Poems along the path

Voices from the subconscious

2007-11-27T10:42:00.000-05:00

A poem?
A poem? At a time like this?
Are you crazy?

Plotting mischief

2007-11-20T11:58:00.001-05:00

Plotting mischief
two cats sit
by the water bowl

Two thoughts from the zendo

2007-11-20T11:57:00.001-05:00

Sitting in the zendo
I am just a shadow
on the wall

***

Going on a journey
leaving behind everything
even myself

Journey of a lifetime

2007-11-20T11:55:00.001-05:00

I've been expecting you
but not eagerly
Won't you have some tea?

Jisei

2007-11-20T11:54:00.001-05:00

Winter is here

a trudging old man

who finally has arrived

Getting clean

2007-11-20T11:53:00.001-05:00

Washing machine
baptizes my clothes
in a fresh start

Untitled

2007-11-20T11:52:00.001-05:00

Hawk-faced waitress scowls
"Who is this foreigner
ordering in Japanese?"

In the X-ray lab

2007-11-20T11:51:00.001-05:00

In the X-ray lab
they peek
at the inner man
while my spirit finds
a hiding place
amid all those bones

Lying on the exam table

2007-11-20T11:49:00.000-05:00

Lying on the exam table
as the IV medication
drips ...
drips...
drips ...
I know how I got here
but where am I going?

That's progress, Part II

2007-11-08T23:05:00.000-05:00

I was immortal
when I was younger
fooling time, fate
and myself
with a parlor trick
long since forgotten

Thoughts on a Wednesday afternoon

2007-11-08T11:20:00.001-05:00

Embers cool quickly
as the last bundle of sticks
is burned ...
my thoughts are
distant
clouded
wrapped in gauze
my body weighs
as much as the universe
I just want to sleep
and sleep

Calcium dreams

2007-11-08T11:19:00.001-05:00

Pick a dream
from the catalog
and wrap yourself
in it
then fade
to black

Thoughts on a Friday night in the ER

2007-11-08T11:17:00.000-05:00

In a burst of fury
hotter than the sun
my right fist engages
in a brief
but vicious
bout
with the bathroom door
and the door wins
like Tyson
over Spinks
only much quicker

The exquisite pain
flushes the anger
from my mind
like a burning
bubbling
stream
of peroxide
flushes out infection
and I realize
in a rush of clarity
what a long
long
journey
this
is

Untitled

2007-11-02T15:44:00.000-04:00

Two cats
couch-mates for years
yet in the morning
strangers

For Phil, wise bodhisattva of home repair

2007-11-02T15:38:00.000-04:00

Clompclompclomp
of workboots on my roof --
It's just Phil
trimming a tree

Reminder to myself

2007-11-02T15:30:00.000-04:00

Living life to its fullest isn't about
checking off thrills from a list;
It's about being fearless in following my dreams,
courageous in accepting
that some will go unfulfilled
(but the joy is in the pursuit)
and taking the time to savor
something as simple
as a cup
of tea

Storm

2007-06-28T11:44:00.001-04:00

Air still as a tomb
Thunderclaps move like footfalls
toward my shaking house

Celestial palace

2007-06-28T11:43:00.001-04:00

I rail against the cramped confines
of my timeworn garage apartment
so hot in summer
so cold in winter
and then tonight
I see the golden gibbous moon
flickering through the pines
that tower over the roof
and I give silent thanks

Roots

2007-06-28T11:42:00.002-04:00

My roots
on my father's side
are in the polyglot streets
of the East Village
and on my mother's side
in the wise-guy streets
of the Bronx
and Brooklyn
and Harlem
With such a noble pedigree
how the hell
did I wind up
in Joisey?

For Hiromi

2007-06-28T11:42:00.001-04:00

You and I
grown far beyond old roles
American to Japanese
teacher to student
father to daughter
but now
seeker to seeker

Road to Glory (a poem for the Civil War)

2007-06-28T11:40:00.000-04:00

Damn kids went off too proudly and too eagerly
to fight in a war they thought
would be fought and done in a month
Full of piss and vinegar
itching to get in the fray
poor bastards probably died
of measles or dysentery
long before they could fire a shot
in anger or fear
Sure, put up a monument
write odes to their bravery and courage
and the nobility of their cause
but how do you capture in bronze and stone
a dying boy scared shitless
crying for his mother

Gone but still here

2007-06-28T11:38:00.000-04:00

I sip
rum and cokes
and blur
the here and now
at an East Village bar
steps from the tenement
where a midwife delivered my father
99 years ago

