In Phase
When my thumbs first circled
your nipples, what was it
our skins recognized? Maybe
a primal notion,
or maybe the Soul.
We entwined in ease for a time
the way a whale and her calf
sleep on the move, half the brain ffd
dreaming, the other half
quietly working the breath,
their one silhouette composed
like an ideogram
for travel with grace.
Onslaught
At the hardware store I watched a man
a quarter my age heft bags of concrete
into his cart almost absent mindedly
and my gut, the soft center the Zen Masters
say fills with light, clenched and flared
with something fierce and burning
I had to admit was plain old fashioned
jealousy. The handsome son of a bitch
didn’t even break a sweat. No wonder
old men become bird watchers,
breed roses with black petals,
and long barbed thorns.
George Singer poems have been published in several national journals, and one book of my poetry, Ergon, was published by Wordtech Press. A Zen Buddhist monk for several years in my 20’s, I later served as professor of special education at UC Santa Barbara. Today, I live with my life mate, two dogs who safeguard us from squirrels at our home where I write and meditate. I write about how I try to let the ways my senses, heart, and brain at times let me live more deeply as life is more tenuous and miraculous with the gradual onset of age. I’m 77 years old and just getting started.
