on beardless chins

 Riding through the night and rain
on old Route 66, racing a freight train;
to a grade crossing five miles down the road.

On the stereo, a deep voice growls
about boxcars moving south, like words
out of my mouth and a blended thread of thought.

This stormy night  brings me home with a smile
my favorite team is losin' again, but the wipers
match the rhythm of my mood, i'm so good
in the cozy piece of the bubble in which I live

[Outside, Man has sown soul foul seeds and imagines that
the world bleeds, but no, it is just he- the heedless and the innocents nearby]

The world of men is changin' so, new wars find old grief
snatchin' young lives the Thief now risen from the East.
And once again, I see the Old burying  the young
flag-draped boxes frame final kisses on beardless chins.

It is an allegory of the human condition:
the permissions given to evil; to take our love
and leave the shell to ground. On the war-worn path,
a strike for righteousness:  for life's sake, young life,
and that yet to be in swelled bellies and magical dreams

I'm in the bubble amid a world swirled by change
in the bubble: a  space that has not yet felt
the flood-freeze-and-burn legacy of reckless man

So, I drive and complete the tedious circle of this day
so fortunate in the thousands of ways
we daily see and rarely say- even to self

My bubble is a world still filled with people I love
and with a heart that finally has learned
the strength that comes by gratitude, and the power to see
the overwhelming beauty that life can bring

paper plane

 Its been awhile since I was nine
a memory flashes and feels set free
and the paper airplane flew so fine

when blank page folded to my special lines
well defined my ingenuity
Its been awhile since I was nine

a reach into the bright  sunshine
i curled  wings to climb quickly
and the paper airplane flew so fine

run and chase to quick rewind
being the best came so easy
Its been awhile since I was nine

do memories age like wine?
does time unwind the mystery?
and the paper airplane flew so fine

a proud of my brilliant design
relive a  day that was all it could be
Its been awhile since I was nine
and the paper airplane flew so fine

Poppies

 There is a poem in the poppy--
 layered, soft, and fair;
an effusion of nature's wisdom,
and all it gathers near-
And for a field a-flowing
with wind and sultry red,
my thoughts drift to Flanders  
where wistful eyes opened to sun
and closed to dark
The folly of men remembered
 and greatest love forgot

And war did not die
verdant 'neath the sky, and red
flowed for decades beyond,  til now
when we can in stillness reflect
on so many years of people
and so few of peace

Captive of times -- we say
and rue the bloodied days, as if
the choices were not ours; and captive
we remain-- democracy teeters,
tyrants rise, and truth is on the run!

Through summer heat, slanted winter sun
as the world spits back the poisons we have sown
we live in fire and freeze, flood and sere,
ancient mountains of ice melt to rising seas .
We sit in the balance and
 consider the price of life

I remember priceless poppies, red and reaching
bathed in  love of a nearby star, and the young
clash, flash, and fall-- like seeds of autumn
planting for a tomorrow they would not see
as do we all...

In the rise and fall, circle of being,
rotation of the universe, and we
fail to keep the promises made
to Flanders field and so many more
places without such flowered names

And we twist slow in winds of lies   
ground down in jaws of deceit
as if it were not ours
to raise the sword of truth
and wield it with the strength of certainty
that right is within us and
the brightness of the future
burns our eyes

Air So Still

Searching the afternoon sky,
finding sudden cover - dark, like evening;
against the backdrop of low, gray clouds,
my skin feels the weight of this summer day.

In air grown so still
the black vulture cannot glide.
She efforts to climb only to drop again
until near still treetops, I lose sight
of  broad, dark wings

The buzzing cicada brings my focus
to the garden fence
it flies headfirst to the wooden boards
and then again, drops to ground
rises yet again-- such a search-
 for completion lies only ahead

 The path of life is but a bridge
to the moment we try to hold,
and time has no care for the journey.

We are
captive of a thing we cannot see
spoken-to in a language we cannot understand
bound by hopes we cannot deny; and so
we are
as the cicada at the wooden boards
a long journey into a brief daylight
and desperate flight for purpose

And the vulture circles back, her effortful flapping
of broad black wings
for in air so still and filled with my thoughts,
it cannot gently glide by
 

A cloud above

 The picture on the shelf-
front and centered tonight-
as a warm bath of memories
fills the cozy dining room.

With friends old and new,
tonight's laughter trims ragged edges and unfinished sides.

Yet I see
the pause that lingers in the wayward glance
the smile a tad  short
and the small silences that reveal
a cloud above your views of the world

It is a world that brought you from one side of the globe
and him from the other
to meet and love in the most unlikely coincidence
like raindrops upon the sea

and now, the picture, the smiling child
the affliction, and the sadness
that explains your goodness and his
and bonds that speak of forever

when love is impossible on the skin and
inescapable deep within and so full
that it simply overwhelms

the heart within the heart

Texas Tally Ban

 

 

The right to vote for every man

The essence of being an American

Lost to the win-anyway-I- can

It’s a  Texas version of a Tally ban.

