smaller things

He used all of his strength
to quiet the voices within;
those that urged him to stand and walk.
Long since the tribes of oak and sycamore had ceased,
when the wandering hardwoods and cedars
fell to quietude and inner view, they had not walked

Standing as if tied to Earth, feeding on
the generous warmth of the sun, he used
all of his strength to beat back the rhythm
of pounding foot marks.

It was well, with the purge of giants
that quietude prevail, the ways without change;
the world belongs to smaller things
that so busy stay
that they change the places in which they
scurry in daily circles, maddening creatures they,
that flit and irritate land, wind and water.

It is well to stand and watch
learn shorter breaths and longer sleep.
He used all of his strength
to remain hushed and still,
to creak in the stretching bark,
bend with the music of the winds
and celebrate like the stars, each
passing generation of the busy small ones;

as they move like snail foot, to gain
peace, and someday they may find
quietude.

Woman-Child in the City

When one opens eyes and spirit

Accepting new things, the splendor of childhood

Reborn, we gain through every turn of the head

Each meaningful glimpse becomes a page

in a book written by  the heart.

Flat Iron triangle, Times Square flare,
missing Towers with tears,
Down Under the Manhattan Bridges at sunset. Glass tors
above Grand Central, a City that hums in day
and jangles in the night on Harlem Streets.

Faraway from home finding so much of home

in the thrills and excitement of pace

and place of dreams, another nation become

a bold foundation for a future flight

In bright busy days and neon nights

the City beckons and enthralls

Glittering towers and cavernous halls

of play and learning, you find the essentials

the romance of piano keys, water gentle to the shores

the skyline adorned with manmade opportunity,

marble floors and the charming woosh

of revolving brass and glass doors

All add to a breathless swirl,

a world so distant yet always near

in the dreams we nourish with prayers

scenes unseen

Tossing in the night, rumpled sheets
display the struggle with sleep;
the short breaths and exhales, so deeply connected
to scenes unseen by me. Watching you
and the temptation is too much
I relent to a gentle touch of skin, and in sleep
your soft lips curl into a momentary grin, and again
invite soft kisses on softer nape, and breath exposes
my whispers absorbed into your inner play.

Among  pillow peaks, strands of hair
my eyes find bare shoulder,
and you turn to me arms circling
my neck, closed eyes and barely there,
and yet so keenly aware of this moment;
the best dreams are those  you find
after waking...

African Mango...

red and amber..yielding to my touch
the fleshy sweetness oozes across lips
down chin to leave telltale traces
of momentary joy, on unbuttoned shirt.

I think of the measures
these lips have taken, slight sips, and 
draughts and long, slow swallows
 from the cup of life

when age finds the halfway zone
so much ahead so much behind
one reflects less indifference
one knows and expects more-
from each grain of sand through hourglass-
the potential for happiness

silica formed from the fire-womb of the world
so fitting, sand within glass
it is summer  the middle of the turn
it forms the sweetness earned from
cold and denial of the sun
sweetness in the middle, and we yearn
for little else

The Camel's Shadow

The midday sun, a ceaseless predator

And everything with breath becomes its prey.

With heavy steps, a trek in Thermidor

until caught in sudden wind-borne foray

in fiery sands the camel's kneel, hip to breast

a toughened wall as glassy razors blow

Men found scant cover and a blessed rest
beneath the Camel’s shadow; where fears grow

amid fiercest howls, prayerful maroons

await the songs of gently wind-kissed sands

in quiet peace, to glyph the wavy dunes.

A paradox of dark and frigid lands,

in moonlit breaths the silvered vapors rise

'neath Camel’s shadow, men and beasts, close eyes

Beneath the tablecloth

There are things we have only in spirit

because they are gone from our senses,

Every sense except that

which speaks to the sacred place within. 

And there, is also the place of longing;

It is the epicenter of the wish for fulfillment.

At the core of our nature, there is a need

to fully touch and be touched in Love.

