I live in the place where poems grow
in balance and delight
the greens, the flowers and singing brooks;
the hope in children’s Bright eyed looks
I can but hope that we will change, that those bright looks might long remain.
All my life I have been but the reed,
Dancing to the breath of Kokopelli.
Those around me have forgotten, but I was fortunate
I noticed myself turning to Stone,
and flew upward into the breath of the flute player,
Into the light.
I am no vagrant soul,
no social ruminant,
I gaze into your eyes
kinship and echoes
of resonant joy.
I am no prisoner
in this aging shell
unwilling, unraveling, and unkempt;
instead a shining singing thing
Light and transforming flesh into illumination.
I will not perish but
beyond the darkness of fear,
into motes of light.
Spirits are rising over our dark land.
The enemy has pushed until we can go no farther without taking a stand.
Our souls cry out for love.
The veil is rent, now each heart will be revealed; its radiance or darkened State revealing the truths we keep hidden, even from ourselves.
The flower rooted
Unbent in the vagrant wind
And I a tumbleweed
The Poet Weaves words
Into something that points beyond them
We read them longing for another glimpse
of the home we have only almost forgotten.
Who are the monsters?
They are neither them, nor us.
They are the ones that make us fear each other.
Life is a long journey for any man,
the responsibility is heavy and the burden, will endure, longer than he.
One day something happens, too much to bear.
He stands alone, at the edge of the forest, immobile,
certain he can not touch you and still bear to go on.
I will never understand them,
never cease to fear them,
never find enough empathy,
to accept their poisonous Indifference.
Indifference to the injury, or death of a child
because of their skin color or national origin,
to lead in their water,
to the callous destruction
Of nature’s last sanctuaries.
It feels less like indifference than rage,
like murderous revenge;
a strike at those things accorded a beauty
‘They’ have never been able to feel.
A way to own, or at least deny others;
this abuse of anything, potentially an obstruction,
to their bottomless hunger, their burning lack,
the emptiness they try to fill With imagined victory
and an odd satisfaction in their ability
to evoke our grief.
Who will bring back The lost children
The missing species, the reviled refugees,
the Shriveled forests,
Or mend our kinship
What will you feel
When your lies are exposed
and the damage is irretrievable?
To whom will you reach out
Without finding everywhere
The anguish that is your legacy?
There is much to fear.
Banks contrive to steal money;
Carmakers engineer deceit;
Politicians abandon moral stances
for name calling and a bitter accusations.
Whose heart lives that is not weeping?
Whence hope and where Solace
when the oceans are poisoned
and our food is twisted by science.
Still, I have only to stop,
for the length of three breaths,
to see beyond fear’s assertions,
opening for glimpses of goodness:
the face of an infant unmarked by travail;
an unexpected kindness;
the sound of strings in open air;
the warmth of the sun on my cheek;
A sweet scent on a spring breeze.
So hope and beauty come,
somehow more vivid in silence,
in numinous illumination,
transforming a dark landscape,
stark only a moment ago,