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2021
Spring,
this:
a first kiss
messy
desire
cascading
in every bloom
after
so many days
of oneness
we meander
pause
stare
like
children
gazing
in disbelief,
drinking in
bright
mesmerizing
colors
like never before:
seeing
with every cell,
our eyes
wet with gratitude,
realizing
somewhere
in shadows
that the past
is never past
it’s always here
in the corners
of our man made
construct,
we take
comfort
for we have
out raced
fear
wrung
every drop
from our guts,
sun
warming
weary
city dwellers,
our brow
soft
un furrowed

a clean slate
of joy.
I hear a song
it thunders
past the sunset
into
the horizon,
a long lost
melody
of grace
a prayer
on wings
of ravens:
a long sigh
past the universe
far into
the ethers:
“lookout for my love”
it thunders
gone
but never gone
here but there
past
but never past….
Look out,
indeed
it’s all we have
now
then
always
one
in the same.

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Spring Equinox 2021

Light
tremulous
frightened
clamoring for its
well earned
equal time –
it begs
to rid us
of this
never ending
winter
plagued
with grief:
a tiny patch
of blue sky
amidst
still ominous clouds.

Time for
us
clamor
daffodils
tulips
crocuses
goldfinches
lady bugs
time
for blooming
singing
buzzing
dancing
hugging
kissing
copulating
as brash
as red squirrels
in the neighbor’s tree.

We’ve made it
through
this long year
of fear
destruction
devastation
grief
trapped
in a long web
of aloneness.

Yes,
even if we
can’t see it,
the sun rises
everyday
this gift
of life
which
we all too often
fail
to recognize
or humble
ourselves
as well we should:
every day
has a melody
if only
we chose to hear:
our hearts
recognize it
and
like
dove’s
wings
we flutter
our feet
clumsily
dancing
toward
a stray
ray of sun
closing
our eyes
drinking in
change
grateful
too timid
to dare ask for more….
You don’t know
the sweetness
of your trove
until you lose it.
Lest we live
and learn
nothing
is ever free,
open
your arms
for this long awaited
embrace.

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Patience

 

Wet, more wet
dark                                                                                                                                                                                                    worse for
the tease of
4 sunny days:
winter is back,
with all its gloom
clouds hiding
a tired sun
exhausted
frail
ineffective
as the silly crocuses
daring to bloom
or daffodils
bent
heavy with rain
and more rain,
crows
loud
cawing
in anger
raging
against
storm clouds
dispersing
chaotic
toward
tree tops
where
they huddle
whispering
summer plans
of sunny days
of feasting
on tender shoots
garden greens
berries
sweet ripened
plums
dark
blood worms
easy picking
on rich volcanic soil.
As the day ends,
the murder
eases atop
our black walnut
tree
briefly preening,
ruffling feathers
slowly quieting
completely
accepting
the continuous rain
like monks
to vespers
patient…..
Still, I plod
dog in tow
once
twice
round
our well worn
walk,
noting changes –
the green
bursting
thru mud
below
water laden
leaves,
small blooms
on rose bushes
timid,
squirrels
so young
they struggle
to tear shells
from peanuts
their tail fur
so fresh
clean
feathers
in the breeze.
There are sweet
scents
new
mesmerizing
to the dog:
I wonder
what tales
they sing
that make
his ears lift
his tail swing
full tilt:
he hears
and approves,
as patient
as the crows,
it is only
me
that despairs:
this
winter has been
too long
too sad
too mad
the world
weighed down
in grief.
I feel it
in my bones
in the very
marrow
and long
to run
wild
through fields
woods
meadows
mountains
with my pack
marauding
singing
wailing
wilding
feasting
birthing
like
the spring
around me.

I was not meant
to be a lone wolf.

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It’s 5:00 am
once again
I feel the trembling
like those
silly magic beds
in cheap motels
that wiggled
and jiggled
your insides
when I was a kid.
I hear
his gurgling belly
once again
pinging
loudly
announcing
a bout
of horrid
“zoom zoom belly”:
my old lab/shepherd mix
now earning his 12 years
of worry,
as forlorn
as his pathetic
picture
on the rescue
page
so many years ago.
I noted it
then,
and live it now.

This warm body
always
by my side
the bones
rigid
and
tight,
a pungent
slightly sweet
scent
wafts in the dark
as
his breath
grows shallow:
he fears
an unknown demon
who lurks
in the crevices
of his ever
darker mind,
his head bobbing
up
down
scanning
dark walls
trying
to focus
on shadows
only he sees.

It’s the night terrors:
here in the city
fear
filters
through barely
open windows
whispering
horrid
tales to my boy,
same dog
fearless
in the high prairie
of Montana
daring
yodeling coyotes
to step forward
from the sage,
same one
chasing
elk through
groves of aspen
deep into gullies,
or springing to grapple
with a yearling
just because he can,
wild
in his heart,
soft in the head.

