They Lie In Wait

They lie in wait

along the river,

they sleep

without shelter,

they clamber

across bridges,

they thirst

through the desert.

They’re children

wrapped in 

swaddling clothes 

who find no manger,

they’re pilgrims

seeking hope

till they land 

in cages.

Back home

are cluster bombs,

rival factions

on every corner,

sniper streets

and poison gas

financed by politics

and banks.

Back home 

are drug trade,

gang recruitment

and gang rape,

disappeared

and bloody corpses

courtesy of riches

and affluent addictions.

So they clamber

into boats

forgetting comfort 

and warmth,

brave their way

through dark forest,

begging morsel 

and border.

So they caravan

unwelcome

across river, 

desert and state,

bake on railroad,

paddle shoal and bay,

driven by 

coyote’s take.

Do they batter 

like the uniformed 

in the night?

Do they swagger in 

like thieves 

in long limos?

Do they scoff 

from high rise 

office and window?

Do their exploits 

impoverish 

tens of millions?

Or a hundred? 

Or even one?

They lie in wait

along the river,

they sleep

without shelter,

they clamber

across bridges,

they thirst

through the desert.

They’re children

wrapped in 

swaddling clothes 

who find no manger,

they’re pilgrims

seeking hope

till they land 

in cages.

Mi Ciudad de Los Angeles

Mi Ciudad de Los Angeles,

when I watch the fires

burning you down to the bones,

and the white ash flying

through the smog like snow,

and your fire fighters rushing in,

heedless and courageous,

with red retardent floating down

like shredded roses

my love burns fierce for you again —

teeming forests of steel and stucco,

ant farms of cars,

desert hills and inversion layers,

asphalt veins and concrete rivers,

San Gabriels hidden in the haze,

bungalows and blacktops,

museums, songs, 

parking garages,

suburban sprawl,

beautiful afternoon light.

La Ciudad de Los Angeles

when the flames flash 

across my screens

my young years in your 

chaotic embrace do too —

East Los mercados,

Paramount dairy farms,

Irvine orange groves,

Long Beach drive-ins,

Santa Monica Beaches,

Sunset strip preachers,

suburban home nights,

lowriders cruising,

palm trees swaying,

Phillipes serving french dip,

Chinatown woking chow mein,

Tio Taco charring carne,

traffic jamming 405,

and 710 and 101, 

for Disneyland adventuring,

Jewelry District bargaining,

Union Station journeying.

La Ciudad de Los Angeles,

from behind my steering wheel,

cruising and commuting,

freeway manuevering,

singing oldies radio,

dodging wrecks, repos,

black stretch limos,

gardener trailers bristling

with rakes, garbage bags 

and gasoline trimmers,

arrogant sports cars,

blaring sixteen wheelers,

and dark sedans

 with dark windows

that are lancing the jams

of bleeding fenders

on the gasoline arteries.

City of the Angels,

your soul in flame 

over hill and hood,

your wings fluttering 

ash in the night,

your glitter and glamour,

your ghetto and glisten,

your beaches and ball fields,

your movies and music,

your immigrant pulse,

your dark heels pounding 

the salsa and scars 

all over the tough skin

of urban mystery

and madness.

Mi Ciudad de Los Angeles,

can I defend you,

can I slake your thirst,

can I wipe your sweating brow,

can I slide under your chasis 

and repair your power train,

can I lifeguard your beaches,

can I translate your tongues,

can I open my door and wallet

to your tragedies and ashes,

can I sing your rivers

of sidewalks and brake lights

of freeways and streetlights,

can I hold you to my heart,

can I have this dance tonight?

Stone

 Thinking today of the LA fires.  And of the hearts of those, like my sister, whose homes have burned.

Stone

Today I am a stone,

blackened by flames,

scarred by windstorm,

and buried by ashes

that are memories

of the rains 

that never came,

the river gone away.

Today I am a stone,

left as rubble

in a landscape lost.

I can see only dimly

through the smokey air

where the sky used to be.

I can see only dimly

through the bregrimed

window of time

where memories reside.

Today I am a stone.

I ‘ve lost the touch

of hands, eyes or tongue

on photos, clothes,

records, paintings,

books, plates,

baseball caps, 

funeral cards,

pencilled papers

that only yesterday

were the relics of souls,

the watershed of journey.

Today I am a stone,

brain thick and heart slow,

mute, deaf, and alone.

I’ve lost the sky,

I’ve lost the river,

and though I hang onto life

now it proceeds

only down in the deep,

only down in the dark,

and only there at rock 

and geologic speed.

Today I am a stone.