Max strewth a whole anthology of snaps am overcome cheers P

-----Original Message----- 
From: Max Richards
Sent: Wednesday, May 4, 2016 1:20 AM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: 'Stepping Out...'

Stepping Out and Back - Six Steps

1. Stir Crazy

Just as I stepped out
the weather went bad -
should have turned back -

hunched along to the
bus shelter while it
worsened. At least

the bus came, direct
to Downtown without event.
You only live once - if that.

Downtown! - wet ‘Easter
Sunday closed’ signs
made worse worst.

Still, tourists at the Market
make each and every day
a bustling time, cellphones

out for selfies, excuse me.
You live once only - if that.
Or is this yet another

deja vu? standing here
grimacing out at the rain?
Same old stalls, same old

spruikers, same old joke
pix showing wet Seattle
to please new tourists.

Sure, the seafood’s fresh.
Rather here than cooped up
at home, wouldn’t you say?

Dodge the Pike Street traffic
to the stop for the bus back.
You live only once - if that.


2. Brain Fog Weather

Stepping out again
taking my brain fog with me -
maybe it’ll lift along the way,

maybe not. It’s brain fog
weather all along the street
round the corner up

the hill along the ridge,
overhead, underfoot.
Try the park, always neat,

somewhere to sit,
children to watch? -
get my bearings,

register not weather
so much as season.
That toddler stands

unstable but reaching
up, stretching forward.
Name those flowers -

too hard. Now is
the springtime renewal
of my distemper.

Last night’s gale culled
from this sycamore tree
tiny winged seed-pods

like green bodiless
insects strewn park-wide
under our feet

as if vainly to propagate
itself a millionfold
in the vicinity.

Premature, surely.
Another million
maintain their grip

on the old tree,
profligate tenacity.
Learn from this?

Submit in patience.
Endure whatever
is the weather.


3. On the Right Day

Step out now uphill
towards the park -
unless the sky is dark,

unless legs and will
falter. If you make it,
letting the keen dog lead,

keeping the leash taut
up East Prospect Street,
the last steps, concrete

and steep, release you
into wide green walks
along which another

with off-leash dog
spontaneously talks
as if no stranger.

Parks do this, pets
and children do this.
Anger, sensed danger,

fade under these trees.
Sunshine, mild breeze
on the right day release

walkers and companion
animals in free union,
give or take some tension

between skittish
dogs with suspicions.
Squirrels flaunt silver fronds,

joggers their bronzed youth.
Run free! or if you’re
old as me, amble more

freely knowing from here
to home is downhill,
no pressure, so long

as the sky stays clear.
Walking this easy way
should get us out another day.


4. Vote Weed

This morning’s still
brightening hill,
park, reservoir.

Here once open-air
concerts would gather
happy crowds. High

on music and whatever
they’d strip and dip
in municipal water.

A strong tall fence
ensures that since
such high jinks

no music fan
will ever again
dare dirty the drink

or even drown.
Read the stern sign.
Today at the sound-shell

musicians prepare
a midday concert
in loud support

of marijuana.
A stout bearded guy
dressed as Green Santa

trundles his wheelchair
and pit bull on stage.
Tables display weed-gear

and propaganda:
Vote Weed this election year.
The band sounds Jamaican.

Families are picnicking
on the slope, others sharing
reefer, hookah, bong.

I smile, and move along.


5. The Other Side

Alex, sent us by Lyft, picks us up
to take us the short trip home.
Hearing my wife is here to study,
asks: studying what? Spirituality.

What’s it about? How we find meaning
in our lives. He says he’s had the luck
already to visit the other side -
when twelve, playing rough with his friend

in the pool, he'd drowned. While dead, he saw
the real world, but he returned to this,
much to his friend’s relief. The other side
is beyond time, peopled, where you choose

the life you are born into, your life here,
after which you return. So he has
no fear of death. If there is a God,
He’s invisible but like the tree of all
and we are like leaves, here till we fall.


6. By Night

Stepping out each night,
last thing, as dogs require,
brings to their humans
repeats of before -

without clear sight-lines,
with doubting footfalls.
Between street lamps
are dark dubious zones.

Uneven pavement,
a hidden puddle,
a sudden slither
or slip, trip, tumble -

these mean taking care -
these diminish
the relish of fresh air,
of high night sky

with bright-lit airliners
plying between here
and Vancouver.
Also at this hour

smokers ostracised
outdoors dawdle over
their day’s last fag drag.
We’re tolerant, dog

and I, inhale their smoke,
stifling the joke
of pretending to choke.
To each their addiction.

Our destination -
that unpredictable
halting-place, location -
dog of a sudden

squats - the timely relief,
the slow or brief reprieve.
Otherwise, slow minutes
pass on a multi-block

trudge - now? surely now?
postpone till tomorrow?
Are the stars clouding over
preparing a shower?

Good good dog. The turn
towards home, duty done,
whichever way back is shortest,
our beds offer their best promise.

Seattle, May 2016