Nothing Covert About It

Happiness doesn’t hide
so much as it waits,
at the corner of bliss and peace,
just down the street from connectedness.
Anyone can find it,
with just a touch of boldness,
a dash of audacity.
No maps required,
but it is usually found
in the same neighborhood as kindness.
Never hidden,
but sometimes confused
with mirth and merriment,
or outright laughter,
yet true happiness can not be mistaken
for anything else,
not even when it is tucked inside
surprise and delight,
maybe even dismay.
It might seem elusive at times,
when we forget who we are,
when we look for it directly rather
than the byproduct it is,
like from the wagging tale on a puppy,
a smile from young Sophie,
a kind word from a friend or fan.
Happiness doesn’t hide.
It’s waiting for us all.
Hop on down and have some.

Treasures

I have a storage unit that costs a bundle,
monthly bills higher than the value of the stuff inside.
Who’s to judge, really?
Certainly not me.
One man’s version of “Hoarders”,
another’s treasure trove.
There’s that dining room table,
left over from the life of my granny-in-law.
No idea how old it is, but we’ve had it for forty years.
We’ll never use it, but who could part with it?
There’s stories etched into the legs, tales
and conversations absorbed by the top,
truths and lies told around lunch and supper.
There’s that cabinet, a commode I think it’s called,
doesn’t go with anything, but it’s not going anywhere soon.
It sat in someone’s hallway,
listening to stories, some of them excuses, others alibis.
Then there’s that big bag of black and white photos.
My mother took them all, high school friends and army pals,
And I don’t know a one of them.
I could regale you with my love for my mother,
tell you how she died too young, only thirty-eight in ‘58,
before your time, I’ll bet, most of you.
Maybe she planned to write on the backs of those photos.
Maybe she thought she had plenty of time.
She didn’t.
Still, I just can’t toss that bag, just look at it every so often.
No one to give it to, either, but the dumpster doesn’t seem a fit end.
I can imagine the stories behind those faces, the war and all.
If they could sing, we’d hear the Andrews Sisters, backed by Glenn Miller.
Someone besides me will throw all this stuff away,
Some future semi-star of some sort of reality show.
They’ll bitch and groan, wonder why anyone would keep such junk.
Of course they will.
This will all have been too early for them, before their time.

Penngrove

Standing almost at the top of Sonoma Mountain,
the Santa Rosa plain in white-out from the August fog,
it is easy to imagine the time before the Europeans came,
before a different type of white-out.

The peaceful Pomo people, basket makers,
made not just for function, but for art as well,
their work now in the Smithsonian,
amazingly, also in the Kremlin.

The quiet Miwoks, or simply The People,
who knew the truth of time and things,
who buried their artifacts, their “stuff”
with the dead who had made or found them.

With the rooftops below obscured by the mist,
One can imagine these hunter-gatherers,
bows and clubs in hand, snares at their waist,
bags of mussels and grasshoppers for a later meal.

The resilient Wappo, in their homes of leaves, branches, mud,
living in small groups, extended families, one for all,
their baskets so perfectly made they’d hold water,
all their work for community good.

Winters were mild, game was bountiful, fish plentiful,
survival not an issue. No mortgage, no outside noises,
time for family and friends, singing and dancing,
time to embrace their spirituality, enjoy nature, create art

As the sun peeks over the mountain, lifting the fog,
the houses appear, the roads, the cars.
One can imagine Drake, maybe Magellan,
the Spanish priests and Russian trappers,
later, the frightfully greedy immigrants and gold seekers.
One can grasp the meaning of paradise lost.

All of Me

It’s 100% responsibility I’m taking
for the friendship we’ve been making,
so that when there’s zero percent in you,
I’ll have enough for two.

My God Loves A Little Humor

Spiritual souls
know miracles will have legs
this coming weekend.
From the rabbit holes we’ll see
and believe in colored eggs

Coda

He’s actually dying now,
in ICU, wires and hoses his mechanical friends,
so what’s left to say.
All the clichés were used up long ago,
first when the diagnosis came,
then after the chemo,
and, finally, the burning.

He was dying back then as well.
We meant well, his long-time, human friends,
saying what was right to say
All the bromides were well-intended,
First when the fear struck,
then when hope was treasured,
and, finally, reality.

He’ll die soon,
In a white room, surrounded by friends.
No one will say anything
which is not the truth.
First we’ll thank him for his friendship,
then tell him how much he’s loved,
and, finally, speak of our hope to see him soon.

Jihad

I am saving the world,
one starfish at a time,
and one flower, one tree, one human,
each precious to its kind.
I am saving the world,
transforming it with love,
with right action, too,
not white magic from above.
I am saving the world,
but it’ll take a miracle, they say.
Well, then, we’d best get started,
can’t think of a better day.