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Mountain Breathing is a collection of 66 poems spanning four decades that form a study in the evolution of a poet philosopher with feet made of sand, whose soul may sing OM, but whose eyes notice blond hairs on the back of tan thighs at the beach. Along the way are observations of how we think, feel, and interact with the people who appear in our lives, and with the universe unseen.
Ranging from a mystical experience in a mountain top meadow, to a story of lovers in a French hotel, to pithy observations of mind, ego, heart, and aging, the subjects are diverse. So too, are the variety of styles, rhythms, and voices of individual poems in this collection. Yet the poet’s ontology and struggle to achieve some measure of realization comes through with equal clarity in witty four-line poems or rhythm laden, multi-page, narrative pieces.
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Mountain Breathing
1.
We follow a guide
along her exact path
step into each space
she has just left;
one foot to the other.
the song of each nostril
pulses with rarified air.
we reach at last, a mountain-top meadow.
2.
Feet breathe rocks
of the path.
we follow light
scattered through our breasts
from an afternoon sun;
taste the chilled ozone
as we near the summit.
3.
Moist field seems a
yellow-delicate green altar
honoring the process of
balance and the process of
law governing the turn
of an atom
or the evening of a planet.
4.
Inhaling great waves of light
the Earth breathes twice
each year.
We have walked up to see the exhalation
begin.
Hearing the transition
take place, in
no more than a breath of seasons.
5.
Eyes close,
waiting in stillness.
We transcend even our own noisy
self
for this second,
within
as the current of life to death changes.
We stay
watching the hesitation
of breath thought
on a September mountain
when the aspens are gold
and yellow Summer tips
the scale to Fall
Sun hides golden rays
behind taller trees
Sapphire sky turns surprisingly cold
6.
Tentative, wary, observers reluctantly rise
to descend
weightless from balance
No one shall
be on this altar mountain to see in
the breathless death,
of Winter.
Last Lovers In Burgundy Province
The village,
pastel from sunlight diffused
by a sheer veil
of cloud,
trees,
black stalks, barren, tall;
gentled, lent charisma,
by the contrast with
brown-russet bricks;
naked limbs over-watch aged
buildings four stories high.
White cloud light
brilliant on the windowpanes
glints from upper-story apartments
like afternoon shimmering off
an old man’s spectacles.
Hot breath in a room,
second row from the top,
frosts windows.
While city eyes turn down
into their cups
last of all, two young lovers
make-out.
The damp chill of autumn
has bitten deep the others,
it holds them apart.
Alone they scurry
over winter fit streets
or crawl,
asleep, into their minds.
At sunrise the discards
of wine lie in spills on
the cafe floor
while three stories above
a last candle burns low;
in purple village shade
nothing seems left
but shadows of morning,
and lavender streets cooled too soon.
