Mother's Day

Mother’s Day

The sky parted, and God made His face to be seen by all

And Mankind, being Mankind, rushed to God and called to Him

Asking for his favor, his recognition of their worth in His eyes

They thronged, built golden platforms to stand closer to Him

Mistaking proximity by inches for precious value and status

In the new Light of revealed truth, in the new Day of God’s arrival

And as they did, a woman scurried about their shining pedestals

Helping each to rise, tending to each, feeding each in their turn

She doted on the young, her eyes not on God but on His children

Building not towers but filling their small hearts with her great love

Fiercely protecting them from the swirling chaos of Mankind’s

Rush to curry God’s acknowledgement of their individual worth

The first to come were those of Cloth, bearing ledgers of their flocks

Bearing tales of their fealty and sacrifice, of eloquence and grace

And God listened and watched, and gently corrected their aim

Without condemnation, without judgment or separation from their peers

And each stepped down, convinced of His approval, of their position

But blind to what He had shown, and deaf to what he had shared

Next came the powerful, whose platforms were built by others

They offered their great acts, their mighty towers, their magnificent art

Transferring title and deed to the Almighty as tribute to His name

And God listened and watched, gave each their moment in His eyes

Teaching each why they fell short without condemning them for their efforts

For they were His children, and He cared even as they so greatly erred

But each, having less than succeeded in their own eyes, slumped,

Stepping down from their boxes and returned to the surging crowd

To the bosom of the woman, to the care of the woman, to their own

A tableau repeated endlessly as Mankind clamored, and the woman 

Healed and hugged, listened and cradled, touched and loved

Always with her eyes level and heart open to the least and smallest

One of the Cloth came to the woman, and chastised her loudly

“Why are your eyes not fixed on the revealed God” he challenged

“He is bright as the sun, filling the sky above with His greatness!”

She calmly responded “He has always been there, and everywhere

When I look to his children, He is in their eyes and their hands, 

He is in my heart so that I can share with theirs. I see him always.”

And a great builder came to her, and asked “Where is your tower?

What have you built to honor Him now that He has appeared to us?

Don’t you want to be closer to Him?” And the woman replied

“I held Him just moments ago, and gave Him milk to drink 

And a warm blanket to swaddle Him as He napped. 

I cannot be any closer to Him than to have Him in my arms.”

And suddenly the earth below the woman’s feet began to rise

Lifting her above the crowd, into the sky towards His countenance

And He spoke to the multitudes in a voice of kindness and love,

“This woman is Mother to my children, caretaker to my own,

She knows my heart, and I am in hers always and forever

I honor her as she has always honored me through her life.”

The woman bowed, looked up and asked “May I go back now?

My own may be cold or hungry, and confused by the crowds.”

God smiled, and said “Do you not seek Heaven, my heart?”

She smiled back, and said “I have Heaven, and know it always

In the eyes of my children, in reaching hands and growing wisdom, 

In their challenges and in their victories.. I have Heaven enough.”

With that, the clouds came back together, and the earth returned

The crowds dispersed, and the towers were taken apart for scrap

The men and women of Cloth debated and distorted what they had heard 

The powerful convinced themselves that they were “mothers” of a sort

And nothing really changed, nothing was different… especially for those 

Who had already known the sacred bond of God and mother firsthand.

I Sing The American Song

I sing the American song,

Full-throated, unapologetic

Even as I mistake the words

Even as I forget sometimes

The reasons why I sing

I sing the American song

Faint smells of ale and salty tea

Some verses whispered dangerously

Some shouted in stark defiance 

Blasphemous and brave

Foolhardy and great

I sing the American song

A melody heard in the parlor

Mixing with the cigar smoke and

The smell of excellent brandy

A cappella, the mourning notes

Of broken hearts, broken hands

Drifting over the Master’s fields

I sing the American song

The martial drum beat of soldiers

The blow of the horn, the cry of the fallen

The passionate arguments for the destiny

Of this singular nation, or for the world

This song floating through the acrid smoke

Across the torn and bloody land

Siren’s call to freedom  

I sing the American song

Echoes across steel and glass

Muffled by hustling crowds with averted eyes

The steel legged beggar reaches into his cup

Grabs a quarter, and flips it to me

Salutes, and stands up straight

Sings in quiet harmony

Remembering all the words.

I sing the American song

Infinite accents, origins unknown

Prismatic tones, discordant and indispensable

Clashing and linked, contra and selfsame

The syncopated rhythms melding the

Unfamiliar notes into one defining music

Moving, pervasive, driving the streets

One beat for everyone

I want to sing the American song

A lullaby to the hundred soldiers camped

Laying together on the marble floors of the Capitol

I want to sing it deep and low, homage to their service

Clarity for their confounding, contradictory mission

I want to sing the song soft and sweet

To bring to them rest and dreams

But I dare not let them sleep

I yearn to sing the American song

But others have renamed it, usurped it

Outside the broken windows, the splintered doors

Others who have changed the words, twisted the tune

And stole the flags from their poles to wield in false purpose

They sing their own corrupted version of the hymn

Demanding adoption of their mis-formed lyrics

Replacing country with identity

 I will sing the American song

One voice in a chorus of the millions

We will sing full-throated and unapologetic

Remembering all of the words, all of the notes

The terrible and the sublime, the births and the deaths

We will remember, and together sing out loud

Drown out the imposters poised at the gates

Resuming the true American composition

Always unfinished, always rewritten

Always and ever our own

To Rhyme, or Not To Rhyme… That is the Question

The paper sat unmoving

spaced between us, facing me

Accusing, evidence for the trial.

