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.

My Old Man

(Another in a series of pieces about my familia.) 

My old man

sitting under the stars -

traffic flow,

siren call,

tv squawk,

fire glow,

streetlight shine,

cigar smoke.

My old papa

preferred the night sky,

flaming scrap wood

in the burn pit

at his feet.

Solitary witness,

solitary thoughts,

wafting out on 

tobacco stream.

Some nights 

while streets coughed

he’d talk -

classroom days

numberless,

kids squirming

and learning,

world of danger

and wonder,

first words and colors,

team play and numbers.

Some nights
under stars 

and memories 

he’d fly again,

hopping freight cars

across desert 

from LA to Yuma,

street muchacho 

with brown skin

dodging railroad cops

with their club justice.

“I ran to familia 

from familia woes,”

he told me.

“Alcohol father, 

gang avenues,

clamorous streets,

wound up hood,

stolen food.”

“At my Tia Rosa’s

there was always

a place for me.

Menudo Sundays,

pan dulce mornings,

shelter from hot sun

and sandpaper wind,

stars burning

in desert night.”

My old man

still sitting under 

the remembered stars,

grown up me

still dreaming

in a plastic chair

beside him,

cool suburban night,

street shine

and fire light

dancing on 

our tired brown faces.