anxiety's children Here and now . . . is a mixed pleasant cacophony: hot steamed mild, murmuring of a dozen voices, 1940's cable music, and coffee drink callouts rebounding throughout . . . Sunlight pokes through glass doors and walls, reflecting off and passing through the surrounding trees, streets, and structures . . . Attractive and pleasant in demeanor, young women in a variety of black outfits brew, chat, and serve. Coiffures are also diverse, adding to the room's palette of individuality, ranging from blond, short and curly, mixed blond and brunette ponytail, to auburn, short pageboy. The perimeter walls of "Uptown Espresso" are graced by paintings and photographs. A sign on one wall claims, "Coffee, like revenge, is best served black." It's my secret though. Friends and passersby, greet and encounter my apparently relaxed confidence, only to be swept on like the twigs and leaves, carried off by the rainfall runoffs that make up the moments of our lives. Eddie, the kid, the man, and the medicine man, are all anxiety's children . . . And they all wonder about the past, the present, and their journeys. The young child, Eddie, occupies a corner table with his empty coffee cup and banana bread . . . while his favorite Saucelito Canyon Vineyard cap and Gary Snyder's Left out in the Rain rest atop the morning daily news. The teenage kid pauses, wondering when he is . . . in this world, in this place, with these friends, in this time, with this gift . . . of life. The adult man also pauses, wondering what place his surviving parent has in his world? Meanwhile the medicine man bounces back and forth among all the children and engendered by a lifetime of misunderstanding, tries to repair things that cannot be fixed but only embraced and assimilated. A passerby harking from near the Sierra foothills pauses, crosses to talk with the man of the kid. A poetry conspirator, he sees Rain on our table. "I heard him read on time at Fresno State," he says. "It was in Bob Mezy's poetry class before he was a professor. After class we all went to Mezy's place in Academy. It's a four-house town in the Sierra foothills on the way to Shaver Lake. The whole class was there, It was the sixties, you know." Poetry conspirator stays, waiting for his coffee drink. The kid switches back to the man, who leaves for his favorite pastime . . . listening to, and talking with, the children. The children pass through this world . . . loved and loving, many times unseen, sometimes lost, yet always looking for happiness, safety, closure, and companions. Things surprisingly, often found. But hidden, somewhere in the cytoplasm tying together the four children, are the anxious sparks and spikes of fear, worry, and ongoing questionings . . . that poke here, shock there, and frighten the children, seemingly arising from nowhere, feeling like instantaneous gas transfixing the brain, then into the blood, flooding the body, with a kind of semi-paralysis . . . This is the release of anxiety's cloud that obscures the sun and sky, leaving no choice but to wait and hope for dissipation. Anxiety's children are in love with each other and this secular place . . . that they pass through with many others, who sometimes, but not usually, recognize the presence . . . of anxiety's face.

walking, stopping, talking, walking A neighborhood, a hillside with two-story homes jostling shoulders as they sit overlooking the Northwest Sound coast Two couples strolling downhill peeking and looking chatting about styles, colors, appeal Passing people, passing thoughts in a century-old hillside community We pass a man pushing a little girl on her new bicycle. Her eyes are closed. Her tee shirt says "Daddy's Princess" Constantly observing walking and stopping, and then talking . . . of what we see of what we think of what we feel of what is the world of what makes sense of what makes no sense After stopping, there is always more walking, my observations constantly shifting about this hillside world, from my wife, to our friends to a part of a house there, to a stand of magnificent Japanese maples scattered among a half dozen homes Knowing all the while that these things bring to me both a happiness and a feeling of grace that come with being in a story where my character . . . is played myself.

Bird Watching This garden of vine and health Is a fitting place for bird life And human life gathering In celebration of marriage. Hearts point toward One another so that fulfilling fate Is a blessing multiplying Into blessings. Finches and plovers In their chirpy flighty life Of eating and bathing And laying and mating Watch friends and relatives Visit during the tea party Accompanied by lemon And mint squares. Tradition here meant that We would play tennis Except my shoes were left in My truck parked at A friend’s house back in the USA Along with my blue Gap hat that I thought was lost In the basement. Instead, we are bird watchers With binoculars and Audubon books At Chaplin, a sodium sulfate mine From which we get detergent, Textile dye, paper, and mineral feeds. These inland lakes are inhabited By migrating shorebirds traveling Between Alaska and South America. From these waters come brine shrimp. Hundreds of eggs we barely see Sit on my fingertip after I brushed The brown shore To take a closer look At life swimming and fluttering Through the food chain Ecosystem of time. Melting glaciers created Prairie potholes. Wetlands scattered Across the plains of Canada Providing resting places For migratory birds during flights. Here we find piping plovers, Sanderlings, sandpipers, Godwits, and willets. Birds communicate through calls Whistling, singing, and squawking. They drive off intruders, Instruct chicks, and mate. They feed in groups, Dig their bills in mud, Or hunt on sight by pausing Then racing. An avocet puts on a show for guests. She is a charmer with her long legs, Brilliant rusty orange neck, And long bill tipping upward. She runs in front of us, Lifts black and blue striped wings wide, And beckons us to trail her. We do. Her nest is protected. Skies are vast and lakes are wide, Providing habitat for many creatures. Between prairies of clover We drive on a dirt road Between shallow lakes Where it appears that long-legged American avocets and willets Are walking on water. Indeed this is a holy place, A sanctuary in the land of living skies. Here in Saskatchewan the Sun Breaks through clouds. Rays cascade down Through blue skies touching Earth Like blessings and kisses On sparkling silver lakes.

Bones I stare at you— Staring . . . Staring . . . My gaze studies you— You and your bones In functional places. Students draw Standing at easels Me and my bones. They apologize for the nose Say it is the hardest part Though it’s made of cartilage. You have no nose— You skeleton poster I stare at for lengths. I am quiet and still— A naked mannequin Performing duty. I hold pose for artists On a raised platform In the center of a room. Each of their newsprint sheets Displays expressions Of thoughts or emotions. Yet I just stand here Staring at your bones Against paper. Back in the skull Memory trickles Down the spine. Vertebra by vertebra Like rain on windows Everything is clear. We remember with our bones So when I rest and wither I will leave my bones.