“Why bother with these simple rhymes?

Why limit your choices to the 

Accidental last syllables 

Of a tiny list of words?”

She leaned back, arms

Folded across her chest, eyes

Fixed on mine, a hawk’s cold stare

Imagining the coming meal.

I sat frozen in the field

Unsure of what direction

My path to freedom lay.

It’s not about the words, I said

But something that is caught between

When couplets slip into my head

Connections begging to be seen

It’s not that two words end the same

Or meter forms a rise and fall

That dictates hard my poem’s frame

Or holds my writing hand in thrall

What makes me wonder, think and write

Is often serendipity

How words that rhyme line up just right

And juxtaposed, add clarity.

Her glasses slid downward

Resting just so, precariously 

Round frames on a sharp, tight nose. 

Her hands reach across the desk 

retrieving the offending words

Raising them up, as if seeing them 

For the first time, again.

“I see some talent, yes, I do

And that’s the point I’m making here.

All the best poets favor free verse,

That’s what the critics want to hear…

Suddenly scowling, annoyed, she

Pushed the paper away

“... or don’t you see?”

To win some critic, come in first,

Or sell some books, that matters not

I write to quench some inner thirst

I rhyme because it seems it ought.

Some seem to like that way I join

Some words together, line by line,

I care not if my works earn coin

Or others claim me less than fine.

I understand the points you make

And really wish to pass this course

But cannot now my muse forsake

And not to rhyme my writing force.

“Nonsense” she snapped

Eyes narrowed, jaw firmly set

“There is no reason why you cannot 

Simply apply whatever words that fit

Without matching their last sound”

Her arms refolded across the 

Front of her cardigan.

“The class was tasked a poem to write

In style free and verse to match.

This shouldn’t be so much a fight

You must comply, and with dispatch!”

The silence enveloped them both

Awkwardly, as she looked aside

And he looked at his shoes.

My point you make, I dare to say

How is a verse free if constrained?

When rules take my true voice away,

And to that set of rules I’m chained?

The theory, as I understand

Set by Beat Poets long ago

Was that we give our hearts command

And critics wants the old heave-ho

If what I wrote was what I meant

And rhyming is how it came out,

Is not that free verse’s intent

Is that not what it’s all about?

“I teach, you learn, that is the rule

I’m tired of your argument

You play me as if I’m a fool

My patience now has all been spent.

Who are you, child, to question so

The style and fashion of the day

Your rhyming thing was status quo

In times long past, lands far away.”

But teacher, rhyming’s all the rage

Think rap, think songs, think Dr. Seuss

There’s rhyming everywhere this age

Cannot we simply call a truce?

“Now to your desk, I won’t be swayed

And write a poem that does not rhyme

Or a red F you’ll find your grade

And in detention do your time.”

A moment’s freeze, and then both laughed

Acknowledging her battle lost

She scrawled an A across his draft

And ruefully defined the cost.

“Now home you go, you’re in the clear

You’re happy now I only hope,

My brain is stuck in rhyming gear

I’ll have to wash it out with soap!”

Catch

Catch, he said, and tossed his world

To outstretched hand and shiny eye

To child’s child, and heart entire

Catch, he prayed, and let it fly

We birth our own too soon, he thought,

While life’s demands are barely known

While ego’s sway is felt too strong

We birth our own before we’re grown

Oh, best we love and hard we try

To hold on tight to those we bear

To fierce protect, to share each drop

Oh, best we effort and prepare

His world, aloft in bluest sky

Flew spiraling in practiced pass

Flew straight from heart toward waiting heart

His world, arching above the grass

It’s not our fault, it’s nature’s trick

That time is teacher of the dance

That time will later bring us truth

It’s not our fault we take that chance

But now, at last, we are in synch

With every nuance, every flair

With life’s great gifts and dangers rife

But now, we put our best to air 

Catch, he said, and tossed his world

A perfect throw, prepared for years

A perfect time, ripe now and sweet

Catch, he said, and held back tears

The eyes so bright lit up anew

The hands stretched out from precious youth

The hands that now would hold his all

The eyes that now would see his truth

When sudden from the sky a leaf

Fell into view, and caught his eye

Fell into reach, and hand stretched towards

When sudden, child to leaf did fly

His world fell to the earth and popped

As child, laughing ran and chased

As child, happy, shared the leaf

His world forgotten, and replaced.