I rise
on stuttering feet
and walk
around the corner
past the old public baths
on 11th Street
between Avenues A and B
an abode now for well-heeled tenants
but through a rip in time
I see the place where my father
watched his father
get clean
after days of manual labor

I pass
the public school
where my father's mind was nurtured
its classrooms now luxury apartments
with big closets

I hear
idle chatter
about
stock portfolios
and
reality TV
and
real estate prices
but it can't drown out
echoes
of ancient immigrant sounds
whose meanings can be inferred
but not quite understood

I walk
these streets
arm-in-arm
with ghosts

Visiting an old friend

2007-06-28T11:32:00.000-04:00

It was early May when I last walked across the George Washington Bridge, gateway to so many of my adventures on foot in Manhattan and beyond.
With cooler weather approaching, I want to dust off my walking shoes and get back on the path.
On the path, I lose myself and find myself at the same time.
On the path, necessities and luxuries rarely vie.
On the path, my senses sharpen.
On the path, I feel content as my life unfolds at three miles per hour.
I'm just about ready to heed the call once again.

A day in lower Manhattan

2006-05-29T12:06:00.000-04:00

Brooklyn Bridge, looking down Catherine Street just past East Broadway, by Michael

The Brooklyn Bridge
is a coy child
peering from behind a wall wrought
by immigrant hands

A senryu*

2006-05-22T11:21:00.000-04:00

East Village, Manhattan, May 21, 2006, by Michael

"How is your dessert?"
"Fine," she says, fully sated
Now, awkward silence

*Haiku are poems about nature. Senryu are poems about human nature. In Japanese, they both follow the same 5-7-5 syllable pattern.
I published this senryu on my blog about five months ago but didn't have a suitable photo to run with it. Now I do.

Song of the Taconic Parkway

2006-05-22T11:15:00.000-04:00

Chatham, Columbia County, N.Y., by Michael

Old two-lane Taghkanic highway of brittle macadam
slices through the hunting grounds of the Algonquins
sunlight
filters through clouds
plays tricks on the mountains
gives them wrinkles
tints them purple
tickles the heather on their slopes
and makes it shimmer
tires thump on black rubber joints
between pale roadway slabs
in perfect time to the Bukka White blues on the radio
the ghosts of the Dutch
still haunt the geography
of this place
where creeks
are called kills
and rolling thunder
is but the mirth of giants playing tenpins

Doors

2006-05-22T11:10:00.000-04:00

House entrance, Sawara City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan, January 1997, by Michael

House inner courtyard, Sawara City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan, April 1998, by Michael

I remember a time
and a place
of adventures
around every corner
behind every door

Light and shadow

2006-05-22T00:18:00.000-04:00

Shopkeeper, Lower Manhattan, August 2000, by Michael

New York shopkeeper
smoothes his trousers, combs his hair
poses for a shot

More from the monastery

2006-05-22T00:15:00.000-04:00

Chaung-yen Monastery, Carmel, N.Y., October 2000, by Michael

In heaven
there's a lake
where cares are washed away

Dreams of buddha fields

2006-05-22T00:12:00.000-04:00

Great Buddha Hall, Chuang-yen Monastery, Carmel, N.Y., October 2001, by Michael

And I awoke
surrounded by ten thousand buddhas
and I was whole again

Storm dream

2006-05-14T12:36:00.000-04:00

Bamboo grove (chikurin), Sagano, western Kyoto, Summer 1996, by Michael

Distant thunder in the dead of night
stirs my sleep
floats me to a level
just below consciousness

Through half-shut eyes
I can see
a bamboo grove
smell its musty dampness
feel its moist soil underfoot
then I awaken
and realize
I'm still in New Jersey

A master at work

2006-05-09T00:09:00.000-04:00

Top photo, a cormorant swimming in the Hudson River on Sunday. These diving birds can spend up to 30 seconds underwater in search of food. In the center of the photo above, you can see the circular wake this bird left as it disappeared beneath the surface on one of the half-dozen dives I watched.

Diving, surfacing, diving again
A lone cormorant
probing the Hudson's secrets

Lately

2006-05-06T23:32:00.000-04:00

Abandoned farm truck swallowed by kudzu, Yokaichiba City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan, September 1997, by Michael

These days
I feel so old
weary
stiff
joints ache
focus wavers
past is more clear
than the present
climbing a mountain
summit hidden by fog
straining to move
this bag of bones
how nice it would be to sleep
for 10,000 years

If

2006-05-02T10:23:00.000-04:00

Matsuri (festival), Sawara City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan, Oct. 12, 1996, by Michael

Coming back
to beginner's mind,
casting off
these jaded views,
seeing anew
with the eyes of a child,
All
just a footstep away
If
I hop off this treadmill

