Nua Beach

(Thoughts born from my teenage years on the islands of American Samoa.  Also, in reference to the note in the last post about my prostate cancer, I'm now at 9 months cancer free after surgery.)

Deep 

in night

when I think

I’m not 

sleeping

I hear again

the waves

pound, 

break,

and retreat.

That watery 

rush and rumble

disturbs me

with its power,

disarms me

with its 

yearning,

on Nua Beach

across the street

in my dreams.

Sometimes 

this old me,

dreams young

on Samoan isle,

slipping 

out of bed

and out the door

with barefoot tread

to cross the road

and kneel again

on sand and sea.

The agua

thick with salt,

rises,

peaks,

and falls

in crash,

crouch,

and spread

above my call,

beyond my shout.

Like breath

and heart,

like sleep

and wake,

like cold

and fire,

like indifference

and desire

the ocean

they call sami

pulls both ways,

knows no rest.

Worn me

bundled 

in bed

and dream,

torn me

floating

above coral

and reef,

meet at ocean 

that holds

and molds,

that sings

and rolls

the young me

into the old.

Life's Simplicities

 Diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer in September.  Surgery in October has brightened the prognosis considerably.  These thoughts from this struggle...

Life’s Simplicities 

Life’s simplicities

turn antidote 

in the struggle with

life’s complexities.

The dappled shade

under the apple tree

makes rest when

night makes little.

The full and ripe

of pear and squash 

sings the cycle 

when faith is lost.

The finch’s busy,

the bees’s devotion 

make light of riot 

and commotion.

The warm hand

upon the back

calms dark thoughts

in dark bed.

The call, the card,

the voice from far,

stir memory

when reality jars.

The sun’s embrace 

and daily journey 

counters the cold

drum beat -

the pandemic 

that stalks the street,

the cancer cells

that infest my deep.

Life’s simplicities

renew the spirit

that’s wounded

with life’s complexities.

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?