How it is in Nablus

Bounded by Mount Ebal
Said to represent the curse of disobedience
And Mount Gezirim, said to represent the blessings of obedience
Some anxious chickens have preceded the dawn with crowing
After the semi automatic guns and rockets are fired
The bells rung on the half hour
And the unemployment rate rises
Like the morning sun
To sixty percent.
The city is surrounded, locked down
Only pedestrians can cross the checkpoints
In long lines
Through narrow turnstiles
Like cattle chutes
At Hawara
Sixteen miles inside the Israeli border.
But the knafeh is sweet
And at 4 A.M. the muezzins make first call
Waking the dogs
Stirring the city
Reminding the fighters to hide their guns
The Israeli soldiers to withdraw
The staff at the Medical Relief Committee
To resume their duties
At Radifia Hospital
Where the lights come on
Where soap and furniture producers, quarrymen, and stock traders
Stretch their limbs
Where forty thousand people living in refugee camps like Balata
Hide their despair
Nurse their babies and their wounds
Searching for meaning, fresh water, a piece of bread
And the visiting peace worker
Turns on the internet
Game seven in Boston
Sox versus Indians
Cavalry versus natives
Israelis versus Palestinians
Brother and sister versus brother and sister
How it is in Nablus
Sox up three to two
Top of the sixth

Never Again

You remember
Because you have been commanded
By the blood of six million
To never forget
The black and white photograph
Of the little Jewish shop
In Nazi Europe
With the broken windows 
And the crude Swastika 
Painted on the door
The epitome
Of terrorism
Of state endorsed racism
Of economic intimidation
Never forget, you are commanded
It is you, personally and individually,
Who bears the responsibility
To never permit
Such atrocities to unfold
It is you who must respond
Ever vigilant
You who must act.
Now see this photograph
I show you
We who live two generations later
Of the little Palestinian shop
In the Israeli era
In the town of Hebron
With its windows broken
And the crude Star of David
Painted on the door
Never forget 
The last sigh of six million souls
Commands
It is you who may never permit
Such atrocities to unfold
You individually who is responsible
You who must respond
Ever vigilant
You who must act.

Beau dies

When I leave for three months
in southeast Asia
I ask Beau to wait until my return
Before leaving this Earth
Although we also say our goodbyes.
About a week before my return
My ex-wife emails me
Not sure Beau will make it
And while I am flying home 
The always happy,
always kind and affectionate,
highest jumper in his class,
the fleet of foot gentleman 
who understood far more than he could show,
our Beau takes his last breath.
He looks palsied in death
Eyes opened
Lips parted
His fur as soft and golden to the touch
As it has ever been
Legs stretched out 
In the way he would love to do
You can see him shaking with pleasure
wrapped in a sheet
then buried in the yard
Between two cedar trees
With some dog food 
A seashell from the Indian Ocean
His collar and tags still on him
And a piece of the rare candy
He’d sometimes delight in the sugary first rush of
Licking his lips
And then grimacing with disdain 
for the bitter ginger aftertaste. 
Life’s like this I think
as we cover him with earth
and a stone with his name on it, 
painted with his favorite red nail polish, 
a libation of red wine,
sandalwood incense burning,
and two hawks who soar high in the sky
circling over Beau’s buried body
calling “he flies with us now”
for their fallen brother.
He was such a good dog.

Cornerman

The corner man 
Urges his fighter to win
And although he knows the battle 
is waged by the boxer alone
He feels every blow. 
The corner man provides his fighter with water
Sponges down his fighter
Staunches the flow of blood 
Ices the swelling
Cuts his fighter when necessary
Watches closely as the bout progresses
Prepared to stop the fight
If his man or woman is at risk
As they always are
Precariously balanced on their toes
Inside the ring with demented opponents
Who take the fight to them
As the corner man holds a white towel in his hand
Not wanting to throw it in
Hoping to reach the bell
Having given one’s all 
The planet spinning
The decision in the hands of judges
A fighter entrusts the corner man with her life
The corner man entrusts the fighter with his