Time is a magician's trick 

it snatches the table cloth away—

plates and glassware unmoved.

When suddenly more bare,

we see it for what it is, shells of fallen trees,

memories of gathered love once there,

and now gone to time and air.

Longing is the space between our open arms,

It is not empty, but filled with faith;
it is simply…waiting

with and without time

I allowed an immersion in a moment,

a small form time with a long shadow,

and ponder the Sun and Moon of this stage,

the reach of this poor page carries a sliver

of that left behind.

I fret the un-holdable second’s fall, and yet,
time is the food of life. The steady beating of the heart,
the constant inner-logue of self-to-self,
a pure assurance of existence,

is a run-on glob of being until punctuated by time.

I am lost with and without time.

A bubble on the face of the deep slow river,

life is a fragile coincidence; the eyes

that find it amidst so many other pieces

of sky, wind, green things and water

is an even  greater happenstance.

Birthed from the death of ancient stars

a billion-age before the seas first rolled,

and now to behold a world of lesser miracles.

Spring...on my street

Crimson branches heavy with cool drizzle
bend and touch wet grass tips, black cherries
of summer that will feed  berries and eager seeds
to golden wings and Cardinal newborns
bend in the breeze next to dogwood whites
and apple pinks. Golden forsythia finds
its early stage already beginning to fade
in the cacophony of color and birdsong

All along this island between two asphalt rivers, flowing
neighbor's cars and trucks; the remnants
of an ancient meadow still stand. Once the land
of noble tribes that lived far more in peace
with sun wind and rain, never sought to gain
control over things they could never own

Tulip poplars and Lilac stands, near Lavender
and Tulips, such comely additions, done by men;
show we have the wherewithal to blend lives
with the life of the ground.

Then, I watch a man sprinkle white poison to kill
the yellow-top Dandelions, that could be on his plate
or over his palate in a spicy wine, and he smiles
such a pleasant smile in front of his man-choking cars, SUV's
and noisy mower; a smile of satisfaction
as he kills my mood, the honey bees,
 and so much that nature gives

to bless us...

Sakura

In the soft Spring breeze

A flurry of pink and white, like snow

Tickling storms fill a still young season

As blossoms invite, and touch the world

Of sight and sense

Breezes of lightened air, dressed heavy with scent

day in blossom, and it fills every thing

with the wonder of nascence.

As if tiny notes on strings of air

Petals make music felt at heart

And every sinew reaches for tenderness

To gather the warm sun, waterous air

And ride the rising tide of life;

to mate the inner desire

And the outward touch as they unfold

And bare to every occurrence of moving air

Blossoms seek as flowers need

The reckoning of an inner seed, a wish

To be like all things that reach to the sky

Translating a cloud

Words on a pillow

Find a language

In need of no translation

Like the timbre of a song

Notes connect the hearer, and in the heard

Can linger, like the fragrance of a rose

On the hand that bends the petal close

Words find the heart within the heart, and pierce

like sunlight through the shell of a seed

Bold messengers faithful to the lips

and bring the spark behind the eyes

to glow, and rise with tender breaths

Words, near splayed hair, and cool linen,

on a pillow as welcome as an oasis,

and as soft as a dream, in warming words

a pillow becomes a cloud

Ava's Moon

 

I have seen the moon
over the quiet night sea
as it ripples upon barely motioned waters
and multiplies its place
like the facets of a precious stone

The Moon seems to agree
in the picture, and  pleased to be
an unfinished orb on the nape of night
gleaming in actuality and bringing even more
in possibility, as She waxes an eloquence
unknown to words.
This is Ava's Moon--
for I have seen her eyes
when they well, and when they smile,
and as they take in the gifts of the world.

There are miracles in the moonlit night
and then, there are the sights, the earnest flights
that wind and climb to find
the emptiness of spirit
the remembered places in forgotten lives.

There we see why the moon stands
in need of forgiveness, too...for it is not enough
to attend beauty... there are the lasting beams;
the lights that illuminate the heart.