poets
every seed's possibility, recorded.

see artwork Here

Slip and Dip

Like the moon
into hiding 3 nights,
my faith can slip
into the sea
of dark matter
enmeshed with us.

Good to know
it has its own light,
where physical eyes
can't go
you can see
the spark.

Creative Fire

It is little good to sit
in a shimmying shapeless bonfire
throwing a wide
all encompassing circle,

if not also hosting a flame
come to a ragged point
through the crown of your head,
where bone was once soft.

Sometimes A Rock Isn't Just A Rock

when I was three and a half
I collected rocks,
put them in a box tall
as I was small,

colorful rocks and sparkly,
dull conglomerates and
rough or satiny smooth,
pebble size
or giant potatoes,

and it makes me wonder what
does a three and a half year old
look for in a rock,
what made those rocks worthy
of my collection.

Regarding the Whale

in my throat
swims a whale

spouting steam
jumping to heaven
and back

tremendous force
without hands
without legs

only the sea
carrying
where it will

my songs

Edges

Passion for God waxes
with our fear,
becoming a full moon
reflecting
all available light;
desperate hearts
may squeeze together
creating a high beam
to heaven.

Is this why
we scare each other
even to death,
letting fear for survival
bring us
to the edge of life,
a jolt out of numbness
for seconds
hours days or centuries
until we feel safe,
until safe becomes stagnant,
and the dance begins
once more.

What is it
that is better than fear
for bringing us
to the edge,
everyday,
with the threat not of falling,
but flying.

Quark-ikly Connected

the human mind
needs science to evolve,
mystery taken out of mystery,
its beauty transformed
(it can never be reduced)
into an elevation
for further exploration.

beliefs turn yellow,
red, orange
falling off - floating down;
between bare branches
the searing blue sky
more open to view,
new questions
and what ifs gestating
in the crisper of winter,
called buds come spring.

in our lifetime
science clothed spirit with this:
we are energetic beings
in an energetic universe,
vibrations at various frequencies
nudging the entire cosmos
with each soft breath,

there is no right stuff,
only the same stuff
of kings and cows,
stardust and dirt.
our present elevation says
"we are all quark-ikly connected."
you don't have to believe it,
just look at the facts
to catch the spirit-vision
of a new earth.

BIG BANG #2

laughter
is the savior with us,
alone or together
humor brings the fragments
into alignment,
for a brief space we are whole,

when wholeness lingers
we know what it is
to be whatever it is we are;
healing enters:
the pieces become
familiar with one another

creating scenes
not of suffering,
learning
there is no order to wholeness,
only movement
and mingling of bowls
full of jelly;

when all aspects at last
jiggle together,
working the same comic strip,
look out!
a big-bang of joy
will re-create the world.

Sir Chickadee and the Leaves

sir chickadee perches a branch
in the tree out front
his head snaps this and that way
to the beat of my heart,
he scolds me for this:
not sooner coming outside
this put-it-in-a-jar-and-save-it
august day.

the missus finds him
to share five minutes alone
planning nest upgrades
insectivore picnics,
my cat stares a black hole
through their arboreal universe
thwapping his tail on the grass.

its not like yesterday
when persistent winds forced secrets
from the neighborhood leaves
even as they shushed one another,
today the leaves bob on their branches -
buoys on calm water -
all talked out.

i close my eyes
feeling their gentle wave within
. . . within . . . within . . .
finding in the rhythm
delight, bright as the sun.

Tellers of Tales

what is your story
the one you tell yourself
about yourself
every darn day
what's it made of

the main character
the star of your plot
is she caressed
does he enjoy his own
sweet and sour company

there are two storytellers
upstairs
in separate rooms
identical dictionaries
symbolize what isn't
or what is

the programed writer
punches out the story line
survival sentences
strings of pain
masquerade as lifelines
winding around
blinking with holiday lights

the aware one weaves phrases
in commonsense
wisdom in plain clothes
without special effects
a hero's journey where
the protagonists
pull out the sword
and love themselves

