when the moon asks...

The Japanese maple  

climbs the west bedroom wall,

and shimmered  leafy shadows  

vignette my wood-framed leap

at the Powell and Market trolley.

I release the effort needed to stop

A wandering thought that seeks

reclaim, a tense reluctantly past-

and not so much as a scene but a way to see-

filters the crawling light

through  prisms of happiness.

Soon, the neighbor’s yard globe

eclipses the glowing ball of dusk;

the evening meal enlists smiles

of shoulder to shoulder and stolen touches

in the kitchen of that quaint downtown loft.

Even the music has a way of yesterday

and I dance Argentine Tango

with a memory of you;

finding restless air and  a sense of peace

is somehow within it.

For the most unsettling sound

would be the exhale of seat cushions

and thoughts that I would never

find us once again, when

the moon asks to open our favorite wine.

everywhere but here

I should be forgiven
like the shadow on the wall
I come because you glow within
and stay because I am called

when the light of sun or moon
washes over you, and I am there too
to see the moon and sun...more beautiful

You speak to me in the voice of the rain
and glisten in the morning like gifts of mists
When the heat of day falls dark again
every star listens and lifts a tender wish

If I could find a memory in the flower's fold
the scent of an evening long gone bye
drift to timeless place, nothing grows old
the thought of you would lift my eyes
slightly above the petal's edge...and more beautiful

I could find your eyes in the rainbow glows
over the Victoria Falls; could find your skin
where seas begin and end on every continent.
I could find your smile in the opening of the clouds
when gray departs and golden meadows stand proud.
I can find your kiss in the dreams I've left behind
the missing tastes of honey that linger in my mind.
You are always there and so completely dear
as fond as breath and beyond compare.
I can find you everywhere, everywhere but here,
I can find you everywhere, everywhere.... but here.

At wake, the morning dew holds the brink of a tear...
I can find you anywhere, and everywhere...but here

A Pretense of an Ark

The Fourth World does not emerge,

it is filled with change and yet,

in essence, it stays the same

It is an endless rain of danger

and death impatiently awaits;

although it  arrives both early and late.

The Fourth World was not discovered

It was born full grown, from those who own

The means to kill easily and at will, fill

the unpaid bills of generations past; it remains

a dark evil that lasts past sunrise.

The Fourth World is not a hell-bent continent

But an archipelago of human pain, where endless strife

strains the sinews of life. Pausing barely for breath

It lurches and careens down a mountain like

Boulders falling in an avalanche, woe be unto…

The path is strewn and the wreckage can break

The hard heart of the world, yet withstands

Turn the head, avert the heart, close the purse

Build walls of forgiving news, fold it into a blur

Undisturbed- the peace is a momentary glance;

A random dance to music from a source unknown

It is day and the steady rhythm is a racing heartbeat

The flare of sirens feed reports of success

on a Wall Street news ribbon. For in the Fourth World,

There are few remaining tears, the past has dreary years

and tomorrow the forecast is easy to say, more like today.

When sunlight fills the air, clouds make pretense of an Ark,

birds swoop low, and from a clearest glow of day comes

the deepest gray…the sudden flash and thunder, and

suddenly un-breathable air fills the suddenly un-breathing.

_________________________________________________

Author's Note:

There is a Fourth World where war and conflict run rampant like virulent disease. It is in Gaza, Syria, Iraq, Donetsk,  Central Africa, and Nigeria. Like a chain of islands surrounded by an unseen sea of utter turmoil, and they are connected by dreadful circumstance. It is up to the rest of us, the custodians of this planet- our lifeboat in the coldest Sea to do what must be done to bring the people of the Fourth World out of the grips of savagery. There have been heroic efforts and there have been instances of blind-eyed neglect. The fury of war is not a tame beast, it will always escape and find a new prey; it is the global human imperative, no one is safe from war until all are.

song of the sun-kissed child

drifting in the morning fog, a crow's call
the sound found wisdom of the few
who raised a cry for liberty, from dust and chains 

and the call falls upon the hearts of many
who see but to the nearest door, and never more
than needs be to gain the trappings of equality.

The timbre pierced the hard shell
grown upon the tender seeds
and the sun-kissed child, opens its arms
wide to a wider world; and heavens own
chalice lent to them to drink of forgiveness

the crow's call through morning cloud
the risen Sun determines thus
the bend of time and calculus of perils
fallen like dew on fresh formed petals
like the morning, a rose has but a day
but the beauty of a glance can linger
into the final fall of night

when I looked deep into the morning
and found it was the sweet martin
pretended...as a crow, and how it seemed
the king became the pauper, with so little

yet gifted the world  his golden cloak,
a mantle  made by his hands...
a rich coat of Love

Shared in the morning

I left the music inside my head

on lips that simply tried,  it died;

The heart ached to find the lost…

I left the music inside my head

as my body danced across the light,

And even when my words took flight

they could not stray far away.

The heart is like a warm welcome nest

trying to hold on to all the rest of the joy

We shared in the morning

And then the music inside my head

Began to stir and swirl

Until the world seemed ready

And then the waters fall,

the comets flash,

And the moon was a ball of gold.

We found the music inside my head

And shared it like a precious bread

Divided but never diminished

Until every heart...was truly fed

By the music inside my head

and joy we shared in the morning.

winter...

I fall in love again…

in the bitterness of winter

when waves of cold descend from the north,

and I can see words that escape my lips

in moon bright nights of Jupiter‘s ascent

I fall in love again

because it mattered so much when

it was younger, newer and fresh.

The taste of longed-for lips and the

sweet feeling that flesh mattered so much.

I fall in love again,

when the world around me shivers in frigid blasts

and snow covers the unkempt grounds.

Forgotten tasks are buried ‘neath a frosty cover, and

once again, you are my lover; when

I am the luckiest man, in…

your beautiful, hope filled world.

je suis...

When men pretend to greatness
as if to be gods, they diminish life
we do not worship the smoking gun
we simply fear it and dread
the fracture of reason that stands behind it.

There is a poetry of grief, and it sounds dull chords
like muffled drums and slow steps to fresh mounds;
dust of stars are we, and like them, we burn bright and die.

We have fire within and send out our special light;
it is life - a glory and celebration.
It is the precious gift and we know it
by sounds of laughter when we hold it, and the
slow roll of tears when it passes.

When men pretend to greatness
and wear the mantles they make
the petty godliness they create...they can only
make life vanish; they become invisible to the eyes
for we forget fear, it moves away
like the burn of sun through clouds.

We forget makers of fear...they are as the dust
of forgotten dust; we remember the joys
and the gifts of happiness.
Fear flies in an eye blink, it does not keep us;
for We are eternally bound
 to those we Love

Another Snow Day...

Beneath the Snow, the soft white blanket

set to nurture a coming spring; I feel a purpose

beyond the tranquil scene; a relative of memory.

When feelings hover over thoughts

like Angels in the dream of life,

they whisper wisdoms and pour honey.

The world seems more meaningful and sweeter

without a needed reason, like the child

with sugar under tongue, a smile glows.

It is a feeling, like Mother’s soft kiss,

a brothers strong arm on shoulder,

a lover’s hands on my face;

and in the faint draft from

their faultless wings, the

breath in my teacup floats like a cloud.

I am on a road passing through

fog so dense-- no one can see,

and yet I go firmly and on faith

that the path will not bend,

that no obstacle will arise.

For I am already bound  in folds of love…

on the other side.