one day at the end of long rugged walk I reached the bridge which took one to the parking lot, when I heard a gleeful little boy exclaim: "Hey, Look at me!" Crossing the dry river bed I looked down at a chubby excited boy of 8 or 9, his arms completely covered -- you could not see where his thick arms left off and the salamanders began.. . He was completely covered and clearly enjoying it. I'd not respected what I called American Miniatures until then, although I enjoyed reading Issa, Buson and Basho, among others. Once in my car I opened a notebook and wrote down only what I saw: excited boy / his arms overflowing / salamanders. I reakize this doesn't seem like much, but as I started writing more and more of them I noticed something magical: If the word-photograph really worked (which is to say if the ckear awareness came clean and ckear and unadulterated then no matter how much time passed one could recall the image as if it were just happening in the moment. I began to get rather adept at this form, ignoring syllable count, season words, and simply focussing on the word-photograph. Another example from those early days:I was sitting on the stoop in Summer of northern Virginia; it was a hot, humid day, the kind of summer day that made one wish he could sleep, instead of merely languishing, with nothing to do. Suddenly a large Tabby cat caught my eye at the precise moment when twilight yielded its first lightning bugs. Suddenly I was alert, wide awake.. . And in a flash the cat keaped into the thick air, the lightning bug flickered on, cat's paw reaching high and quick, and the kightning bug's first light flickered off . . .I wrote: cat-leap /the firefly /extinguished -- and to this day I can see the scene as if it were happening just now: Many other such moments have graced my life; some even longer, lyrical poems. The key seems to be that the moment must ring true , the key a kind of grace or heightened awareness. I thought I'd share this -- it is really quite remarkable. If only I could live in those moments forever --I would forget nothing and awareness would always ring true . But, it seems that something is against this, almost organically pulling us in and out of sleep. . . I bought an old crumbling blue-painted Buddha statue who would greet me after a hard day's work with his wonderful detchment.

how serenely
he greets the blowing snow
faded blue Buddha



coffee pot
rusting in the dunes --
the bird's quizzical glance



even in dense fog
the whiteheron cannot hide
its perfect silence



Indian Summer . . .
the sleeping dog growls deeply
in a cloud of gnats



prodigal son . . .
showing us his collection
of'foreign' coins



suddenky old
the heart speaks again
childhood



storm's aftermath . . .
the ragged hawk surveys
a fresh and hungry world



all my life
looking out of windows:
phases of the moon



stepping outside
into the frosty air --
first star, same old wish



a philosophical miniature (why not?)



"I" am the barrier
life seeks to overcome
like a river returning
to the sea