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Some things are nothing;
The break at the end of a line,
The spaces between letters,
Without which 
We'd understand nothing,

A comma, 
A space for breath 
A period, 
A time of contemplation
For its antecedent -

Reflection
Before proceeding on
When we remain
In the space between thoughts
Linking past and future
Seeing patterns.

If not for perforations
Breaks - over time
We'd not learn the connections,
To pattern,
To reason,
And invent
The dots that connect stars.
We came to be thus
Not by letting simple chance
Make our choice for us.
A decision
Is a flash of insight
Which is weightless,
Having no mass,
Shapeless as liquid,
And
As clear as the light
Through which we each
See ourselves
Nothing
Seems to be
More than it seems
And so
There is something
About nothing
Which brings us back to it
Again and again, 
Curious, to reconsider
As the moth, perhaps
To its flame. 

Through a flower's flow of colors
And autumn wind's undone
And the still white of the winter
Under a sharp and glinting sun;

Through a meal with good old friends
All with family heartily bound
And the stories by the campfire
And songs that are pass'd 'round;

Through the smells of summer grasses,
Through the Redwood dells a' dawn,
After moonless nights, a' sunrise,
Where to gleaming shores we've gone;

Through the words we banter daily,
The common office jest,
Through the phrases that we know by,
That language we speak best.

Through the hearts on fire - and winging,
Through the thoughts that wing o'er the swell,
Through the spirit that comes unto us,
We know we're one as well.

The community of the heart brings one
On tender, on above
Tp present the present to us
In the quietest ways of love

The quietest way,
The quietest ways
In the quietest way
Of love;

"With each breath we breathe
In each moment that we last,
Before our eyes, in an eye's blink,
We make the future and the past!"

And so it happens that each day,
Whether by chance of through an old song,
Opportunity will knock as you go -
To pass life's tune along.

In the garden
behind the ruined old house
the plants have gone wild.
Stones in the pathway
have been overturned
by the avocado's roots.
Others lay buried
where the raised beds collapsed
until you'd hardly suspect
that there'd been any arrangement
of walkways at all.

Tall grasses and
wildflowers
in rank confusion;
the dropped plums and peaches
beneath their respective trees;
and swiss chard
has taken hold all along the tired fence.

I recognize
New Zealand spinach,
Broken corn stalks,
And the new blackberry bramble.
I can tell
that the gardener
planted a variety of squash
and tomatoes.
It looks as though
this garden was left,
abandoned really, 
in a heartbeat
by whoever lived here.
 
 

I must get back
to our wild picnic.
Like everyone else I too
had been sent out to find
food to bring back,
Our little tradition.

I did not think
I'd find anything
Over that dry grassy hill
But that 
was the unpromising lot I drew.

This place, though,
appeared
so unexpectedly
as I thrashed through underbrush
trying to find anything at all.

At first I did not know
I’d found the ivy'd wall of the house
leaning out toward me
as I drew aside a branch.

The rank garden is a trove!
I will be the one
who brings just desserts,
as if by magic,
sweet plums and peaches,
luscious avocados,
several huge sun ripe tomatoes,
and enough greens
to make everyone groan.
 

He was elderly
That’s what you’d call him
Still pretty tall, frail though
He had to be in his 80’s
I happened to be there
And watched him walk steadily 
Going toward The Wall
It was winter then
The cold white light peculiar to that season
Glowed upon him
And made his white hair,
Close cropped and thinning as it was
All the brighter
He wore a blue woolen suit
And a veteran’s cap
Tied to the point at its back
Was a set of feathers
It had been these
And their dangling strings attaching them
That had caught my eye, at first

He went along a direct line 
As he approached The Wall
Honoring the Vietnam War’s dead
And so seemed to know
The exact point of his destination
He’d been there before

Knowing

And he stopped, of course
Before it and drew himself up 
Took off his spectacles
Wiped them and placed them back on
 
 

I was on my own pilgrimage
And by then was not far behind him
To his left

I did not mean to intrude
So I hesitated, a moment
Even as he seemed to
And took precautions
To keep my shadow out of his sight
Instead of moving on though, I remained
Curious

He raised his hand and extended it slowly
To The Wall

The sunset colors warmed its polished surface
And I watched his hand’s shadow approach the real deal

As reality and reflection met
He sadly looked down
Not at any particular name, I could see that
But staring, somehow away
Into time 
Into some place I’ll never know

I heard him sigh
Noticed his lips in the barest of motions
Then, in a moment of quietude, I heard his murmur