Circles

2006-04-27T12:52:00.000-04:00

It's funny how we're amazed
by the simple victories
of the very young
and the very old:
"The baby took his first steps today"
"Grandma walked by herself today"
Circles
in constant motion
opening, closing
closing, opening

Hermit's lament

2006-03-31T16:06:00.000-05:00

Bored monkey, bored trainer, Miyajima island, Hiroshima Prefecture, Japan, May 1996, by Michael

'Tis a sad world indeed
that would rob you even of the simple pleasure
of bathing in your own blues

The threat

2006-03-25T01:46:00.000-05:00

Country road at dawn, Iidaka district, Yokaichiba City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan, April 1998, by Michael

Watch: One of these days
I'm gonna leave this old house
and just keep walking

Death is but a dream

2006-03-23T00:04:00.000-05:00

Pilgrim (o-henro-san) on the Shikoku 88-temple path, Kochi Prefecture, Japan, September 2004, by Michael

Death is but a dream
a long walk through countryside
strangely familiar

MST, Sept. 12, 1907-March 19, 1992

2006-03-19T15:10:00.000-05:00

"But the good Lord said ... "

2006-03-15T01:27:00.000-05:00

"But the Good Lord said ... "
Don't quote me chapter and verse
God-damned hypocrite

Sorrow has a face

2006-03-15T01:26:00.000-05:00

Sorrow has a face:
Grieving woman's window lit
in the dead of night

Atomic Bomb Dome

2006-03-14T11:05:00.000-05:00

Genbaku domu (Atomic Bomb Dome), Hiroshima, May 1996, by Michael

Atomic Bomb Dome
twisted beams, cries of anguish
searing heat, silence

Crazy Zen abbot

2006-03-14T11:02:00.000-05:00

Adashino Nembutsu-ji temple, Kyoto, summer 1996, by Michael

Crazy Zen abbot
serves tea, tries to out-bow me
at Daisen temple

Two grizzled tigers

2006-03-13T12:42:00.000-05:00

Miyagi Chojun (top), 1888-1953; Funakoshi Gichin, 1868-1957

Two grizzled tigers
Funakoshi, Miyagi
laugh and swap stories

(Miyagi Chojun-sensei is the founder of Goju-ryu Karate-do; Funakoshi Gichin-sensei is the founder of Shotokan Karate-do. My introduction to the martial arts was through Shotokan, which also led to a long-term residence in Japan. I now study Okinawan Goju-ryu.)

Time to sit zazen

2006-03-12T12:51:00.000-05:00

Time to sit zazen:
Fart around, now it's too late
OK, tomorrow

The Buddhist precepts

2006-03-12T12:50:00.000-05:00

The Buddhist precepts:
Very easy to follow
till I leave my house

13 haiku/senryu

2006-03-12T12:38:00.000-05:00

Shiny-penny moon:
Miracle of creation
becomes clear to me

Alone with my thoughts
haunted by the bitter things
I shouldn't have said

Gray hairs on my head
each one a mocking witness
to empty worries

For Gerald "Ski" Evans-sensei

A friendship grown old
you don't have to say a word,
hearts communicate

Thinking of Japan
ripened rice a golden green
autumn in the air

"How is your dessert?"
"Fine," she says, fully sated
now, awkward silence

A thought arises
I try to chase it away
but like it too much

Don't let anger rise:
One more precept I can't keep
the list grows longer

Cat sleeps in my lap
too old to do much but purr
just wants to stay warm

Sakura City, Japan 1997

Cute girl on a train
smiling, offers me a plum
alas, it's my stop

Forgot my cellphone
finally, blissfully free
of prying voices

Sun is a blood spot
in a searing summer sky
not a hint of breeze

And just who am I?
Particles of shit and spit
exactly like you

Farm woman

2006-03-12T12:36:00.000-05:00

Yokaichiba City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan, March 1998, by Michael

Farm woman blushes
as I point my camera,
adjusts her bonnet.

Reality

2006-03-12T12:34:00.000-05:00

I woke up in the middle of the night last night to go to the bathroom.
Looking out the window, I saw the face of suffering and loneliness:
A single light shining in the house of a neighbor whose husband died two weeks ago.

Such a lonesome sound

2006-03-12T12:33:00.000-05:00

Such a lonesome sound:
An old plane's far-off droning
in the dead of night

Just passing through

2006-03-12T12:30:00.000-05:00

Walk walk walk
Think think think
Angels and demons vying for my thoughts
I'm just passing through

Three cheers for ham and eggs!

