i kneel because

Some kneel when the anthem plays
some shed tears when the spirit displays
its unmistakable art-- indelible impressions
when the humanity within rises to the skin
and we sense all--
even the motes and specks in the airs above us

The teenage boy faces his last vision of life
a smoking gun and blue steely eyes, that see a monster
where God put a precious child
so  I kneel-- not because of the song
or the honor of heroes long gone

kneeling because i cannot stand
my thoughts are unstrung, count  nine when I feel
the hard concrete of Missouri Streets
and seventeen  on the ragged pavement of Chicago-- on and on
choked like the breath-less moments struggle in NYC
or the little Cleveland boy in the park  with the toy

There is a little feeling, a small sting
that swells like volcano fire... yet I know
for all of its enormity, it is the way justice speaks:
in a small voice and at an unexpected moment-- it is
a pinprick for the heart of the heart.

a trace

 

bright blue
the eyes seem to twinkle light
makes a corona in the corners
of her squinting  smile; the low moments
bring a wide calm stare-
the little within girl asks- does the world not care?

it is that blend of joy and heartbreak
the meaning of her life's song
her spirit does not lift, it soars
her heart does not crash, it splinters
bit by tearful bit- she is a little broken now
the triumphant path is one that gives and takes away
we know this day through the echo of days left behind--
but that kept a trace, a splinter.

now, across seas and against odds; she is
where she wished to be- a little town with vast opportunity - 

In Bloomington, and
In the cornfields that surround the town
where she has set her roots anew
i think of fruits that crackle in the night
growing as we  might watch and see
the rains that fell on happy or sad days
tended soils in similar ways, life feeds
on every morsel, and time
is the  patient farmer.

wing of night

When we make a flower of the moon
and dance upon her streaming hair
to a rhythm of night song
we feel the closeness of living air

Losing self and  busy day's care
at home beneath a longing gaze
we pause... touching as lover's may
 words and breath billow the embers
of warm lips and fire in fingertips;
we touch and bend darkness to a wish--
to be, to stay just this way,
far from dusk and dawn,
beneath the wing of night.

We share the delicate ways
love lingers as if the sweetest scent
on the hand that gifts a rose

seasonal rites

Four crows and a busy red squirrel
mine the rain soaked yard
for rising worms and  fallen seeds
the Autumn brings change

The red maples are first to show
colors of the seasonal rites
while ragweed and goldenrod
tease the eyes and bring on sneezes
the undeniable coolness settles overall

There may be fewer trains on the south side
as the beans and corn harvests dwindle
and the lush green canopy that danced
to songs of summer winds  will gracefully
begin to bare arms and shoulders

Nature plants and man harvests
a world of bounty for all of its parts
calling crows, chirping crickets, and cicada shrills
fill the constant chorus

and a cooler wind invites a layer of cloth
to wrap for the end of this year,
In beauty, bounty, and a wondrous abundance

I  begin my long yearning
for spring- again

summer-ku

on his charcoal stick
the model's face...
waits



between the elm and sycamore
the ancient moon shows...
 a new face



moon bright-- beaming light
washes away the stars... Saturn turns
around red Mars, and I am lost
in the search for hunters and bears



in heavy night air
the old man smiles...
into the west wind


between the cricket chirps
the midnight train...
rolls to Kankakee

Arrogance and error

In Bloomington Illinois the streets have names
of old and scarce breeds of trees

on Walnut street i see dried black shells
on Mulberry Street white and dark
females with fruit
and on Locust street the honey gold flower
drapes the day and perfumes the night air.

In Franklin Park, the old, historic homes have
wide-trunked elders, somber trees
they have seen our arrogance and error
and love us still

on my shoe...
yesterday's chewing gum
last year's maple flyers

My lover and I cannot touch hands
when we hug the old red maple near home
it is a tree
with muscular arms
and broad shoulders-- like Sandburg's Chicago

Coming back after a walk downtown
from the empty Sunday night streets
I enter through the side door
and not one of other three...

on my computer screen
a flying ant crosses...
the Orion nebula

edges of the inner sea

Kneading bread, pressing pliable mounds
folding and pressing more; veins swell
sinews ripple- fighting the cramp of fatigue
I have made too little

it is a simple thing to bring
yeast to flower, salt and soda
to thrive on sugars. The nascent loaf
swells from within as i roll and pat
then begin, kneading bread

thoughts roll in like sun drawn tides
pulled from distant edges of the inner sea
stormy turmoil and placid windless times
i see ''sturm und drang'- i see the painted ship
on a library wall, i see the albatross
and now the fingers sink deep and make folds
that will soon hold heat and shape
the essence of the loaves; kneading bread
i can heal,
forgive,
forget,
and i can slowly exhale
the pent up day