Wooden Flute

 (Another in the song mode…)

Wooden Flute

Wooden flute

sing the sunrise,

sing the cold

orange light

flooding hillside,

oak grove,

suburban home,

garden path,

and freeway,

sing the fire 

on my face.

Wooden flute

sing the wind 

that shakes 

the manzanita,

sing the icy river

flashing over rocks,

sing the mountainous 

storm clouds

breaking apart

and sailing away.

Wooden flute,

sing the branch’s grain,

sing the memory 

of cell

and sap

and leaf 

in sunlight

on cedar or pine

that gifted you

to the music

and to us.

Wooden flute,

sing the player’s 

lips and lungs, 

sing her breath,

her blood,

her journey,

sing her fingers

that dance song

from hollowed branch,

sing feet that romance

the breathing ground.

Wooden flute

sing the sunrise,

sing heart

sing street,

sing river 

of asphalt,

sing canyon 

of antiquity,

sing world

in search of wisdom.

Wooden flute.

Sing.

Let’s Begin Our Singing

As the poet Joy Harjoe notes we once wrote songs for every event of the day. 

So I offer this song in that spirit.

Let’s Begin Our Singing

Let’s begin our singing 

with a morning song.

Lying beneath the covers

as the sun’s first whispers

peek through the curtains.

My old thin skin,

my clacking bones

and stiffened joints

welcome his fiery comfort,

welcome his fiery comfort now.

Just like the little naked squalling self

shaking his mysterious limbs

with amazement at awakenings

welcomed his fiery comfort,

welcomed his fiery comfort then.

Just like the hot blooded welter of desire

whose hands and bone caressed and rode

her passionate yes

to a fiery welcome,

a fiery welcome yes.

Let’s begin our singing 

with a morning song.

Stand at the window,

in the garden,

in the street,

arms wide and face high

at sun’s shout and striving.

With children beside us,

then tiny and rambunctious,

now big and towering above us

as we welcome old sol,

welcome old sol

and his fiery comfort,

his fiery comfort now.