2006-03-12T12:27:00.000-05:00

When you're happy,
when you're rich,
when you have that healthy glow,
when you've got the world by the balls,
Everyone wants to know your name,
everyone wants to touch "the magic."
But as soon as even a hint of adversity
tinges your smile
and the soap opera becomes boring
and people's voyeuristic appetites have been sated,
they'll trip over one another in distancing themselves from you.
Works like a charm.

Welcome to January

2006-03-12T12:15:00.000-05:00

A chilly morning
Puddles show scudding gray clouds
Bones creak as I walk

Gentle Koyoshi

2006-03-12T12:08:00.000-05:00

Taoist priest on grounds of Fushimi Inari Taisha shrine, Japan, 1996, by Michael

Gentle Koyoshi,
scorned, cast out by family,
"You're no husband, you're no father," they yell
forcing upon him a life of solitude;
days of wandering,
finally takes refuge in a garden shack between two trees,
too proud to accept charity,
owner lets him stay in exchange for chores,
breakfast is part of the deal;
Koyoshi, ever in his own world,
joins us at table,
never talks much to his surrogate kin,
quietly sips his tea,
now and then lifts his head to smile, eyes twinkling,
gets up from the table without a word,
gently exhales
shuffles back to his shack
a man of quiet earth tones, a golden light within.

Greetings from Kyoto

2006-03-12T12:04:00.000-05:00

Maiko-san (apprentice geisha), Gion district, Kyoto, summer 1996, by Michael

Painted smile conceals
a heart brimming with sadness,
beneath the veneer a spirit
rarely allowed to shine through,
sick of this life
the rude customers
gawking tourists
staccato click of camera shutters
a routine set in stone,
had to leave school after ninth grade
to learn arts that stink of the old
here in the ancient capital,
hates the goddamned shamisen
makeup sometimes makes her break out
dreams of reinventing herself in Tokyo
time for her next appointment

Farmer

2006-03-12T12:00:00.000-05:00

Farmer, Yokaichiba City, Japan, April 1998, by Michael

A life spent stooped
over a vegetable field
pulling weeds
planting
harvesting
forever bound to the land
childless
alone
years since her husband died
backbone twisted into a question mark
cranes her neck just to look straight ahead
54 but looks decades older
farming can't pay the bills
shack falling apart around her
TV set, kotatsu, kerosene heater, toaster oven, ancient clock
her only luxuries
finds comfort in tea and cigarettes
and the cats that prowl outside

(*A kotatsu is a small table that stands about a foot off the ground. Underneath the table are heat coils. In wintertime, you stick your legs under the kotatsu, and a blanket keeps the heat in.)

My old man's ink

2006-03-12T11:57:00.000-05:00

Another spring
since he has been gone
my old man's ink
still not dry
his stamp
on my personality

Walking, again

2006-03-12T11:52:00.000-05:00

Today
Manhattan was mine
seven leagues
20 miles
a trail of footfalls
from North Jersey
nearly the length of the island

Crossing the George Washington Bridge
haven't felt a hammering headwind like this
in a long time
it's a cunning sparring partner
threatens to sweep my feet from under me

Walking down Hudson River path
wind roaring in my ears
my eyes water
can't hear myself think
gray clouds part
like a fleece jacket unzippered
on the gusts
a hint of spring

I leave the riverside
to escape the wind
walk east down 83rd Street
to Central Park
Choose a serpentine path
blasted through bedrock
deserted
runoff from yesterday's rain
drips from an overpass
cars and taxis zip by

Cross Fifth Avenue
Madison
Park
Lexington
Third
Second
First
Downtown-bound

Reach Gramercy Park
memories of my grandmother
summers spent as a kid
not far from the little bar
where O. Henry wrote
"Gift of the Magi"
and Babe Ruth bragged
over beer and cigars

Cut back west to Third Avenue
head down to Canal Street
Chinatown
hucksters hawking
fake designer bags
and wind-up toys
and God knows what

Sun setting
streets emptying
People rushing home
to see
the Super Bowl kickoff

Streets turn quiet
purposeful Chinese ladies
head home from shopping
men shut their stores
and I head to the Manhattan Bridge

A dark, mysterious span
over the East River
not a soul on the footpath
wind blows dust into my eyes
subway trains clatter by
deafening screech of metal on metal
sparks cast a greenish light

To my right
the Brooklyn Bridge
twinkling like tinsel
strands of angel hair

On a whim
I don't double back
across the Manhattan Bridge
I'll head into Brooklyn
city of churches
instead
and take the Brooklyn Bridge
that lacework fortress
back over the East River

Back in lower Manhattan
the financial center
Wall Street
all dark and quiet
no deals going down
all the tourists gone
a few drops of rain
(hungry ghosts weeping)
I see the ghost
of Bartleby the Scrivener
(he still prefers not to)