He sighed, and held the youth aloft

Tomorrow will bring another day

Tomorrow will bring another pass

He sighed, and blessed that sunny day.

I’ll Take The 1:30, Thanks...

The doctor’s words drift together

Something about vascular, or blood

That is or isn’t where it should be...

The chart on the wall is graphic

Skin ripped clear, insides out

The window’s blinds 

Are slats made of a 

Light, artificial wood.

Gather the clothes,

Thank the nurse, and

Tell a quick story to the doc

The smile of polite company

Keep it light, keep it among 

momentary friends, as if

Drinks were on the table

Instead of needles and gauze

Next appointment in three months

Or never, or maybe tomorrow 

it all just depends how things go

But for now, I’ll take the 1:30, thanks

And thank you for your time.

I limp back, and park the car

To worried hugs and questions,

To our life, where everything is where

It should be forever…

The crayoned scrawls on the fridge

Are crystal clear, make perfect sense

The recliner waits patiently unopened

Brown leather, faded at the arms

Take off the outer clothes, 

Check on what’s for dinner

And listen to her day’s events

The sharing of a love in words

Keeping it simple, perfectly so

A glimpse of timelessness.

Hearts on the table,

Instead of needles and gauze.

Dinner in an hour, 

Or maybe an hour and a half

It just depends on how things go

For now, I’ll take a glass, thanks

And help to set the table

Let Me Your Loving Hunter Be

Let me wade through bogs of words

Through clutching brambles of adjectives

Through careless nouns and faded verbs 

Until I find where beauty lives

I’ll bring you back the precious few

That purchase a smile from your eye

A thoughtful pause, perhaps a laugh

A clutch of words that prod a sigh

Your ears should welcome only poems

That rest with grace upon your heart

Just words on softest winds that flow

And match the love that you impart

Let me go far ere darkness falls

To gather colors from the light

Past garish and conflicting shades

Until I find what shines just right

I’ll bring you back the warmest tints

That call a quiet joy to bear

A soft pastel, a gentle rose

A palette that your soul can wear

Your eyes should welcome only hues

That amplify your warming glow

To blend unseen with your own tone

And match the love that you bestow

Let me descend into the noise

To trace the sounds that angels lend

Past clanging peals and angry cries

Until I find the perfect blend

I’ll bring you back the sweetest notes

That damp the world’s cacophony

A baby’s laugh, a lover’s kiss

A song blessed by your harmony

Your soul should welcome only sounds

That echo all that sings in you

Just melodies your beauty shares

And match your love that’s always true

Let me your loving hunter be

To stalk the grudging world with pride

And wrest the best back from the worst

To lay them now at your sweet side

I’ll bring you back what you deserve

A heaven’s cache of finest all

In sight, in sound, in words and tune

For all that keeps me in your thrall

Your love should welcome only love

In form and kind, as it should be

Most precious and without compare

To match the love you share with me

From A Son, To A Mother

You can, she said, and so he did

No pause as up the hill he ran

No thought of failure, or disgrace

He climbed as just the fearless can

Clambered up the towering slope

Past rocks that fell and birds that squawked

Through rain and sun, through night and day

He ran through where so few had walked

You can, she said, so he believed

And in that faith his pace stayed true 

He paid no heed to others’ doubts

He did what she said he could do

He never looked behind or down

He had no need for ropes or tack

He kept his eyes on where he went

He held no thought of falling back

You can, she said, and always had

Her confidence in him was clear

And so he reached for higher highs

Past altitudes that others fear

His path was lit by her beliefs

His trip complete, he came to rest

As timid souls gathered around

One came to him with a request

“How did you climb so full of nerve

Such dangers, how did you not mind?

The mountain’s steep, the path is wet…”

He laughed, and pointed down behind

When with such love you are infused

There is no risk should once you fall.

You’ll always land in love's embrace

So why not try and reach it all?

And with a grin, he turned and ran

To find another mountain high

With her sweet voice inside his head

You can, she said, so go and try.

King Thomas the First

Hands upraised, and eyes defiant

Impatient fingers tap a beat

The lifting up to be enthroned

The waiting arm of grandpa’s seat

The regal gaze around the room

Head turning, taking in his band

Of breathless subjects, poised to leap

Upon the child kings command

Dominion of his room secured

And fealty firmly in place

A transformation quick ensues

Once snuggled in PawPaw’s embrace

The laughter pure, the restless play

Conspiracies of partnered joy

The monarch earns his crown anew

By being just a precious boy

The room revolves and moves again

The adults do what adults do

Old man and child retreat inside

Their special covenant of two

Great matters of the world dissolve

The daily needs, the rush, the grind

All fade to insignificance

The grasping world left far behind

There is a language and a pace

Uniquely in such moments shared

Where time is captured and preserved

Where love's great gift is fully bared

There are a thousand ways for man

To show and feel love’s tugs and hooks

A thousand names for each of them

A thousand rhymes, a thousand books

But nowhere is a love more sweet

More unpolluted and secure

Than when a child’s child rests

Atop his grandpa, safe and sure

She Teaches Love

She teaches love

It is inborn, as singular to her

As the etched twirls of her fingertips.

