from Coltrane Pops

Tyner comps under

the silver splash of cymbals,

Coltrane’s alley sax

searching paper bags and cans

out in these mean bass streets

Tyner’s finch fingers

titter in the cymbal splash

of falling waters

while ‘Trane’s tenor weeps

of home from a farther shore

rim shot! cymbal splash!

cat’s ears pivot toward

the sun-splashed shores.

who’s rowing this awful boat

toward the Godhead now?

rim shot! splash!

Trane takes the tiller on tenor,

stars’ canopy

acceding passage

to the band’s green boat

look out, Jericho!

got an ax that’ll blow

leaves off the trees;

gotta blow torch

and acetylene will!

tourists themselves,

mother mallards glide over

the well-trimmed hedge,

motor across the surface

of the meditation pond

a raucous squabble —

cacophony of crow caws

and magpie squawks —

still the flicker’s shrill retort

holds the upper branch and scale

a flickering blue light —

distant campfire beckoning?

no, big screen tv

across the street, up the hill,

screened by a curtain of firs

slack tide —

the choice of walking the strand

or doubling back:

a very old, up-turned,

very barnacled boat

(Saanich Inlet, Victoria)

last to leaf out,

the green ash’s new growth green

a lime popsicle

to the mind’s eye,

whatever notes flicker floats

chrysanthemum moon —

the poet’s bald head shines

above his poems.

my reflection wavers

in the leisurely current.

(for Blaine Greenwood)

so many weeds!

I don’t wonder that any

half holy man could

walk across these still waters

in a pair of rubber thongs.

so still

even the grass

allows easy passage

of the ant

one blade to another