Head up Allen Street
which becomes First Avenue
after Houston
past crowded bars
sports banter wafts outside
men out front smoking
excitedly talking
the world's biggest football fans
some just for this day

I stop at my friend's sushi bar
the place is a crypt
kid reading a book
at a corner table
leaves as I arrive
just me
and the waitress
and the cook
and the radio
I quietly sip my beer

Return from the toilet
to find someone sitting next to me
some college girl
young enough to be my daughter
I try to make small talk
amid cavernous silence
rebuffed, ignored
she turns away without a word
"Don't flatter yourself
you just happened to be there"
(I feel like saying)
but I finish my beer
pay the tab
tell her
"Enjoy your dinner
and keep in mind
life isn't nearly as serious
as you make it out to be --
but you'll find out"
and back out into the night

9:30
trudge uptown
losing steam
ankles sore
carefree stride well behind me
walk past the carriage horses
along Central Park South
no business at this hour
drivers talk among themselves
in conspiratorial whispers

I reach Columbus Circle
nearly fall asleep on the A train back to the GWB
I get off the train
the station quiet as a catacomb
up the stairs
onto the street
into the darkness

Half-moon perched
atop one of the GWB towers
wind still howling
even stronger than this morning
not another soul
walking back to New Jersey

For MST, 1907-1992

2006-03-12T11:48:00.000-05:00

I could've eased my dad's final months
could've soothed
his fears
arising from awareness
of ebbing lucidity
his mind the victim
of a capricious child
stealing a cookie here and there
from the jar

I could've bridged decades of enmity
that had settled
into an uneasy truce
could've answered
that frantic long-distance call
one afternoon
a cry for help
asking me
where he was
why he was alone
why I wasn't there
"Can you HELP me?"
he pleads
into the answering machine
through which I screened the call

In his last days
his mind nearly gone
wife unable to care
for his needs
or defend herself
against his blind rages
he is put in a nursing home
the same one where his mother died
I remember visiting her there
as a boy of 4
"Why is Grandma playing with a doll?"
I ask my mother
in a scene that haunts me
to this day

And now my dad
perched on the edge
of that same fine and fragile line
and at that same way station
in a moment of clarity
says
"I'm going to die here, aren't I?"

I want to visit him
"He wouldn't even recognize you"
my mother says
I take her word for it
and stay away

The phone call came a week later
he died just past midnight
on his 48th wedding anniversary

I don't recall shedding many tears
at his funeral
but afterward
I pulled out the box of old home movies
safely tucked away
and forgotten
in my mother's basement
carefully threading the brittle film
through the projector
and there he is
vibrant
smiling
in his element
forever young
in far happier days
before realities put hopes to flight
and opening this portal
I let loose torrents of emotion
such as I've never felt

It's been 14 springs
since he's been gone
but the talks we have now
by his graveside
are among the best
we ever had

Whispers outside my window

2006-03-12T11:45:00.000-05:00

A mourning dove coos
from a treetop perch unseen
breeze rustles the pines

The plot

2006-03-12T11:43:00.000-05:00

Trouble underfoot
a coven of crafty cats
plotting their next move

Peregrine falcon

2006-03-12T11:41:00.000-05:00

Peregrine falcon
gliding over the Hudson
taut wings slice cold air

This old house

2006-03-12T11:39:00.000-05:00

My drafty old house
Frigid gusts find every crack
in these thin, tired walls

Cotton Club

2006-03-12T11:35:00.000-05:00

At the Cotton Club
is that Duke Ellington's ghost
in the pinstriped suit?

Underneath the bridge

2006-03-12T11:34:00.000-05:00

Underneath the bridge
a world of broken spirits
tucked away, unseen

Slavery in New York

2006-03-12T11:29:00.000-05:00

Slave burial ground
yields beads cowries bits of bone
echoes of anguish

Hope

2006-03-12T11:27:00.000-05:00

City on the hill
pristine New Jerusalem
wide streets paved with gold

Spots on a tin ceiling

2006-03-12T11:21:00.000-05:00

Trendy SoHo art gallery
entertains the well-heeled and the hip
paintings hang like jewels on the wall
magnets for comments
small talk
like the three kinds of wine that fuels it
flows freely
few look up to notice the ages-old pressed-tin ceiling
with a diamond pattern in relief
its fresh coat of white paint
can't cover the vignettes
of generations of tenants long gone
immigrant families crammed ten to a room
mothers nursing newborn babies
elderly relatives breathing their last
strong men with calloused hands
speaking languages strange even in this Babel of Manhattan
all their ghosts mingle
unseen
but felt
in the art gallery