As Winter Wanes

 In the peak of the heat a remembrance of the cycle...

As Winter Wanes 

 

As winter wanes

her blue veined fingers

work the seeds

into compost cooked

from cold months 

of scraps and steam.

 

With old faith

in ancient cycle

and new day

she fills up

the tiny greenhouse

with tomorrow dreams.

 

The soil and seed

make love and heat

while sun and freeze,

and rain and wind,

and winter and spring, 

compete.

 

And then with leap

in shoots and leaves,

and silence

that is not shy,

the stubborn urge

gives birth.

 

Now the hands

that cradled 

loam and seed

as they have caressed 

my surge and need

move to planting.

 

With cultivator,

bent back,

muddy fingers,

warm whispers,

and ancestral heart

she sows the starts.

 

 

And one more time

she and Earth

and her generations

wager on revolve,

and trust in nurture

and rebirth.

 

 

 

 

I Don't Want

I Don’t Want

(6/4/20)

I don’t want to see

black men fall

beneath the knees

of indifference.

I want to see

a country rise up

and make this land 

live up

to its promises,

and face up

to its illusions.

I don’t want to see

authority kneel

on black necks,

or a proud flag

flying wounded

over patriots

of hate.

I want to see

teachers teaching

the dark side

of our past

along with the light,

planting viral

knowledge

to bludgeon

the ignorant lies.

I don’t want to see

blue going deaf 

and blind

and secret when

“I can’t breathe”.

I want training 

that’s deeper

than weaponry,

service that’s rife

with compassion,

morality not quick

to the trigger,

and ideals

that are rising

from understanding, 

not taking their pride 

from gunnery.

I don’t want to see

tear gas turned on

the desperate,

I want to see 

lawyers turned on

the oppressive.

I want to see

a country rise up

and teach itself

to hear the hard word,

to walk the hard way,

to do the hard work, 

to step on the hard path

to better and blessing,

not the easy 

slide down

to hate and to hell.

The Give

Do you think

when 

these days

grow free

of infection

we’ll remember

the give

to match

the take?

When we 

evaluate

lost pay,

eviction,

empty plate

will it dawn

that the hungry

and lost

are mirrors

not cost?

As we recall

barren shelves

emptied 

by panic

and wealth

will we reconsider 

the precept

that selfish 

is free?

As we sit alone

behind masks 

and distance

on CO2 planet 

that destroys 

our resistance

will clearcut

fall to

humility?

Driven away

from touch 

and embrace,

from arena, 

chapel,

school, 

cafe, 

stadium,

and stage…

Will bird, 

and leaf, 

plant

and harvest,

pencil

and poem

cloud,

and sky

return 

to fill

our eyes?

When we 

wake

from this 

spell

of hoard 

and hide

will we 

dig deep 

to fill 

the losing

with hands 

of bridging,

reaching,

sharing,

giving?

Ordinary

Kinda rough, but I wanted to put it out here now...

Ordinary

Last night I dreamed 

of my mamá 

and papá again.

We were sitting together 

in the old tv room 

that’s ours no more.

There was nothing 

remarkable - 

just her in her recliner 

and he on his sofa 

and me in between, 

and some noise 

on the screeen, 

as it used to be 

before they departed -

just ordinary.

Awake I dream of more - 

of mamá’s rellenos, 

of papá’s cigars, 

of Tio Alphonso’s submarine, 

of Tio Alberto’s Cadillac, 

of Tia Maria’s 

chisme and cafe, 

of lemons 

and pomegranates 

and camellias 

in mi Abuelita’s jardín - 

all ordinary.

Of a shared smile

and held hands

over mugaritas, 

of kisses 

in a burgundy mini-truck

in a parking lot, 

of a tipsy Friday night 

drive home, 

of a rush to delivery room, 

of diapers and legos

and cardboard block castles, 

and a house full

of kids and cat-5 cables, 

of guitars and a piano

and music late at night, 

and a picture 

of two little boys 

and a Christmas tree - 

all ordinary.

These nights

I dream

of those old people

and this old room, 

of those old memories, 

and these new days,

of that old silence

and this new quiet  

in a time of confusion 

and virus - 

and these nights I crave 

the ordinary.

Butterflies and Birds

What the heck.  A return from my hiatus with something new for 2020...

Butterflies and birds -

cute and fragile,

tough and agile.

We watch them

flit and whistle

through shingle, 

leaf and thistle.

We buy cards,

share pix,

print their delicate,

flying images

on fabrics,

wind chimes,

summer dresses.

But twice a year 

the gossamer 

and feathered

launch on

epic journeys

without ice chest,

cell or GPS.

From arctic to tropic

they soar and skip

over white peaks

and white caps,

across frozen tundra,

desert dune,

and night’s black.

Through predator

and pesticide,

hunger and hunter,

smog and typhoon,

some veer and fall

while millions more

hold true..

Beside these wonders 

the macho we

of rasping trucks,

weapons, drinks,

and road rage

seem pale, wan,

and sedentary

We bluster

in our macho,

they hear the call

of ancient,

we break down

in curse and fight,

they give all

and take to sky.