She teaches because she knows

She shares because she does.

The lessons are daily

Taught not from a written text

But from an overflowing heart engraved 

With the sacred words, glowing

Like a sunrise that never sets

Family, faith, and love

Charity and selfless service

The curriculum is endless, timeless

The lessons perfectly scripted by

Their abiding life within her.

Time does not weaken

Repetition does not make stale

But rather proves each of her lesson’s 

Infinite truth, undeniable worth

And her endless devotion

We are the fortunate

Students gathered around her

As she lives her subject, shares her heart

Elevating us through her love, through

Her joy in our shared learning

She teaches love

Never towards some test to pass

Without thought toward future graduation

But as life’s most precious learnings 

Eternal, and always new.

Thursday, April 23, 2020

7:41 a.m. Rockland, Maine

The dark morning softens on the eastern horizon

stretched thin by streaks of rose, of amber

reflected in the cresting ocean below.

Gold hued streets are undisturbed

by traffic or by footfall, a silent homage 

to the smothering shroud of contagion.

Windows here and there illuminate, shadows

moving across the drawn curtains, reflecting

the townsfolk who will not emerge again today,

who will not mingle at Penny’s over skillet eggs,

crisp hash browns and the City’s Best coffee…

who will not leave their Press Herald for the next

to spin a chrome-clad seat at the counter, to scan 

the stained plastic menu as if looking for something new.

The fishermen have fled the poisoned land hours before

to break the glowing water with ropes, lines, and nets, 

leathered hands tossing buoys in measured succession

their every inhale purified by the salty, uninfected spray.

The evening light’s westward retreat will guide them back 

past unmoved cars, past closed signs hanging askew

behind glass store doors, past the Cinemagic marquee 

urging Stay Safe, Stay Home to those already there,

huddling with their others over steaming bowls of chowder.

12:25 p.m. New York, New York

The scattered clouds break up the midday sun,

casting unnoticed patterns on the concrete sidewalks

gold reflected in the mirrored tower sides stretching below.

A few masked fugitives rush warily down the streets

not pausing by the Sale signs plastered across the 

darkened Bloomingdale windows and Prado doors;

not turning into the daily Starbucks to challenge

their familiar barista with practiced combinations.

An ambulance surges unimpeded down the avenue

and each eye follows its path with uncommon dread

as if they know it carries someone familiar away.

All of the city’s energy explodes in the red crossed 

white buildings; fluorescent lights bouncing harsh 

against the chrome rails of gurneys full with the stricken.

The exhaustion seeps through the plastic shields, the

eyes begging for a pause in the carnage, a chance to

share some good news just one time to a family

forced to wait and to not be there, to not hold hands

as a beloved struggle for their last mechanical breaths.

Too often, the plea unrequited; too often the dead replaced

too soon in the next room, the next bed, the next minute.

The sunlight will not guide them home, just more fluorescent

lights streaming from curled fixtures lining empty streets.

Home to huddle with arms wrapped around shaking knees, 

gasping and forced alone to protect their own beloved.  

6:54 p.m. Franklin, Nebraska

The John Deere’s shadow stretches across the ruler-straight lines

of laden plants, of burnt-sienna earth turned over and broken;

streams of sharp gold hinting at God’s light cast behind the clouds.

An evening’s mist suspends above the crops, warning of the day’s 

coming end, a call for the missing tenders to complete their work.

The hulking, bright colored vehicles are silent, their blades still, 

their shoulder-high impasto wheels slightly sunken in the soft soil. 

The eighteen wheelers are shuttered behind towering garage doors

their engines cold, their drivers sick abed, fevered and uncertain

as their prescribed loads lie unharvested and rotting in the rows.

The farmhands stare out curtained windows at their glowing fields

planning the tools they’ll use to plow the ripening vines back under,

returning months of hard work back unpaid into the unmoved earth.

Downstate, the father watches the sun’s slow fade in his windshield

inching towards the piled crates, calculating his pace and odds,

wonders how to break the news to her if the food runs out before

his turn arrives, wondering what the next sun’s rising will bring.

Empty trunk or full, dappled lights of unfamiliar roads lead only home

past shuttered markets, past empty stands, past houses of neighbors

asking the same questions, dreading the same rising of the morning light.

7:23 p.m. San Diego, California

Crimson shards flash across the darkening waters, the white caps

pitching towards the windswept beach and oddly empty boardwalks, 

glowing unappreciated in the setting sun’s golden final light.

Beneath the boardwalk, a scattered driftwood fire crackles discreetly, 

reflecting on the haggard faces huddled in the warm aurora, unmasked

and uncommitted to the Governor’s recent social distance orders.

Feral neighbors, emboldened by the sudden absence of bicycles and 

roller skates echoing across the slatted wood, lurk at the perimeter

calculating their odds of food and warmth from the crouching band,

unsettled by the inexplicable abandonment of their artificial woods.

