The Many Solitudes of Sun –

Life on the ragged edge of a Mediterranean climate:

Born raw

Again this morning

Sudden, under the monotony

Of unchanged days.

What’s left to tip this scratched record?

Slipping beats, mercilessly turning

To an old song

Still sharp and biting

But in new ways not heard then.

How far south

Or north

Or just across

Do I need to go

For the broad skies

Painted in pastel masteries.

Haunted eden,

Before the waiting time resumes.

The light still slides

But plays to a bad rhythm

A bad rhythm going down.

.

Again,

Some of this time might linger.

Mix.

Into the endless eddies of days

But is quickly lost

On the downhill slide.

.

One day, crazy boisterous

The next,

Of long slumber,

Or the deep haze

Cast across dry fields

And the aches fired by dust and wind.

.

Here the days slide with the light,

The rhythm of new times again.

Experiencing Climate (in progress)

Afternoon breeze:

Throes of some beloved time

Mark this place,

Scribbling old, stale letters,

With the earth casting the scantest of shimmers.

.

Recalling its vast flatness,

Where things far gone

Seem close,

Is a breeze that weans all

From time’s pulsing song

And the golden bars of space.

.

Lazy:

Like days on end become.

.

Secretive:

Passing through leaves

And other spaces.

With barely a gesture:

Surprising in its arrival,

Fading in its passing.

Like lifting a finger

To a circling moth

And seeing another

Move along a ragged edge of focus:

Near soundless wings a flutter.

.

The breeze sits and waits

‘Til all else passes,

When it will stand and tell stories

In a hushed voice

That carries far,

Like grief and love

All mingled in the fields:

Meeting for the first time.

June 26

June 26.

Is the real day here,

Latest sunset of the year

When it all comes gathering up

To glide into the doldrums

Today is the crest of a small wave

On some pond

Rarely visited in the brush

Especially on hot days

When it becomes the throne

For snakes and frogs

Having their day

On the crest of a small wave

This is the silent pulse

The long ebb

The onset of exhale

The practice of patience

If I could count flowers and leaves

I might try drawing the ripples

Depending on the amount of time

Getting lost in time’s subtle traps

Pulling us into drying gopher holes

Where new life goes on.

I have to step gently from today,

Steadfast in foot,

Hopping the waves

Or pointing to the shadows

The marks they leave

The same as the last go

Except changed

When I start counting.

The Elusive 5th Dimension

.

.

.

That threads it all together

.

.

.

Can words match it?

The way letters are cast into thoughts

And they grow from there

Spiraling into new places

If thoughts could occupy space.

And maybe time can bring us closer?

Like visiting our birthplace

Where the vistas remain

But the ground is changed.

.

Help us all

All of us help

Forge letters into

Ideas

That are rivers

And life and movement.

Welcome to Now

Welcome to Now

Where little pieces sparkle

Still scattered as they are

Strewn.

Hold them,

But deftly

As they are easily molded by hand,

And years,

Into the way things seem,

Not the way they were.

In handfuls,

Dust

Memories of mud

And the deep thirst

Of wind and heat.

Where little pieces sparkle.

.

This ground might be damp

Like it has been departed from time

A separate piece.

This mosaic,

Forward

Sparkling.

Placeholder for Climate observations

Before they change,

And become logs of numbers

Days in 2021

And how they turn

From one day, one season

Wobbling now,

In cycles of vertigo.

Straighten us,

In your eddies

Where the long sun

Hangs and plays with colors

Yes hold this for climate in poems

Not numbers

The PMD Chronicles. Page 1.

April 20, 2021

Western North America

Before the wind blows, the morning will hang raw and sunny. There is a bare urgency that hangs in the leaves of a cottonwood looming over everything here. The trembling leaves now might tell us the waiting is nearly over. The air has a stretched stillness to it, about to break time’s pace open to its whims.

We will participate, now into this day hammering into every crevice of the bank, through every stone, and seeping into our bones. The sun still shines warm and bright, the sky can easily pull you away.

Later, thunderstorms will build over the hills ringing the valley, deepening our backdrop, focusing our will into the hope that change will happen. This will turn, and leave us again in stillness. And we move with the water’s rhythm, pushed by wind into the next bend. Here we might stop and see the first of evenings bugs pulled upward, or tumbled along the water’s steady surface. A trout might even take a grab here or there, teasing us with their sudden disappearances after we think we’ve figured them out. We lean and ponder, search water, feel wind, absorb a big sky alive with later afternoon. This is where all else falls away.

That day

She first asked me in that cloying way,

When things are up for hiding.

She asked me again,

When I shook my head not hearing this go.

And then she asked

if I remembered that tiny piece of March,

And how it dug deep into our skin

And lasted

Until we couldn’t bear it any more.