Creep and Eat Holes

you must creep little creepers
that is what caterpillars do
creep and eat holes in leafy greens
stretch - contract - chew

and so did I until the day
I wove myself a womb
wrapping past attempts to fly
around everything I knew

leaving it all suspended - hanging
a room without a view
wondering why so limited
when wanting the beauty of flight

anxious for a kiss of life
as well understanding wait
struggle and patience bundled tight
no room for insect bliss

until another nondescript day
wiggling to scratch an itch
was aware I'd made a tear
a bit of light slipped in

now I'm ever glad and grateful
my crawling self had learned
there wasn't anywhere to fall
though I knew not yet of wings

Stone Words

language cannot convey
the depth breath beauty or challenge
of poets' felt vision
yet poets persist

it is a mountain to climb
seemingly impossible
but you take the first word and begin
climbing resting struggling
exhilaration - moments when it seems
you'll make the point

then the scaling feels endless
but you keep going for the moment
you can lift yourself up
and plant your signature

on top of the world briefly
knowing the wonder of it is still buried
in stoney words
yet the rock contains a light
never anticipated

Docks

It is being at the crack of dawn
finding the finger-hold of dusk
the beginning and end at once
that is never seen before its gone,
you know it's there
and that watching for it is futile
but you can be present with it
at the end of a dock with feet dangling,
in your periphery solid and liquid meet,
facing the shore we imagine birth
turning back toward the water
we can walk no further
but if we didn't need a turn,
if we faced both ways,
the edge of the dock would be one thing.

Poets' Prom

The alphabet mingles
in the warming whirl
bumping elbows
exchanging pleasantries,
sometimes gathering and
making meaning
where none existed before;

if photographed
the group will be synonym-ized,
metaphor-ed and
immortalized
for gigabyte years to come;
or just as easily lost
in the middle of the dance floor
as partners exchange.

Forked

One way is a life-long pattern
thought processed, over and done,
the other ethereal as yet unformed
or informed as it will be,
should these diverging paths be one
or choose, forget the other.

This fractal in the road I think a test
for which I'm hoping there is code -
before deciding I decipher -
ah . . . no, the crux is this:

do I possess the nerve to portray wholeness:
each day an upper case Self,
not secure as a nested doll
but rather without doubt
live the terror all stops out
as the one I am.

nice quote . . .

In Seven Pillars of Wisdom, T.E. Lawrence says, "There are dreamers, but not all human beings dream equally. Some are dreamers of the night, who in the dusty recesses of their mind dream and wake in the morning to find it was just vanity. But the 'Dreamers of the Day' are dangerous people because they act their dreams into reality with open eyes."

Sip of Summer

the first hot day this spring
though the breeze carries
whispers of winter

bare arms legs and feet
buzz with the same joy
as the bee
flying zig-zag circles
above the evergreen bush

a tree bud
swollen with anticipation
reminds me of being nine
and ten days left
before summer vacation

Loose Ends

Most everything comes around:
holidays, cleaning the toilet,
dentist visits and taxes,
the moon waxing and waning
though always having a ball.

I like the frayed ends
of my marriage,
the things I never said,
broken and mismatched links
of several quasi careers,
projects quashed
just out the starting gate.

Without those dangling modifiers
living would be a circular file,
a never ending tilt-a-whirl,
perhaps a perfect hum
contained and constrained,
but there'd be nothing
for the unshaped part of me
to love.

Sometimes its good to stop short
of beginning again,
to have threads untied,
a good hit
that doesn't get you home,
discordance without resolution
or Beethoven without motifs.

I love the parts of my life
sans closure
flopping around like live wires
ready to make interesting connections,
or limp ragged ends
touching nothing at all.

With due respect for the circle of life,
Some ends are better left raw.

Hooz?

our shadows become
when we stand
between them and the light

they are two dimensional
and can't see us
they don't know how they are made

who's shadow am I

A Third Thing

what moves you

what flows red and molten
through your veins
until it is felt
in the heart

what fills your mind's eye
with iceberg blue clarity
until it is seen
by the heart

searing river and crisp water
meet and steam in the four chambers
giving off a third thing -
an offspring -
eager and ephemeral

Air for Sale

last monday
before hopping the expressway to work
I needed to fill a sagging tire
with air what else

the station was empty of cars
so wa-hoo
I didn't have to wait
for a slow dude or dudette
to meticulously check
all four car-shoes

when I pulled up
the air thingamajig
was already running
thinking it would soon stop
took my time digging for quarters
and leisurely left the car

the pump kept humming
as I lazily unscrewed the cap
cool I thought
and began squeezing the trigger
oops . . .

