He struggled

He struggled to catch the

dream before it drifted

away riding thin ribbons

of smoke up and sucked

quickly out the window

clouds of ideas formed

a ball of words, a soft

block he formed them

like clay into a mold

he added them to boiling

water like bullion to flavor

perfectly the dry pages

he wanted a foundry

to heat the cubed and

balled words to smelt

the tangle of letters and

shadowed dreams in bright

medallions into commerce

that would last millennia

sleeping beneath pale layers of

Pompeii ash or soft pacific silt

an explorer an archaeologist

finding precise meaning the

exact location of each daydream

the masts laying hidden across

forgotten decks raising them

into light giving them cohesiveness

to display hopefully a grandeur

unexpected renewed displayed

graffiti etched on ancient walls

coins and medallions in rotted stores

waiting to testify to the long dark

dream risen into smoky ribbons

offered to quiet gods and

ancestors for passage for

passage from infancy to old age.

16 0604

Morning Fog

I see you

in the morning fog

as it slowly burns away

I cannot stop it

or hold you

and too soon

the sky is clear.

Foggy memories

from the corners

of my eyes

silently roll

down my cheeks.

before the dawn

even enters anyone’s mind

the stillness in the air

makes me tiptoe room to room

so not to disturb the silence

this early

there is no sound

to keep us from guessing

that the day

holds its breath

until it turns blue

Rhythm Rises

Errant thoughts glisten like
thick frost that appears long
before the clear indigo sky pales.
Icy air seeps through miniscule
gaps between window and sill,
cascading down the wall, slowly
splashing on and across the floor.
From the churning confluence,
images drift like mist above a
waterfall . He deflects. Reading,
searching, as if scripture
could shield him, could divert
the flood. He needs more than
an echo of his thoughts. More
than a crude, soulless golem,
or a shadowy doppelganger. He
needs essence: common, tangled,
roots that nourish and inspire, to
ground him in time and place.

Long sleepless nights like
this freeze time. Imagination
grips his heart, squeezing
until his chest pounds.
Singers accompany
his drumming heart.
If he looked out the window
he would see steam rising
from the vent as his clothes
tumble dry, as the dryer exhales
moist, hot air. Instead he sees
the breath of singers rising,
matching the rhythm spiraling
from the drum, accompanied by the
thunderous dances of buffalo and
holy chants of Yei-Be-Chai.
Rhythm fills the night.
It rises from his heart.

Night wraps him like
a second skin, a twisting
and pulling wave
charging a sandy beach.
Above thunderous surf
a voice wafts, riding the soft
mist haloing turbulent water
stampeding all around.
His spirit rises. In the powerful
grip of an undertow, his body cannot.
Near the sparkling surface
memory breaks free, breaches,
arching high in the air.
His first death. Murdered
by loving parents. Water
boarded before the CIA
had a name for it. Then a
second. Abandoned, he felt
the suffocation of banishment.
And a third, a forth.
No beacon to the other side.
He lingers.
He follows
the calming voice.

Opaque water undulate as
swells pass beneath the rippled
surface, reflecting the faint light
of stars, scattering the argent
glow spilled by a full moon.
Polaris faintly glimmers and
winks, showing a way,
guiding.
Slowly,
unexpectedly,
he breaks the tension
separating ocean from air.
He sees man-shaped kelp
kissing the salty surface,
returning the indifferent
ocean’s kiss of life.

The rise and fall
has no rhythm.
His drum beats.
His blood dances.
The rhythm rises
from his heart.

illuminate me

enchant me

like a moonless night,

bless me with your smile,

climb into my car.

let’s drive for days

an arm’s length apart,

two separate worlds

watching miles pass

not seeing the road,

a dark desert highway.

worlds overtake us,

others fall behind.

i can’t feel the axis

around which i turn.

i turn, turn to see you

on the far side of heaven

light years away,

wishing you would

stay, riding beside me.

 

the wings of an angel

won’t lift me to heaven

nor can a phoenix teach me to rise

but you, you learned to fly while i just drive.

tiny creatures, all

butterflies and hummingbirds

fly south to warmer climes.

a daunting journey endured

by delicate creatures.

tiny, weightless,

the world’s roiling

atmosphere buffets

them, buffets us all.

tiny creatures, all.

far from indifferent,

the tumultuous world

challenges each to survive:

hummingbirds in blustery

gales, butterflies in clouds

of hungry birds, people

vanish with coasts and

islands inundated by

tsunami seas, or in valleys

awash in boiling walls

of water crashing from

storms flashing high

in sacred mountains.

Window closed.

Its shade drawn

shielding us from

the world.

You remain, quiet

as a photograph

framed,

suspended

                      in       time.

on a stairway

wall.

XIX

My eyes should be closed

and I should be wandering

through a vivid

and colorful world.

Instead they burn.

A dull rhythmic ache

pulses behind them.

The would-be dream? Replaced

by a vindictive stream of

consciousness and

incessant ringing in my ears.

My world contracted,

a second skin, much too tight.

I wonder, could I molt

like a snake? Leave it

laying in the dust.

Maybe it could split like

an over- ripe pomegranate

and spill its ruby fruit

across the ground.

My next world will be

loose and open, bigger than

an overcoat, but just as warm.

 

When You Wish . . .

do you read poetry?

what do you know of poets?

we are a distracted lot.

yes. I write and

call my scribbles poetry,

call it prose. it flows from the

pen in my hand in long

ribbons, to suggest ideas

and emotion.

meandering descriptions

of places that we have seen.

that I have seen without you.

that you may have seen without me.

outside my window

the world changes as the sun

drifts across the sky.

like Monet’s cathedral

day after day painted to capture

light, hue, and color changing.

i am no Monet. but i capture light

if not of day then of night, of dreams

and wishes, like clouds over beds

or rising above piazza fountains

that collect the coins of dreamers

who wish their dream real. a million

Pinocchios wait in a million shadows

for a blue fairy, for the tap of her

wand, so they may breathe.