In the Lifeguard's Chair

i climb into the lifeguard’s chair
above the surface of the beach
at the ocean’s edge
tide cascading in
tide drawn back out
sun rising at the edge of the Wampanoag horizon
the lifeguard’s seat wet and dewy
the earth and sun moving as they have
for billions of years
in an expanding constant infinity 
the rocks and boulders on these shelves
delivered by a mile high continent of ice
sliding on the skin of virgin land
and then withdrawing
leaving behind laurentian remains
ground into grain
the morning after dear steven tells me
he has metastatic kidney cancer
pressing on his brain.
it’s not just being dead that bothers me, I tell him,
it is the suffering on the way to the grave site
unable to hear the sea birds’ call
or see the seals and great white sharks
aslumber in their baths
remembering our trips to the holy land
the olive trees we planted
between the old green line
and the horrific fence
that cordoned off uncle abu’s entire village
land, livelihood, and footprints on the rust red soil
this then who we are, my brother,
one long wave and goodbye
the gathered surf in noisy descent
beads of light glistening upon the waters
that blind us 
and shine on us
on the paths we must tread
walking o'er these waters
before being reabsorbed into waves.

anatomy of the creature

the sign leading to the beach parking lot 
reads, "lot full"
this late november day
when only  people
walking their dogs
watching the sunset
or hiding out briefly
visit these shores

it's thanksgiving
the national day of mourning
for indigenous peoples
a day when high school football is played
across our land
one team victorious
the other defeated
the season over
thanksgiving turkey
waiting on the table

i watch a butcher at work
sharpening knives
turning the front left shoulder
of an immense cow 
into pot roasts
he is so deft
with his knives
knows the anatomy of this creature
far better
than perhaps any other human
on the planet
makes knots and lassos of string
to bind flesh
neat, clean, meticulous
and perhaps most striking of all
in a good mood somehow
rarer than sinew
rarer than being able to tolerate
the amount of butchery
we turn our eyes away from routinely

Getting to Game

As I push hard on my bicycle
To get home
To drive into the city
To see a basketball game
The largest hawk I have ever seen
Is seated
On a low hanging branch
Across my path
So I stop,
And stare
And the hawk stares back.
The visiting Hawks playing the home team.
There is heavy construction on the bridge
It’s Sunday afternoon
Traffic is reduced to one lane in each direction
Miles from the merge
We are not moving
And when we do
It is at less than three miles per hour
So I exit the passenger door and start walking,
For the exercise I say
And to distract myself
From the anxiety and discomfort
Of what will be our now inevitably late arrival 
People in cars I pass make joking comments,
As I walk by them
Hey it’s America,
And my heart is struggling
Over the hills I climb
And my mind
Like my heart
Is erratically beating
And my shortness of breath
And my contemplation
Is of death
And healing
And the gifts of modern medicine I’m hoping for.
Of faith,
And denial
There is surprisingly little trash
On the gravelly side of the road
Mostly broken glass and rusted metal
Parts of rubber tires
Frayed rope and broken bungee cords
I find a baseball hat
That has the words “Dead Guy”
Imprinted on it.
It’s a nice hat
And I try not to take it personally
To imagine I will grow into it
To take this reminder from the guides
In the best and deepest way I can.
I find a silver Canadian quarter
With a moose on one side
And the queen mother on the otherEach symbolizing
An image ideal we have
Of monarchy and majestry
I even find a knit cap
Which reads, “Ground Zero. 
New York City.
We will never forget”
And I will never forget
As I put the cap on
And get back into the car
A full hour later
As we creep over the bridge
Our vehicles
Squeezed like blood
Through narrowed vessels
Coated with 
arterial plaque
Then squirted in relief
Through the ventricle
Out onto the open highway
Moving above the posted speed limits
The game already on the radio
To the off ramp
Across the yellow light
Into the parking place
Onto the escalator
Into the nosebleed section
The basketballs raining through the hoops
And through the nets
As fit and nimble men
Run up and down the court.
Exactly what we paid and prayed for.

Porongurups

Every visit to the Porongurups
Is like my first visit
As if I’ve never been here before
Other than generations ago
The winds of time steady
In the tree tops
The moon rising full in the east
The planks on the decking still missing
Making love
until Joy falls into such a deep slumber
I’d think her dead
But for the snoring
All consistent with our long late drive
Down the very highway
On which her father died
His body identified at the morgue
His shoes still standing in the closet
His children filling them as best they can
His vision seen out the cabin windows
Green and eternal
And on walls partially spackled
and needing paint
When into the silent sacred morning
We hike the Devil’s Slide
Preserving his memory and our memory
Fostering the sacred
Loving one another.
Even more.