the nozzle must be getting old
letting more air out than forcing in
(yeah right)
it took me a long minute
to finally plump the wheel
and was re-capping the goodyear
when the motor stopped
two quarters now hot in my palm

wow perfect timing
gift from the universe
from the ghost I did not see driving away
as I came down the road annoyed
having to shore up my tire
with retail air

finally on the entrance ramp
heading to my office I thought
how cool would it be
if there'd been no other driver
and the o-two pump miraculously turned on
for me

but what's better
a miracle of timing
or one sans explanation
either way
I got the pounds of air for free
not even paying a wish

Order in Chaos in Order

the utterly ridiculous barrage of paperwork
expected to be done in perfection -
no kidding, perfection
or the state will withhold funding -
is another symptom of chaotic-itis fragmen-titus

so I've decided not to let it stress me out
or fight it or grumble grumble grumble
(well maybe a little grumbling)
I can look at getting papers' minutia perfect
as a sign of better sense to come
you know, the dark before dawn thing

being burdened with detail is part of the craziness
that needs to wear itself out apparently
come to a head reach its zenith
max out, until we are utterly tired
of our centuries-long adolescence

a lot of people have come to their senses already
call it enlightenment personal development
soul growth or light-working

sages monks missionaries mystics
change diapers twelve times a day
wash windows 44 stories up
buy out failing businesses
drive cabs and counsel clients everyday

that's why I won't allow
stupid irrational joy-killing record-keeping
anywhere near my heart:
when enough of us say "let there by peace"
it will carry the force of God

Dali's Watch

one of those eternal feeling
mornings seeming centuries long
almost . . . time has been suspended

and I've lived entire lives
in spite the measured flow of hours
stretching like millenniums

until my eyes catch a clock
notice how its all but stopped
and with awareness relishing
elasticity of time

I'd sped nowhere at about
the speed of light after falling
into every moment making
the sum of them nearly one

hands and digits waiting for
the edge of it . . . to move them on

Purple Grass

when very young
we're gods and goddesses
of color

purple grass greenish sky
ochre sun teal moon
rivers rushing in burgundy
silver stones wash by

wondrous thing: it isn't strange
to us still fresh and free
from the palette of our birth

the awe-inducing palette
of our birth

For Coyote

Yesterday I searched for a picture
inside Photobucket on the web
of coyote howling on a peak.

Discovered lovely shots made day and night -
some with coyote howling at the moon
others, coyote trotting through the woods
or through a snowy field morning bright -
mixed in with shots of coyote lying dead,
sometimes the head held upright by the one
who killed it with the courage of a gun.

I've never heard of people eating coyote,
guess it was for sport of shooting lead
at an archetype of mystic lore,
wily it was but destined for a hardwood
floor or being crowned upon a wall.

At least, dear hunter, do not smile wide
over loss of life just like your own,
coyote yes, attacks a human being
when hungry enough or for its own protection;
they eat the meat off other animals' bones.

Its the pompous grin I don't like seeing:
a god with no respect for brother's breathing.

Within It

what's it like to be alone
what of the sadness in it

what's it like not to be
to those she said who love it

imagine the first born vibe
come from nothing ever heard
yet nothing's presence we know
inside our pith of heart and bone

she said with those that shun alone
I've loneliness of perception:
unless a similar world is shared
we look
but sans reflection

but all that love the still are in it
alone is never alone within it

Brilliant

hanging on so tight
even when we loosen the grip
hard to imagine whatever
could be but that already known
like a brilliant new color
outside the spectrum of the bow

I noticed a little girl
in the park with a yellow balloon
and let go the string
we watched the balloon lilt the breeze
becoming in spite
expectant eyes
a Goldfinch in and out the trees

Sand In My Shoes

for a long time now
I've been walking in a desert
that's how it feels anyway

but I'm not thirsty
my soul's not dry
I am alone but never lonely

the hardest thing is not to panic
thinking this a huge mistake
on my part in my heart

perhaps I've found a source of water
within myself I'd like to think it
(though thinking is not how to drink it)

perhaps the sub-text of my mind
took it hook line and sinker
the reality it all is one

so what am I doing in the desert
maybe just to see the difference
from my sand-swept journey before

but I detect there's something else
something about emotions unable
to signify well experience of life

for my solitaire heart is full
as the midnight mohave sky
and soft with heat beneath the sun