A rubber-suited surfer silently paddles out to meet the rising waves 

silhouetted in the dusk, she leaps up and balances, knees bent 

arms outstretched, synched with the rolling water, pointed to the shore.

Resting on the unmarked sands, the unmistakable absence of audience;

the silence beside her brings an odd chill under the protective shell.

The walk back to her car feels longer than usual, the evening darker

as she loads her board and drives the avenues to shelter again alone.

The homeless cadre notes her departure silently, with more than one

wishing they had chanced an encounter with hand outstretched.

Waterside wastebaskets and fast food dumpsters are barren now

the grudging remnants of In & Out burgers, fish tacos, and Fiji waters

gone with the tourists and casual beachgoers in the dangerous times.

9:41 p.m. Washington, D.C.

The day’s soft lights long past, fluorescent fixtures reflect harder beams

off marble floors, leather-clad desks and framed autographs along the wall

illuminating the unmasked suited conversations, the scrawled ink on papers.

Huddled in the open room, calculating the cost of money taken and spent 

in votes accrued, in power held and opportunity found, in bartered favors.

An unopened folio to the side with the day’s collected deaths by district

its information echoed in the flickering crawl below the newscaster’s face

on unheeded screens to the east and west of the plush, creaking chairs.

Despite the lapsing of the sun, heavy drapes pulled tight as if to shield

the occupants from a too-bright glare (perhaps a camera’s flash?) instead

withhold the light internally from spilling out on the empty streets below, 

from disrupting the almost perfect darkness of the Capital city night.

Zeroes spill out over the edges of the pencil’s markings by the pound,

billions shift from side to side as the soft hands shuffle the decks anew

crafting unseen doors and hidden windows in the language of the laws.

Practiced wordsmiths sit aside the suits, taking notes on technology, 

preparing the intentional lack of light to be broadcast in the morning.

One of the few opens the drapes and looks out at the curled fixtures

casting circles of light on the silent streets, on a huddled homeless, 

remembers for a moment his grandfather fisherman, his niece the nurse,

as he watches an empty truck rattle past his block and out of sight.

He looks at his glass, takes a sip, and returns to his chair with a smile.

11:57 p.m. Bedside, a prayer…

A sacred light must come anew

a sun must on the morrow rise

to pierce the drapes that hide the few,

to fire hearts and open eyes

The politics of blue and red

Must be banished from the moment be.

Together we must forge ahead

Toward brighter days for all to see

In darkness are too many here

Who have no blame for lack of light

They cling to hope, but battle fear

They crave the sun but see the night

Dear Lord, we ask that you inspire

Some leaders held in honor’s sway.

Please give to them a vision higher

And strength for them to win the day

On Easter Day

Jesus rises, church pews bare
as righteous people rightly heed
the pastors call to stay away.
D.C. shrinks from crisp spring air
an ill wind bears the Devil’s seed
down empty streets on Easter Day.

No painted eggs hide neath the tree
no children, having found their prize
sprint cross wide lawns in joyful play.
There’s peril in proximity
and parents know what danger lies
down empty streets on Easter Day

Hold fast, let none in faith converge
succumb not to temptation’s calls
Let love be held arm’s length away
until the curing drugs emerge.
Stay clear where death's black shadow falls
down empty streets on Easter Day.

While still alone in homes throughout
the city's faithful share a call
for hearts to join, and fears allay.
A sacred bond that leaves no doubt
that Christ shines bright and walks with all
down empty streets on Easter day

And the world goes boom

Poison lurks on porcelain 

moistening doorknobs

infiltrating the casual kisses

passing in the human 

clasp of hands

Streets of gold crack open

lead seeps up, through

alchemy reversed, exposed

as wizards snap their wands 

across silk-clad knees 

and curse the fates

Gold crumbles to a simple stone

diamonds to coal, money to a pulp

the wisdom of the Bull revealed 

as just a gambler’s hunch 

this time mistook

Leaders follow as fear instructs

nations waver as fevered breaths

cross the oceans, cross the lands

the stench of our mortality

permeating, obscuring

the incoming Spring

Love can stand the lack of touch

the distance of prudence, 

the needle and the mask

the heart can wait for better times

and not break, not forget

the why it waits

The world goes boom

but we are we

forever

Hand in Hand

Come walk with me, the weather’s fine

Let’s amble down the shaded trails

Side by side, your hand in mine…

Let’s walk until the last light fails

It matters not where goes the way

You’ll always find a flower’s grace

Among the brambles and the hay;

Its beauty mirrored in your face

Let’s stroll together, you and me

What time will pass is never gone

We’ll share all of eternity

In every step we take as one

We’ll listen not as time’s bell tolls

In every laugh, we’ll shed the years

In every gaze, we’ll share our souls

In every touch, we’ll banish fears

It matters not where our steps land

Let sun and stars tell where we head

Our home resides in where we stand

Our love makes every bench our bed

Come walk with me, by rivers side

We’ll pick our way past root and stone

No obstacle can break our stride

So long as neither walks alone…

My Love Grows Orchids

She grows orchids, of course.