Saw that he hadn’t placed his hand on any one name
And that he moved it along to a few places
As if searching, blindly for something
I felt he was addressing them all
That this was his personal and intimately mute wailing wall
I stepped away - I did not belong in his service

Was he one of the “old men” of that war?
Who is he hoping to touch?
What laughter was he hearing?
Whose smile does he miss still?
After all these years … 

I, on the other hand,
Had my own meaning to find from The Wall
My own ghosts to address

When he walked away
He went more slowly than when he’d come
And seemed a bit more stooped maybe

When he’d gone about twenty paces 
He stopped, removed his glasses 
Wiped them 
Took a deep breath and looked beyond to the capital’s dome
Before moving on

That’s when I turned to face the wall
I touched it too
For my brother
For all the brothers
And the sorrow that yet breaks me down
From time to time
When a song plays
When a headline reads
When I am reminded of an immense lie
And how, tears serve, when nothing else does
To honor those who believed
That their sacrifice was worth its value

We do not like you much Ms. Rice
Your cold words are brittle as ice.
"Its only sixteen words," so you say.
But did they not cause some votes to sway?
You say, "other intelligence was used."
But it seems the Truth is more than just bruised.

Why did you accept that yellow cake?
What other claims would you have us take?
What data points led to our youths dying?
What will you do?  Daub the tears of those crying?
What's the exit strategy we've laid for Iraq?
And how will we know we¹ve taken the right tack?

Some doctors take an oath to do no harm,
While it seems that you've given false alarm!
Vital national interests are at stake you believe -
We agree, but it's for liberty I grieve.
Your coordinated, choreographed replies,
To each phrase, I wonder, which will be proven lies.

So we have the joys of that old Chinese curse
Not just living in interesting times, worse-
For the Truth will not out, in this especial case,
The Fourth Estate lets a pretender proceed apace,
Both these reign the Third while the Second profits grand
As, gone astray, the First, takes pilfered offerings in hand.

I can no longer see the sense
Of any staid indifference
That we are at a crossroads, it seem true.
Unable to help but listen to you
I pity what I can't therefore decry
And pray for an end to you and your tangled lie!

Aeolian stars, soft night air,
Aegean beauty ever fair
Dancing through the hall in her prime
Sweet Helen looses no grace with time.
Millennium's girl, it is true, 
I still fashion a blush on you.
Your sweet glances caught, shimmering
While lyre and muse set singing.

Ardent whispers given and caught
While no one knew what would be wrought.
Sweet Helen's constellate beauty
Was their clarion for duty.
They set sail for Ileum bound
And brought its battlements to ground.
Fervent love returned at last - 
Forgiven all for what was past.

And when, in time, your guise gave way
The vigil was kept night and day.
Men stayed on, stood close at hand
Guarding the treasure of their land.
Then, when your blink was slowly missed,
A maiden's hand touched at your wrist.
But here, now, though ages have passed, 
Your beauty continues to last.

What is the mystery we have here
Why should this tale be so dear?
Could it simply somehow be
A story worth eternity?
Or do we now lack their sense?
Does it chide our indifference?
Dear sweet Helen I give you this,
      My respect, in a lover's kiss.

How and when does a story begin? How are we to know?
When I think on it, any tale, no matter its size, must begin long ago.
So when asked who influenced me I gave my friend an analogy.

Consider a stream, I said, even a small one, near to hand
Is not its course ever guided by contours of the land?
Is it not deflected by every rock, bit of soil or living thing
With which it co-exists before and after the stony lip of its spring?

And are not all these things but a postscript, proceeding from a source
Which charges the nature of the stream, and so effects its discourse?
Nor should I fail to say that forests and men alike surely do amend it
For its worth is clear to those temporal beings who can apprehend it

But the fishes and all the living things can not be the stream, 
Nor, for that matter, can it be the water, or so it would seem:
For the flow is ever carried off, even as we watch, for sport
Whether by evaporation or gravity's simple transport.

It is surely not its path, or the things it has carried off,
Nor could it be its remains, a shallow drying trough.
A stream then is a time and place, dependent on conditions
Which, if the truth be told, have utmost antiquity as its origins, 

Preconditions, which, if they be scientifically analyzed, with-all
Stretch back to the beginnings of time and matter immemorial 
And, perforce, do they not, I waxed, extend too onward in time
Until the very edge of doom itself.  Imagine a stream so sublime!

And so full circle I wend as my analogy I brought to an end.
What are the credits I must roll to answer my friend?
No less than everyone who has ever been or may yet be
Nothing less than that full chorus, say I, have clearly influenced me.