Yule Nap

when my cats sleep throughout the year
they remind me of Christmas
for they become peace on earth
innocence
and contentment with what is

they practice all year long
just for Christmas day
several times each 24 hours
rehearsing a yuletide nap

and today
Christmas day
I'd like to blow their tender essence
into the hearts and minds of men
women and children everywhere

as for my feline friends
when they wake up this afternoon
all they'll want is fresh canned food
and the holiday massage
that I practice throughout the year

Blinds

the closed blinds
begin to glow
with first light

And what is a lit-up face
if not that

if I'd never seen the sun
I'd say: magic

Before and After Sandwich

today I'm restless
can't sit still
keep thinking
I've got energy for something
unused

or too much of a good thing

maybe if I eat a sandwich
I'll know what to do
with myself

(back from sandwich)

someone made a snowman
across the street
scarf hat buttons funny face

java curled up in my lap
warm on this cold day
rubbed him under the chin
and enjoyed the bliss
on his face

still restless but
a little more grounded
think I'll go out
and bring in the mail

Whatever is the Point?

ever get to a point where all seems pointless
which means of course you're standing on a point
that doesn't really exist

point is a sharp curious word to use
it indicates direction of perception
or a pixel print on digital paper
the former is to show someone the way
whether it be a finger or compass needle
the latter indicates a part of things

a third way being the essence of what's said
nutshells boiled down the bottom line
the crux of stuff a legal distillation
the gist the core a naked nub or pith

now to the point whatever is the point

sometimes people act like points and point
show the way model for or lead
and one human's a miniature of men
are iron ore zinc salt and seed
and one with courage goes right to the thrust
sharing daring baring what is meant

we show we are we share whatever is
so I present my thoughts because they are
and by this verse they now extend to you

Dali's Watch

one of those eternal feeling
mornings seeming centuries long
almost . . . time has been suspended

and I've lived entire lives
in spite the measured flow of hours
stretching like millenniums

until my eyes catch a clock
notice how its all but stopped
and with awareness relishing
elasticity of time

I'd sped nowhere at about
the speed of light after falling
into every moment making
the sum of them nearly one

hands and digits waiting for
the edge of it . . . to move them on

Trade-off

it's been a while since I've written

not happy about that
my time taken up with work
is so against my religion

but it is a learning experience
that much I can't complain about
discovering things about myself
and putting what I knew in words

for example I never knew
in words what is the difference
between the service I give direct
and that completed indirectly

I get a kick out of the latter
like getting something done quickly
knowing it makes someone else's
responsibilities easier
knowing I could have put it off

I like helping on the fly
(but I knew that)
getting cereal off the top
shelf at the grocery store
for a person of lesser height
or giving directions on the street

doing things with or expected
is service yes but it's not fun
(it is to some but not to me)
feeling more a burden than a
joyfully given gift

I don't get that good feeling
helping others do their stuff
or waiting on them as a guest
(perhaps I'm not selfless enough)
but if by taking care of biz
or being where I aim to be
another is lifted or moves along
bliss tells me I have served

even so
it's been a while since I've written

not happy about that

To Be or Not To Be . . . a Buttercup

I'm really busy right now because
of my promotion at work
I don't like being this busy because
it cuts down on time to shirk

but at work I shirked to walk
the weather so genteel
and spied a single buttercup
in a soccer field

tiny drop of summer sun
just one can make you smile
much as millions of buttercups
strewn a lemon mile

standing alone it was exquisite
framed by throngs of green
just as jaunty bumptious and bright
whether or not I'd seen

asked if it had a thought for me
and I heard it say
be a drop of summer sun
a pixel in the play

Maybe For The World

wisdom's more than words
that weather shocks of time

it nests in quiet minds
open to one moment's
scent of orange rind
or the garbage bin
taste of grandma's famous fudge
or swallowing medicine
magnificent violet sunrise
or violent slurs on walls

clear perception welcomes
the sage to perch and sing
a private verse perhaps
or for persons you're with

maybe its for the world

shout it sing it say it
write it play it sketch it

what is relevant now
may be a firefly's flash
or glide on passing years . . .

where there isn't day and night
each held equally dear