 

Already the hardest place to vote,

Texas amends the tough laws they wrote.

Your votes are suspect unless Republican

So says the snarky Texas Tally-ban

 

They need no mirrors, whispers,  or smoke

Bold- no cloak, and this is not a  joke

The next election tally will not stand

Until approved by the Texas Tallyban

 

The line of our great democracy

The sacred trust from me to thee

The stuff that keeps Americans free

Would thus fall to a little Texas tyranny

 

It’s odd-that a place so big and grand

Can stomach such a tawdry band

Sawing-off the branch on which they stand

that clever Texas Tally-ban

 

They turned Lincoln’s dream into a rune

With all  depth and wisdom of a kiddie toon

Fall they must, for truth trampled by man

Will rise-  a swift boot in their Texas Tally-can

 

To kill the asp the Bard once said

Must be smashed while in the egg

So, I’m for taking up an iron pan

To quash the Texas Tally-ban

 

It is a painful sight;  to see

Democracy on wobbled knees

The lies are big and Texas-tall

The words are slippery like Texas oil

 

But so rude, crude, and clear to see

The victims are truth and decency

On muddy bellies, they stoop so low

to deliver their pernicious blows

 

But miss the mark—the heart goes on

Still beats strong, resisting wrongs

‘Gainst evil  born to darkness, it fights

Tally-bans burn and die in the light

 

It needs a thundered voice of an outraged nation

Doubtless outrage without further hesitation

to enable the stroke of a wise man's pen

to rescue voting  from the Texas Tally-Ban

 

Near You

 Of all the moods that sweep through my time
there is one- comes like waves of soothing music
they are thoughts that dwell with you
that linger and slow the flow of moments

with you i rise and fly, upon thermal lifts of desire
and passion-ed breath fills my chest like fire
and rebellions born of want, free me to dare
the chance of falling, to taste rare air
in the place near you


when you are hurt by my careless words
my unbridled fits and rage, then remember
the passion of days and sounds of our nights
when love eclipsed the sun
wishes made the stars obey
and we hungered for touch...

when I waited for you
in the deepest part of me and somehow
you softly and tenderly found my lips
and brought me to the place-- near you

a thought of love

 

Plague sweeps across lands
like the vengeful breath of God
It carries painful realization
that callous care bites the hand...

the lost brown babies
the cold cage floors
the tears of heaven

and the flames rise
the waters swell
and forgiveness is not seen

Today, a bright red bird
lit near my window, to taste
the scraps my lover left
it stayed ere long as i would stare
the colors filled my eyes,
awakened and aware, and feeling

It was a thought of love
in a time of dying

An Asymmetric Canopy

 Outside in the gluey air - hot August night,
the red maple stands as full as it can be
it spreads over the traffic lane and walkway
in an asymmetric canopy; I marvel
at the  seeming infinity of shiny leaves;  so dense
that the waiting beams of moon, Mercury,
and distant stars whose ancient light I'd see
are caught behind a wall of verdant density.

It is a snapshot of life and choices
that I watch one thing and listen
 to the voices of my past, coordinating
disparate things into an even more amazing being--
the thought-filled flow--the living river of life.

And while we do not touch, it's an illusion we trust,
the rivers within us seem to know each other
sharing flood and want, time and treachery, they know
the tug of the world ,the heat of the sun, and that all will end
that has even begun; and that patient water can carve
stony mountains that stand in its way.

All this as I consider the maple outside, and the fullness
of its branches in the hot August air, an asymmetric night

Sit with Angels

In the place where I sit with Angels
when  I recall the signs along my way
and I can open my throat to sing
a melody inspired by blessings

I can feel the eyes of my Nana
willing my happiness in every moment
I can hear my Mother's laughter
as she gently loved her son

I can feel my sister and her soothing words
healing  like a balm for my wounds
and I have known so many more
spirits that showed love that none can earn

Love is the gift of life; it connects
and never fades even as we do.
It is when we  God-like create
a thing that does not end.

In a place where I speak into the light
the home in the heart of my heart
where truth fills every thought
I speak my gratitude and beg forgiveness

and know there is an eternal tomorrow
for my faith is already there .

so say the fireflies

Listening to rain fall
upon the fiberglass roof
seems so much harder than it is
for the lighted dots glow in the night
and flirt under street lamp shines
in this hurried race of summer
the rain does not matter--
so say the fireflies.

I must pause and wonder,
where did it go?
when did i lose the slow sweat of July?

I know it is Canis Major above me
because my phone is Smart
And I know
the loving face of the moon hides
behind the night's showers and tomorrow's storms.

I know I am connected by an unseen web
that unites a disjointed world
but it is a summer night
that races when it should drip like honey

I sat and watched the news
[did God loose a plague?]
[are the brown babies still in the cage?]
and hear an unsettling roar
outside my front door painted bright
in flashing red lights
someone needs help...

