Parakeets on Hampstead Heath

London has changed.
There are parakeets now on Hampstead heath.
Hundreds of them.
Staking their green mossy branches
bright green in the evening light
squawking above and over the evensong
of what pigeons and thrushes remain.
Were they all descended from a single pair
an Adam and Eve who flew the golden cage
their garden of Eden
to populate the wilds of London?
Are these the most northerly
wild parakeets in the world?

Fairytale

When she was born
the fairies came
to wonder beside her cradle
They blesed her with golden locks
and a pretty face
a body that is always youthful
They blessed her with a kind heart
and clever hands
to make beautiful things
And they blessed her with
an inquiring mind
She gogled at them and cooed
not knowing the last was a curse
She lived a long and happy life
and was always misunderstood.

Rural Winter

The mud cracks a little under my shoes
but they hold solid. Ice as waterproffing.
I wonder if Cinderella's shoes were made of ice
instead of glass.  The windows of the house
on the other side of the valley
glint gold in the sun.  I imagine a woman
knitting or spinning yarn
and wonder if she is looking at our windows
dark against the dark wooded hill.
What does she imagine we are doing?
The path comes to an end
where the sun has melted the ice
a pool of mud stands in the way
I turn back. I will never reach her.

London

People in London are like people in New York
Slim and purposeful but sadder, enveloped in grey
Young men bear the look of looking down not forward
Dour nannies walk pushchairs with worried faces
A gaggle of made up teenagers outside Starbucks
Emanate a billowing cloud of scent, spirited but shy
There is not quite enough rain to put up my umbrella
Days and nights mercilessly fade into each other
A warm yoga session blossoms like a tropical oasis

Flight

At home in the sky
They comfort you with blankets
That's why it's so cold

To My Cellphone

You were dying all day so I plugged you in
All night you were in the red
When I woke at 4 in the morning
You were still only up to 20% and not rising
I replugged. 50% when I got up.
First I left you there in my bedroom
Then moved you to the living room
While you teetered around 40-55
I went for a walk without you
Finally the next night you charged
I couldn't believe it
In the morning you were at 100%
what will I do without you
Now you are so rapidly draining?

Three Versions of Love

I love you
More than the others
I love you the most

I love you
And every silly little thing
You say and do
I want to ravish and spoil you

I love you
When you touch me my heart feels warm
I long for you when we are apart
Roses and music remind me of you
I look up to you and wonder
What is it like to be you?
I want you
more than anything in the world
to be free

I Am the River

I am the River
The force moves me and I flow
Down to the sea
So many raindrops
Have joined me
I am them
I love the rocks
Rubbing against my cool belly
And my love changes them
I can move mountains
I can change my course
I can be one or many
Even if I dry up one year
I am back the next
I am in all places at once
I am at all times
Touch me
All rivers are holy

Tree

The understanding I seek
Is spiritual not intellectual
Like a tree by the side of the stream
Of universal consciousness
Sipping the sweet fresh water
Through its roots and through its heart
Reaching up to the sky
With handfuls of golden green new leaves

Meditation at Trader Joe

Second draft, with wallet
At least I remembered the trash

Mantra:
Weetabix, eggs
Multigrain Oats

The goal of yoga is Personal
unification with the Divine
which may as well be achieved
by corporeal means
such as eating

Like the elephant in the story
who jumped off a mountain
because he felt sorry
for the travelers in the desert
who ate him and survived

I am no Buddhist

Love may be found
where you least expect it
pipes in the muzac

The checkout girl does not ask:
Did you find everything ok?
How are you doing?

Instead
she looks appreciatively
at my coffee beans

More coffee
might help
with focus

I smile

What Roses Dream Of

I always find time
To stop and smell the roses

A rose is so personal
You feel like it's speaking to you

I wonder if they dream of butterflies
Or other roses

Do they whisper amongst themselves?

How can they ever connect with one another
When each one is perfectly lonely
Rooted in the earth, dying to open
Hiding its secrets under so many lids
Guarding them with thorns

Emily Dickinson captured it best
This feeling of longing without expectation
The revery alone will do
When bees are few

A rose is the opposite of an onion
Roses smell sweetest just before they open

Tenderloin, San Francisco

Who knows how she lost her legs
Or her wheelchair
Or what she's on
But she makes great time
On all fours
In the crowd outside
The homeless hotel
I wonder if I'd have the spunk?
Just goes to show
You don't have to go
To India or somewhere

You

I wanted to write a poem
About the wonderful person you are
Coming through your experiences
To have created yourself
In the image of God
Instead of in their image
But I would feel out of place
Writing your stories
When I love you
As the author of your own life

Berkeley Marina

I feel enveloped in a warm haze
of golden sunlight
your hands
warming my belly
or stroking my face

When I squint through my eyelids
the sun peeps out of the mist
glinting off the water
where a duck and a seagull
are equally suspended
between heaven and earth
like in a Japanese screen painting
where there is no horizon
or as though God never separated
the seas and the skies
before making birds

