SLEEPY TIME TEA©
SLEEPY TIME TEA
eyelids guard the doors of perception
the creation and destruction of worlds
where daytime adventures are called real
at night impossibilities become real
adventures of a realm that mostly evaporates
in morning light
each adventure lived to its fullest
ends in the same now
sing praise upon high or stomp your foot
no matter what it's called
ends in the same place
engineering a way out gets nowhere
it's a funny awesome thing
Susan has folded the clean clothes
Tabitha has made her final evening stretch
the universe awaits
a changing of the guard
TAKE IT FROM HERE
a lawn chair
sounds of the neighborhood
an unwritten symphony
gaze settling on a potted geranium
fixes on the shadow of its bloom
including weathered ripples in the pot
subtle shades of adobe
the planter box
shades of the hack berry tree
a curious humming bird
big black bee with impossibly small wings
visiting purple flowers
heading into an everywhere morning
Tabitha is good company
her alerts to hidden dangers
my random thoughts
all slowly subside
remember when the hills were alive
with hippies?
doper friends: our stoned afternoons
were far out
sangha friends: our silent zendos
were just another form
but here
just as before all that began
not as exhilarating as a toke
impermanent as a sutra
just here . . .
WHERE THE BEES GO
International Stuff, Inc.
announces its bankruptcy
ho hum, knew it was coming
and the monarch butterflies are where?
where did the ground water go?
the bees
bears forage suburbia
office tower dwellers hear the elevator chime
in temples, the meditation:
Aum Mane Padme Hum!
Tabitha outside
emits a special sort of muffled meow
a trophy bird in her mouth
which Susan rescues
I get a cardboard box
put in paper towels for a nest
and we house it in the sewing room
next morning as I'm reading
it appears by the bed, looking up at me
I pick it up, squawking
take it to the planter box
where Tabitha never goes
from under the leaves
it peeks out
“OK, if you're still here tomorrow you can stay.”
and I leave to do some gardening
when I return
the bird is gone
QUIET REVOLUTION
here on the west coast – grapes of drought
illegal explosions could start a conflagration
where the future of the Delta is in question
improvised embankments
Independence Day on the fringes
top hats in stately procession
horses on parade, their nostrils flaring
leaving piles to be collected
by my grandfather
an ethereal connection to some other time
our City calender notes the day
where it rests in peace
independent of Britain?
our New World market matters not to them?
an empire of greed knows no limitations
hardly dreaming of such means
at our Declaration
as are now available
at Lockheed Missiles and Space Division
building the Polaris for nuclear submarines
and at Moore Systems
writing manuals for supervisory control
of oil fields
independence was not granted
over forty years ago
but taken
and I celebrate daily now in gardening
NOTHING MUCH
a babbling creek
the water sound
over and again
cars on the Lawrence at night
in a different key
are the street sweeper at first light
random thoughts are earlobes
pierced to a different key
that I cannot hear
vines clinging to a sound wall
clouds that do not accumulate
are rather interesting
having no names
birds of the neighborhood
know this
Tabitha asks me to come outside with her
we gather in the morning
with that big black bee who likes
small purple flowers
usually I light a stick
and sit before the Buddha
what's so different
about a lawn chair?
we all sit together