[and time provides a great reveal
it slowly soundlessly peels the crusted covers
of our eyes. Like a bolt that breaks the night,
we are suddenly blinded by the sight of truth]


my skin knows
the weight of air, filled with
lotus and lilac, the fire flies know
the thickly night as summer races on

and i know the air is heavy
because here and everywhere it seems
so many say...
I cannot breathe

Dear George

You came to be
as someone's wish
By a mind set in a time of chains
and impossibility; held in a place
that was not home, and when home no longer was.
you were a wish for freedom and the possibilities of life

Now, you have folded your life
in a circle unbroken from then to now
the struggles of today and dreams of better tomorrows

Again, it is time for life to end while dreams extend
a reach of love for those still here and so many more yet to come

we -the remainder of the world you knew-
will carry on, speak your name, and witness the birth
of new purpose; exalting a guiding star-

It is a time that sheds tears of loss
from eyes that hold visions of victory

so all alone

Between the hours of five and six
on just another day that ends in "y"
the numbers swelled above 50, 000
in the age of corona virus.

on the air, there were talking heads
and much nonsense, and while few made smiles,
they were most comic.
The deaths counter rolled upward while
a company sold soap, a school sold futures,
and a pharmaceutical practiced medical heresy.

And in the minutes while the world whirled on
with its noise and new car deals,
scores more died [away from the senseless sounds my heart drifts
to the places where this thing exists]-- where they fade
Alone, alone, so all alone; alone on a ventilator.

Today we wear it, but I think
someday the curse will cease.
Perhaps we will learn and perhaps we will thrive
but there will many fewer alive to speak of these days.

There will be a time in the stillness and darkness of sleep
to atone for these heartless ways.
We will not be able to turn away.

So many goodbyes, wet eyes staring into
memories of love, with no one near
no one to hear last words.

while their faces will fill the dreams of the Angels of care,
and chase the peace of loved ones not allowed to be there;
the rest of us will wonder, did we care
so little for life or love.

Love in the Time of CV

I did not take down the Christmas tree;
it sparkles now in the warm April night
when my mood is mercurial like spring days.
It began in sunshine and ended in thunders and chill.
And the sparkling lights that trim the windows
and adorn the faux rafters are emblems
of a way of life that may never come again.

This morning, I had a dream, and
I laughed into a warm awakening.
Was you Sister Dear, come to talk in my dreams
as if you knew how much i missed you.
And i spoke to you about the plague;
we fell into laughter when i said:
they'd need a crew of strong men
to haul you out to the hospital care.

My belly heaved as we shared a joy
born of my love and yours,
of the fact that there is no part of my heart
that does not belong to you.

As my eyes slit to open onto
my New Life and her wide blue eyes.
She stared quizzically and smiled
that I would wake in laughter. Love
in the age of virus is a precious and grudging thing.

And so it was, on this hard day,
you Sister Dear touched me softly.
Not as a memory, but like the warming sun
from distance a gentle kiss on my cheek
a longed-for precursor that marked
the trail of a happy tear.

kept...

 

And it was you, in the dream
calling in murmured tones-
sounds that held me; led me through the fog until
you shown bright in the sun.
My heart raced with joy to be near you-
to inhale the precious air near you.
In the flame of my delight, your light was dim
and you came- it seems so simply- to say goodbye.

I asked: "Will you leave me now?"
and at once I was your child again, a needful boy
with heart in hand--"will you ... leave me now?"
and I let you see the depths of me, the longing and ache
I could not shape my lips to deny...

Later, after waking, and deep in its throes
I felt I'd read a page of your life
an episode near its end
I'd felt the precious air, lift from the leaf

As I closed that book of dreams
i realized something of me
was left behind, something kept
between the lines of words, that gave them spirit.
The page has made an indelible place in my life
now connected to you- once again, a page
once read, that kept its reader.

a pregnant breath

[ Of tRUMP and Wall]

some say his will is stony thick
others opine his head is the brick
I say the skunk's own spray does  stick
and follow like a foul wind, a pinprick
to the most tender part of the heart

a real wall from hateful imaginings

[in a dream of God,]  a sea from her tear
verged sadness and filled Heavenly air
dimmed the gleam, stirred her anger
a gaping festered wound, from there
to the most tender part of the heart

the ears-fill of hateful rages
babies put  in barbed  cages
crossing arid stretches, bone dry
the dire stress- watching children die
for lack of water that we pour to ground
a libation to the  fertile surrounds
of hardness from greed  that cares less
for life than the gains of contrivance
when the sacred helm is a mere connivance

and the enemies appear to have its ear
in darkness, we stumble in blind fear
and America mourns, laid bare, betrayed
wrapt in own arms, confused dismayed
the strong woman was  bound in her sleep
drained by evil, blessings faded. we weep

but hope is an arrow that pierces deep
Tomororow speaks with a pregnant breath-- a new start
to the most tender part of the heart

winter ku

watching stars with you
a meteor falls--
 into a slow kiss


 at the frosty window
a vapor covers
words of love

in the fireplace
warm memories--
dance and lick the air

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