It’s hard to tell – a starry night in Big Sur,

if I’m looking up or down in the dark,

ocean din seething a thousand feet away.

Might as well be bellows from sixty miles,

oriented before sound draws flat and air too thin:

cheating vacuum of deaf chime cosmic repose;

the ego quiet like god child sleep;

nursing forms steep and staggered growth across time,

never feeling hallowed grace more than my small part.

 

Fog bank freezed north past Pebble Beach and Carmel,

lazy course slow at sunset from S.F. coast south.

The import of writing as a poet a waste without living as one.

Here awash in stellar wall mid spring night chill,

rogue cloud vapor drifting slight between me and shifting stars,

knowing due time will bring greeting neighbors from beyond,

the first when I’m old, and more when I’m gone.

To hear their songs and feel their art,

frailties born same as ours in what is here and gone,

carry all thy travelers such storied lament and mourn;

rare constant dawn driven hope through darkest lie.

 

The stars have moved a little, my ass still porched,

little warmth but my thoughts and a loving world.

Small wind gusts from mountain falls brief,

the sky lightens soft blanket damp solace.

And my bright lights in the sky begin to fade,

Fog creeping on the horizon like loneliness in the grey.

Cliffs and hills by first light lead to ocean frill,

empty wine bottle and bourbon tumbler keeping damp at bay.

Morning rejoice at first bird quip, me hot and cold pather,

as world awakens, the breakers low tide dribble;

edges of a planet filled with life, ripples glory gust.

These supple thoughts simple as tobacco smoke –

it’s good to be above endless mirth till salvation.

Light quiet breezes trample the early morning light.

Ocean hush along willow bends drifts me to retire.