love life of clams

the love life of clams
is poorly understood
and being the shy creatures we are
i can tell you only certain things
without blushing.
for starters i’ll say
we enjoy very long periods of foreplay.
indeed, many think,
foreplay is all there is in the life of a clam
and they’re not all that wrong
it’s something we clams do for hours
dare i say entire seasons without cessation
excreting eggs and sperm by the millions
sometimes the very same clam
ushering both into the world
rocking back and forth
with the flow of the tides
with the pull of the moon
laughing while switching sexes
one day female
the very next male
our essence blended
into one multi-sexual organism
open to every other clam
without shame or grief
bodies buried in the mud,
faces buried in the sex organs
of each other and of ourselves
switching sexes repeatedly
and not only don’t we care,
but i can tell you
from personal experience
we are awash with joy
with libido and saline
free from certain sad mammalian quandaries
the chasing about looking for yet another puzzle piece
thought to be missing
the rarity of finding a mate

Winter Fog

During the night a warm front
Passes over the frozen snowpack
And with it a sense of hope
And forbearance 
Of limited visibility
Thickened air
And pregnant odors 
Captured in foggy droplets
That wolves and hunters know
Air warmer than the earth
Cats mewling 
And we too mewling 
In darkened bedrooms
Resentment, regret, and sorrow 
Now hidden in wondrous fog

Cape Birds

I am incapable
Of leaving the Cape
Held here
By the flight of 
Tiny birds
Skimming
Across the inlet,
Soaring in an unfathomably complex unison,
The speed of their reaction, 
The focus of their movements,
The joy they manifest,
Their intentions,
Their desires,
The mystery,
Of the Cape
Revealed,
Though not understood,
In their flight,
The simple,
Benign,
Everyday,
Extraordinary,
Quiet beauty.
The beatitudes.
Of god.
I just don’t get it,
I say.
And then I do.

Ants

You know it is springtime
when you are racing with little ants
To be first to pick up the small piece of apple
That has fallen to the floor
In your kitchen
And you say, “What the hell,
Let them have it.”
And they do
An entire conga line of ants
Alerted to the apple
And its moist atomic emissions, 
"Seen" in the minds of ants
Like a flashing billboard reading, 
“Take me.  Eat me.  Take me.  Eat me.” 
And they do,
Turning the flesh of apples
Into the DNA of ants
Into the minds and hearts of ants
Pulsing with pleasure
Walking to their own musical anthems
Even gliding at times across the keyboard of your computer
Stopping at the letters they love most
Bouncing up and down on the selected keys
Trying to get their message out 
beyond the season of ants and apples
Through to you.

How to Love

look into her eyes until you are crying
say, “there must be something in my eye,”
say, “the wind is so strong I’m tearing.”

hold her until you are shaking
say, “I must be getting a chill,”
say, “the wind is so strong I am fluttering.”

ask her what matters
but do not accept answers that do not take your breath away
gasp when she tells you
not what you want to hear
but what is true
and reveals more about love than her body does

say, as if choking,
“I must have something caught in my throat,”
say, “I almost died this morning
longing for you.”
mean it.

a poem is born

I say a poem is born
By describing what you have sensed or seen
And by never saying the word it
Without describing what “it” is
The pumpkin pies you made
Baking and playing until two in the morning
With a home grown pumpkin
And its roasted seed
Feeding warm pie by the spoonful
To the lover you’ve awakened
Seeing yellow squash flowers
Among the riot of purple morning glories
In the fall gardens
Which greet the day
Crows standing pensively
Rocking back and forth on their toes
In black wing tipped dress shoes
Hands intertwined behind their backs
Engaged in a familiar dialogue
About road kill
The harbor
And their diving neighbors, the cormorants.
A black Scottish terrier with white eyebrows
Who jumps into your lap
Rolls onto her back, and says,
“Please rub my belly.”
Which you do, of course,
After up-rooting small flowering plants
That you feel the irresistible need to pot and love
After the demonstration
Calling for corrupt bankers
To hold very long meetings inside federal jail cells
After yoga, and music,
And even an unwelcome creeping sense of paranoia
That emerges on its own timetable
And dissipates of its own accord
At the end of a good day
A present day
Where pain and stiffness were at a minimum
The mail was taken to the post office
And you, a man approaching death with hands raised high
In the universal sign of surrender,
Were truly and warmly welcomed home.

Burnt Wood