Fireworks tethered to the earth by stems,

their surreal explosion of pattern and hue

parading across on our fireplace hearth…

But her grace was present before the show.

The balance of the orchid is this:

That the episodic audacity of its blooming

erupts from such an ordinary nest of leaf and root

that the plant is considered disposable by most

gone to trash once the first flower falls.

She cherishes these dormant plants

negotiating on their behalf with sun, water,

soil and pot, she shuttles them from table to sill

frantically searching for the elusive sweet spot

where the elements will best nourish her charges.

In time, a proud shoot emerges… fragile, small,

almost unnoticeable among the hard green leaf,

the chipped bark and gnarled brown root of the bed.

She gasps, calls me to share, to venerate the birth

and we hug, her gazing at the delicate shoot, and I at her…

The shoot rises unevenly, wobbles, leans and yaws

reaching towards a higher light and freedom.

She ties a stick to its middle, gently guiding it upward

daily assessing, yet not interfering beyond what’s needed

as bump becomes bud and bud bursts to flower.

She grows family as she grows orchids

Fiercely proud, but of them and not herself.

Infinitely giving, for the sacred joy of doing so

Protective, supportive, involved, in love

Brilliant fireworks across life’s hearth

The balance of her family is this:

Her heart sees no ordinary moments, no disposable times

Her family grows rooted in her abiding devotion, not to their flowers,

but to their existence, to the very breath that each one draws

and which, returned home, is oxygen for her own lungs.

My love grows orchids and family

Blooms and hearts tethered to home and hearth

A constant profusion of love made manifest and pure

by a selfless soul, a patient hand, and always

a Mother’s devotion and infinite grace.

The Willow, the Ducks and the Goose

There was a small pond in a tiny green glade

Where no homes stood about, where no families played;

Just some ducks and a goose, some fish, birds and more

And a graceful young willow that stretched cross the shore…

That goose was the loudest and largest one there

And it claimed all the water, and claimed all the air;

The ducks did their best to be goose-like and loud

As they followed their leader, tails held high and proud.

Below and above them, fish swam and birds flew

Sweet lilies bloomed open as dawn’s haze withdrew

But none of this mattered to the ducks and the goose

All they saw was each other, the rest were of no use.

They cackled and squawked with great spirit and passion

Convinced their performance embodied high fashion

As the goose bestowed each with a minus or plus,

There were winners and losers, and “thems” against “us”…

Watching all of the pageantry, pathos and din

The willow tree longed for a chance to join in;

But it’s wind-caressed voice, more a song hummed than quacked

Couldn’t make up in beauty the volume it lacked.

Now and then, a duck sorrowed would flee from the scene

To find comfort and peace in soft curtains of green;

The warm willow embraced it, and made it feel whole

Rebuilding its confidence, soothing its soul

Until strengthened and healed, the duck went on its way

In full voice and mettle, rejoining the fray,

Leaving willow behind, softly sweeping the shore,

Proud of its service, but still wishing for more…

One day came a woman, an artist by trade,

And she set up her easel at one end of the glade.

Peering across the small pond with a sharp and trained eye

She framed in the willow, and began with a sigh.

The ducks and the goose took quick note of the brush

And, sure they were needed, they came in a rush

But the woman ran at them, waving “shoo, shoo!!

I’ve come to paint beauty, and you’re blocking the view!”

The goose and the ducks were aghast at the thought

That they weren’t the beauty this artist had sought…

So they turned to their strength and let loose a great squawk

But the woman cried out “Now I can’t hear the tree talk!”

“I love best the melody made by the breeze

As it rustles the willow… now quiet if you please!”

Confused and confronted, the gaggle took flight

To the end of the pond to consider their plight.

The artist, now happy in sight and in sound

Painted hour by hour the image she’d found

While the willow sang gently in a voice all her own

Full with the caring and loving it always had shown

And as they watched in amazement the tree that they knew

But had taken for granted, to shore the ducks flew…

They rustled their feathers, they shook their down free

As they tried, one by one, to be just like the tree.

Sisyphus Nods

A Preface

time traces slowly

across the wooden floor

shadows of life, tracks of its passing

vanishing both, both

as electric light

overcomes

the shots, the pills, the daily

machinery churning out grades,

counting pulses, counting beats,

counting tomorrows…

the body sloppily fails, slumps into

the urging yield of the recliner

the mind wanders, falls into

fantasy, and opens an eye

is it the meds? is it… more?

sleep hushes the questions, starts

the picture show.

just beyond

the range of clarity

a man leans on a blood-stained rock

and ponders the mountain

again, again

he looks up, and nods in recognition…

the picture show goes on.

