Leaving Paradise
On my last, full day, I sit
reading about global warming
by a pool in a quiet courtyard
as I wait for a final massage
before departing rain-deluged Bali
for drought-stricken California.
Alighting on the stone warrior
who, club raised, guards this sanctuary,
a blue finch cocks its head,
glimpses itself in still water,
then quickly flies away.
On my last morning,
I rise with the red sun
that lights Torch Ginger,
the skeletal Frangipani tree’s
last pink blossom that floats
gently to the ground.
In the flowering lotus pond,
my image flickers above goldfish
who lie stunned at the stone feet
of Goddess Saraswati,
her palm raised in peace.
Unleashed
I take myself for a walk
this clear, winter morning,
past leashed owners led astray
by their charges, tempted by odors
trapped by morning dew.
Wandering without restraint,
I dash across streets, mind racing . . .
“What happened yesterday?”
“What should I accomplish today?”
“What will tomorrow bring?”
I rest on a park bench with its view
of boardwalk, river mouth and bay beyond.
From that distant ship on the horizon
where violet mountains meet rising sun,
bound for an unknown port,
I must be invisible; yet, I am here,
tied by heart strings to others,
unwilling to break away.
On my last, full day, I sit
reading about global warming
by a pool in a quiet courtyard
as I wait for a final massage
before departing rain-deluged Bali
for drought-stricken California.
Alighting on the stone warrior
who, club raised, guards this sanctuary,
a blue finch cocks its head,
glimpses itself in still water,
then quickly flies away.
On my last morning,
I rise with the red sun
that lights Torch Ginger,
the skeletal Frangipani tree’s
last pink blossom that floats
gently to the ground.
In the flowering lotus pond,
my image flickers above goldfish
who lie stunned at the stone feet
of Goddess Saraswati,
her palm raised in peace.
Unleashed
I take myself for a walk
this clear, winter morning,
past leashed owners led astray
by their charges, tempted by odors
trapped by morning dew.
Wandering without restraint,
I dash across streets, mind racing . . .
“What happened yesterday?”
“What should I accomplish today?”
“What will tomorrow bring?”
I rest on a park bench with its view
of boardwalk, river mouth and bay beyond.
From that distant ship on the horizon
where violet mountains meet rising sun,
bound for an unknown port,
I must be invisible; yet, I am here,
tied by heart strings to others,
unwilling to break away.
Trees After a Winter Storm
The maple’s lacy, leafless branches filter morning light
like the “tree of life” fan of perforated leather
at the beginning of a Balinese shadow play,
illuminated behind a translucent screen,
through which we can glimpse the spirit world.
The dwarf orange that never bore fruit,
its desiccated, yellowed leaves
scattered on a winter grave,
has finally succumbed, blown over
to make room for other, stronger roots.
The old walnut, twisted by time,
half its trunk blasted by blight,
reaches out lichen-covered branches
like a motley-clothed beggar’s gnarled fingers,
grateful for whatever life it receives.
Dan Phillips has enjoyed writing and teaching in the Northern and Central California areas for over thirty years. His publishing credits include Porter Gulch Review, Montserrat Review, Monterey Poetry Review, Homestead Review, Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets '04, Coastlines: Eight Santa Cruz Poets, Catamaran Literary Reader, phren-Z On Line Literary Magazine, a memoir,The Bali in Me and most recently, a book of poems, Places of the Spirit. Married for over fifty years, a father and grandfather, Dan celebrates life every day in Santa Cruz.
The maple’s lacy, leafless branches filter morning light
like the “tree of life” fan of perforated leather
at the beginning of a Balinese shadow play,
illuminated behind a translucent screen,
through which we can glimpse the spirit world.
The dwarf orange that never bore fruit,
its desiccated, yellowed leaves
scattered on a winter grave,
has finally succumbed, blown over
to make room for other, stronger roots.
The old walnut, twisted by time,
half its trunk blasted by blight,
reaches out lichen-covered branches
like a motley-clothed beggar’s gnarled fingers,
grateful for whatever life it receives.
Dan Phillips has enjoyed writing and teaching in the Northern and Central California areas for over thirty years. His publishing credits include Porter Gulch Review, Montserrat Review, Monterey Poetry Review, Homestead Review, Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets '04, Coastlines: Eight Santa Cruz Poets, Catamaran Literary Reader, phren-Z On Line Literary Magazine, a memoir,The Bali in Me and most recently, a book of poems, Places of the Spirit. Married for over fifty years, a father and grandfather, Dan celebrates life every day in Santa Cruz.