good poems, like vegetables,
go in and out of season,
can be hard to find

for David Budbill

who lives inside stays 35,
who looks back from the mirror
adds another year to the count

dancing on the good foot,
getting down on the one--
white boy lost in the funk

for James Brown

sometimes I fear the beauty will never stop,
and all that will remain of me...
molecules. . . flying apart

for Jorge Luis Borges

foggy crosswalk--
old Chinese couple shuffling
long after the light has turned

east winds roll clouds
into the mountain; rain falls.
tears without name

singapore souvenir --
"for some kinds of pleasures,
there are no defenses..."

little tank SUV's
roll down broken streets,
war zone freeways

all gifts come from the gift of this moment

morning--
tea leaves in the pot awaken...
just before I do

used Zen poems--
between the pages,
the receipt of the first owner

thinning light,
thinner hair--
winter

I keep wanting to do--
yet all that I do
I don't

drenched in silence
drenched in fog,
crickets begin the night

sunset, one dove
graces the giant pine--
how much of the world is lonely tonight?

Thanksgiving morning,
reading Zen poets
alone and not...

emotions fly,
ping! pong!
and I? the ball

from my glasses dangling,
tenacious tiny spider
spins futile web

when she winked at me, I wasn't thinking about unrequitable love

bad cafe day--
even at Starbucks
music too loud

watching the deer
graze next door--
letting the phone ring

hearing my name
in the tea shop,
memories pour into the cup

chop words!
brevity is the soul
of this moment

strange morning sadness--
in my arms the absence of a woman
I loved 20 years ago

just before the shops open,
a parking place in Chinatown--
surprise!