Scene 1  

The dark one peers into the washbasin,

Imagines the universe in the

Wastewater and drek of the

Last meal’s entrails

The dark one braces a stocky easel,

Carves the canvas with impasto ridges,

Buck-toothed knife flashing across earthy

Colors mixed with coal dust.

Then, the dark one paints:

Swirling, looping in

Ever-tightening circles around

The inevitable, irresistible drain…

Thickened by the flotsam,

Clinging to the surge.

only the arc varies,

one day climbing,

climbing up the slope

reaching for the lip, the edge

illuminated by the unseen…

then momentum fades,

the weight of height,

the pull of deep

…irresistible.

next day diving,

gyrating towards the

gaping blackness of the hole

Careening recklessly across the rings

Cascading downward,

endward,

out.

“the graceful loops are chimeras”

growls the dark,

“cheats and teases,

pimping their lies

to infinite rubes…

the dives are

prison breaks toward

an unknown,

unknowable

freedom”

I call out to the old man at the mountain’s base… 

“…Sisyphus, how I envy you…

your rock rolls back to its home

waits patiently for your hands, waits

for you to grapple it up, up again

you have no need to fear the leaving

you have no worse to dread

you know your future

you know where

you will be

tomorrow…”

Scene 2  

the light one enters, sits

on the edge of the sink, imagines

the universe in the morning sunlight

streaming through blindless windows.

the light one opens the case,

removes the fiddle, traces the bow

across quivering nylon strings, fingering

gold clad frets, a lover’s breathless

eager touch

then, the light one sings:

flowing, borderless,

filling the room with clarity,

patternless, irresistible

and pure…

the color of warm

blanketing the cool room

everything is newborn

unseen breath

lifts particles to dance

momentary aureoles embracing

the prosaic dust, sanctifying refuse

into shimmers of gold

blessed alchemy

sparkling dust settles

gleam dulled by shadows

scattered and still on the silent floor 

a tightening chill creeping 

covers everything

like apathy

“The halos are truth”

brags the light…

“life to non-life,

breath to stillness,

songs to the deaf…

the dance is their awakening

the bursting of the chrysalis

harbingers of grace.”

I cry out once more, across the void..

 “…Sisyphus, how I envy you…

gifted with forever to know your rock

To feel your mountain beneath your feet

you know the rock will never leave,

the mountain will never fall away

you know your future

you know where

you will be

tomorrow…”

Scene 3  

I settle deep

into fading brown leather,

reckon with the mocking gravity

and weigh the pull of the dark and the light…

fumbling with the dusty calculator

staccato clicking, tabulations of debts

estimations of my life’s assets and liabilities

ledger arguing with soul for relevancy

our daughter enters, kisses my cheek

places my child’s child trustingly into

my scarred and weary arms

and warns me of his drool

then, the child laughs

light and dark swirl into meaninglessness

shards of perfect laughter clog the drain

the washbasin brims over with crystal water

the golden dust settles everywhere

on everything

he grabs my beard, pulls his face close to mine

eyes probing, probing long forgotten realms

mocking my self-pity, my petty dramas

the child strokes my soul, and Time

finds a good seat to watch

and stops…

no words

no words

just coos and giggles,

random screeches, unintelligible,

irrefutable, timeless … truly

Irresistible

the dark one packs the easel,

the paint, the knife, and

leaves silently through the back door.

the light one takes careful notes, acknowledging

truth and life manifest and pure,

tries to copy the tune.

the child turns his attention

to the empty water bottle beside my chair

gasps at the sound of its crushing

Time chuckles moves along

as I recover my breath

Prologue

I clamber across the void, and put my hand on the old man’s shoulder…

“…Sisyphus, how I weep for your pain…

never to be surprised by your own overwhelming love

the unpredicted eternity of a moment

placed softly in your lap…

sadly, sadly

you know your future

you know where

you will be

tomorrow…”

Hollow eyes raise up,

meet mine… a confirming nod,

then a sigh rises from the deepest ache

as the aged one wordlessly pushes his rock up, up…

away from me,

into his dark.

Ask for Me

His hand, the one without the tubes, the one

that still responds, reaches out to hers.

“Ask for me… please… ask for me” he pleads,

eyes searching for hers, only hers.

.

“Of course, dear…

what do you need?” she coos.

He slumps back, exhausted from the strain

of leaning forward, and closes his eyes.

“No”, he slowly shakes his head.

“You have to ask for me…”

His voice trails off, as she looks down sadly, lost.

He thinks back on his complicated mess of a life, and wonders

once more, was it enough…  He tries again, “I need you… “

“I’m here, sweetheart, I’m here.” she interrupts,

misunderstanding and urgent.  He falls back, defeated.

She cries, quietly turning her head to spare him the sight.

.

Time runs from the room like water down a drain, and both

feel the swirl.  Once more… one more try… he turns slightly

on the bed, leaning on the cold metal rail

as she moves her face close to his…

.

He rasps “When you see God, ask for me… He won’t

call me in, but He’d never say no to you…

He’d never turn you down…”

.