And I don't know
how to capture in words
the warm feeling in my heart
as if we were sitting in a hotspring
or the smile that spreads across my face
imagining it

or the tears in my eyes
or the feeling of being seen

Maybe all I needed was love

Between

Reading between the lines
Stepping over the cracks
Between you and me
In my dream you told me
My poem was all about
Me and you
But I think it's about the between
Like when you're walking there's a moment
When your weight is between your two feet
Or when the sound of somebody practicing
A piano sonata leaks down the street
And the air is filled with music and butterflies
And sunlight
But you keep moving forward

Truckee

Rain has undone the wall of ice in front of Safeway
Last night's hidden comfort in an otherworldly tunnel
Now an ordinary strip mall whose signs are visible from the road
I worry about my sons up on the mountain
Skiing and snowboarding down the melting snow
I pour my love into making chicken soup and poetry
And bring them dry clothes

The Melting of Snow

The melting of snow is often overlooked 
As the rippled sheets lazily fold and slide down the roof
Like the bedclothes of an indolent woman napping past noon
And meltwater replaces the emotionless drip drop of icicles 
The snow turns translucent and bluish with a clear crust
That sparkles even with the rain, a natural archeologist 
Uncovering other people's bad habits, corks and cigarette butts
Carelessly strewn, neatly hidden under mountains of snow
We learn forgiveness from the melting of snow

Prayer

God, fold me in your arms
Wrap me in your understanding
Heal my body and preserve my soul
While I lie in your dream kingdom
Sleep

On the Shooting of Gabrielle Gifford, Christina Green and Others

(Homage to Auden)

Put down your guns, take back your pointed words
Before they pin you in a box like swords
Muffle the politicians with your silent tears
Bring out the coffins, and let go your fears

Look at each other.  We are all human here
Rich and poor have mouths and eyes and ears
A precious face of hope was lost last night
A child born amidst a different fight

Gather your children as planets gather around stars
Show them the way, for a different way is ours
Standing together, growing slowly, as trees grow in the wood
or nothing now will ever come to any good

Napa

Deep in these barren winter vines life creeps
Like the silence before the music starts
Which is already part of the composition
I can no longer count the times
I have been down this valley
Lined with the scent of fermenting grapes
I wish I could remember the friend
Who told me about a group she ran for old people
Their stories of coming here with no English
Changing their names
Bringing her fruit from their gardens
Because stories are like aged wine
Without stories we are casual winetasters
filling a weekend

Homage to Rilke

Now when I read these poems
a word will offer itself to my contemplation
filling me with longing for you.
Why is it we start by letting go
and end not wanting to leave?
Were we even listening?
We spent a whole day holding each other
pondering the meaning of a rose
as though the world didn't matter
expecting this to make no difference.
Would I have danced so prettily
if I hadn't known you were watching?
When will the words stop speaking
to my heart in images of you
and settle back into their everyday meanings?
For you, did they ever change?
Did I want them to?
Do I want to know?

A Fragile Web

A web of friendship extends
over these ephemeral pages
warming my heart
like the canyon stream
playing in the noon sunlight
it winds its way down to the sea
existing here, now, daily

A discrete, beautiful moment
whose parts are interchangeable
but each special to me

I cherish each and every one of you

Hokusai Wave

The men cower over their oars

They need not look up

The tower of tumbling water and foam

About to crash over their wooden longboat

Is already etched in their memories

Some hold in their hearts 

Images of family and friends

Some panic

Some think of me

I look on calmly

It has already happened a thousand times

They will likely get wet but survive

To me it passes in the blink of an eyelid

A butterfly's wing tickling my side

I am Mount Fuji

And I have spoken

Maybe Love Is Like Bubble Bath

Maybe love is like bubble bath
It comes in different scents
But always goes flat if you stay in too long

You should pull the plug
While you're still warm

You can always run another bath

How To Write a Poem

You should start
With something specific
Something sensual

The cat perches on my lap
Spreading his paw in the air
When I tickle his cheek
Letting me use his head
As a wrist cushion

The fan loudly disperses the roast chicken fumes
That already tickle my nose with a hint of thyme
And blur the view of the unopened letter pile
On my desk

The dog runs back and forth like a mad thing
When we walk in the park with a friend
And he finally gets off the leash

My blind friend has both his own skis
And rollerblades

Then you should move
To the universal

Blinded by comfort
Seeking freedom

Deadheading the Roses

When she was four or five
Her grandmother took her out to the garden at dusk
To deadhead the roses
So they would make more flowers
She could barely manipulate the secateurs
The huge, moist, floppy blooms fell to the ground
Snowing petals everywhere
Until sometimes only the powdery stamens remained
Then they floated the good ones
In a giant green glass bowl full of water
And set it on the mahogany dining room table
She wondered whose heads they were

After Words

As in a tower of words she stood
Her daughters dispersed to the Earth's four corners
Their father kept in touch with them
They were always at different frequencies
Beating together once in a blue moon
Her feet rooted to the ground with words
In the beginning God said let there be light
Words before creation
She painted the light with her words
She spoke seven languages like her mother's tongue
She had learned early that words control
What is outside your own body
"Want nana, no milk"
Be careful what you eat
You might have allergies
Take care of the furniture
Look after the money
A relentless stream of words pouring from her mouth
When there was nobody there
They poured from her fingertips
She was quite a famous artist
Had painted the Tower of Babel in words
But she was a smart woman and started to wonder
What was outside the tower
What if the words stopped
What came after words?