She gasps,

struggling to say the thousand things that she wants to…

how good he was, how much he’d done and been… their love…

she gently squeezes his hand, and whispers in his ear

“First thing I’ll do, my love.  First thing I’ll do.”

He smiles, lets go,

and heads out to wait for her call.

Lost at Sea

The pain within centers my life

ripping away the outer planes

like the bloody pelt of a fallen beast

till just my beating heart remains

The first skin I shed is society

politics and fashion, country and race

this fall when the first spike intrudes

their remnants pass without a trace

The knife bites deeper, and I lose Time

the future flies beyond my sight

the past is nothing, the moment all

I cannot tell the day from the night

Now metal scrapes against the bone

and precious ego shears away

on strings, I dance to Pain’s command

and act the fool it bids me play

Without the world, the clock, the pride

all victims of Pain’s fiery wraith

my carcass lies a useless shell

as I descend into my faith

I strap myself to my soul’s mast

and cower from the raging sea

clinging tight to Love and God

the only shelters left to me

Greater men may greater ships

have built from stronger hearts

my ship is just as weak as me

my insecurities a part

And so my Pain roars cross the deck

and so I shiver in the cold

and so I fear the Final Wave

and so I tremble, small and old

My Pain has brought much truth to me

I see my life in clearer lights

But I’ve learned to trust my Love to last

and see me safe through Pain’s black nights…

Wind song

The Christ of my youth was born in a manger

And died on a cross on a hill

Defined by his sacrifice, taught by His Word

We inherit His love through His will.

The Christ of my youth was sufficient for me.

His gentlest touch so much more.

And I loved most the me that I found when I dared

To live my life as He had before

The Christ of my youth gave up all of Himself.

His pain was His life’s serenade

And in sharing the burdens of those that I loved.

I shared in the music He made

The Christ of my youth was a voice in the wind.

Everpresent, a mentor and friend

Asking nothing except that I love all He loved

In return for His grace without end

The Christ of today chooses prophets with hair.

His program is broadcast each hour.

His message is filled with the promise of gold.

His asking price, only a dollar

The Christ of today heals sickness and pain.

With the touch of a manicured hand

And His voice is a scream to an audience wild.

While His music is played by a band

The Christ of today lives in monuments built.

With the coins of the hungry and weak

While security guards keep the poor from the front

Where the rich and the powerful speak

The Christ of today offers each true believer.

A life free of trouble and lack

And guarantees each dollar sent in His name.

Will result in three more coming back

The world of tomorrow is a mystery now.

Our fragility painfully taught.

Our science and math seem no match for the day.

That our greed and our anger has wrought

The world of tomorrow seems a place to be feared.

And we seem as a people cursed

Desperately searching for miracle cures.

In the depths of an empty purse

The world of tomorrow seemed too bitter a gift.

To bequeath to the children, we bore.

Before, the voice in the wind called to me once again.

Before hearing His music once more.

The world of tomorrow may cost all of myself.

And the Christ of today may wail.

But the Christ of my youth is eternal and true.

And His wisdom and love shall prevail

For Norm and Mary, on their wedding

They leaned together on the porch

Looking out past the water’s edge

Shimmering orange as the spent summer sun

Evaporated into the cool night air

“How far shall we go?”

Her hand pressed inside his,

Like the gentle pressure of a kiss

Unhurried, lingering… he pressed back

And watched the last fragments of the day

Drift away from the darkening sea

“We shall go where we have never gone;

Over and beyond the horizon’s sharp crease

Past mountains of water, through forests of light

Out to the place where the Sun is reborn…

We shall go as far as there is to go.”

The waves rolled in the distance, crashing into stars

Cascading up to fill the black-blue sky

“What shall we see?”

Her eyes closed gently as

Her head rested on his steady shoulder

“We shall see what we have never seen;

Rocks that float on crystal lakes.

Painted birds that sing in rainbows,

Fish electric swimming in ice…

We shall see all that there is to see.”

The low moon drew a path to the shore

As bait fish danced and terns swooped down

“And what shall we eat?”

Their wine caught the same moon glow

Sparkled with the same fish dance…

“We shall eat what we have never eaten;

Golden fruits with crimson flesh

Fragrant stews in earthen kettles,

Nectar from an orchid’s cup…

We shall eat all that there is to eat.”

She turned toward him, eyes open wide

And held his heavy hands lightly in her own

“I will adventure with you…

To where the new sun is born

To where rocks float on water

To where the orchids yield nectar…”

The moonlight found their wedding bands

And landed, glistening as she spoke

“But always know this:

If I never leave this porch

I’ve already found where the new day begins;

I see it birthed each morning

When I wake up beside you

And your eyes open to meet with mine… ”

He brought her hands up to his lips

“We will adventure together…

And always know this:

The greatest treasure for me

Will be the echo of your beauty

In a thousand new waters…

The sweet taste of your lips in a thousand new airs.”

The moon dissolved, leaving only the stars

A candlelight vigil until the morning’s rising

Illuminating the now empty porch.