He hears music
of demon spheres
growling
panting
shaking
and
my hand reaches
to stroke
velvet ears,
long snout
and
up to the bony
pinnacle of his skull,
as a mother’s tongue
would do:
torn too soon
from her teat
by some sad
common
story of man’s cruelty.
I stroke and stroke
until he quiets
and I hear
the sweet sound
of a deep sigh
followed
by snoring.

For now
the silence
of night
is not his enemy.
He dreams
of a cave
filled with
winter warmth,
his pack
sleeping tail
to nose
in a circle of love
and he is at peace,
for now.

In the morning,
we will begin
our ritual:
fetching some
innocuous toy
for treats:
all sleeplessness
forgotten:
breakfast
and
a city walk
searching
for an exact
ideal
spot
for his dirty deed.
Another day
when the sun
may shine,
crows
chase us
and cats
slink
under fences
undetected.
Another day
scenting the air
for sage
and scanning
for mountains
we both
miss so much.

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WWwZC4cjxhA6Sdepr84TffBfY9nsoED6lC655TouZtaNZO-kLR7ozcziaCiw68qD8p-dcdK6h_2aHXQKKzmUqunjDU16qon1Nx1UTd-HvoI1m4WfhTQs4Ls6DSA

For this was on seynt Volantynys day. Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.” Chaucer

Of all the myths,
from beheaded saints
to priests defying Rome
and performing secret
marriages,
or pagans rampaging
during the feast of Lupercal:
half naked men running  
through the streets of Rome,
streaking women with thongs cut from the skins of newly killed goats,
in a wild fertility rite,
Chaucer has it best:
birds here in mid month
chosing their mate,
their one true love
to settle
and nest.
Staring
at the goldfinches
bickering
against the snow laden
day
badgering
male
against male
while the plainer
females
gather on the tree’s
bough
snow light
beneath tiny claws:
an audience
to the rowdy colorful
bright yellow
breasted
black crowned,
eyeing
the feistiest one
for a perfect match.
Now in this winter
mid mark
I’m glad
for my choice:
for indeed
we the she wolves
chose
and true men know this
to be true.
I sit in the warmth
of the stove
lit for several days
as the storm
has grown
and silenced
the city,
grateful
for this
gift
of love
from the skies
white and soft
outside,
fiery
red inside.
My roost
is warm
as my heart.

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Sailor Mine (for David)

Quiet,
too –
sun far
as far
as you
hiding
near craggy
shores
where
deep
pools of sea water
dot the landscape:
barren
wind slapped
abandoned
but by the
hardiest
meanest
wildest
marauders
warriors
sea wise
men,
who fear
little
of the dark
ominous
clouds
and
laugh
at the sight
of land –
any,
knowing
full well
the real
test is
far out
at sea
where frigate birds
glide
days on end
skies
opening
into
seas,
dolphins
leading
in the wake
jumping
showing
the crimson
flush
of love,
their bellies
high
in the air
round
and round
in and out
up
down down down
up again
so free
immune
to gravity.

At the helm
bearded
shirtless
face to the wind
he charts
passage
to some
unknown
destination
where he once
found solace
so long ago
where women
smelled like saffron
and jasmine,
mournful songs
filling the air
in a soft language
he’d never known
but in his heart
understood,
hands
bruised
rope lashed
exhausted
he journeyed on
into days
one following
another
under star lit skies
mad
drunk
deluded
by deafening
siren songs
maddening
dizzying
till
he woke
lulled
by gentle breezes
and warm
tropical sun
and nestled
in his beard
the tiniest
of stowaways
had found safe
passage,
its feathers
ruffed
in the warmth of his breath,
its tiny heart
beating
a song
of freedom
and long lost
love.

 

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Wet
wetter than rain
but so much
livelier
light
delicate
christening
sidewalks
trees
cars
fences
unsuspecting
children’s faces,
so short lived
but delightful:
a perfect pause
in a long the
exhausting
discourse of life
leading to nowhere:
here
now
an opportunity
to fall into
childhood reverie
of snow angels
crusty
crunchy
song
under
heavy winter boots
nose frozen
sting
on face
breath
shallow
tongue
out
catching
sky kisses.

For an instant
I hear
my father’s voice
as he laughs
lifting
me higher
toward
the ethers
his face
clear
as the snow
but all too soon
gone
like
this momentary
true winter
reflection.

Si ya se,
papi
siempre
estas aqui
en lo mas puro…..

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Goldfinches have over run
the feeder,
loudly territorial
glutenous
messy eaters
scattering
seed
like idle gossip
flinging
it
hap
haz
ar
dly
one beak full
happily
down
to plebeian
juncos
waiting
beneath
hooded
like
begging
monks
waiting
patiently
in the company
of a solitary dove.

In the warmth
of a short lived
beam of sun
sits
a song sparrow
sweetly
trilling
as if to hasten
spring,
which
blooming
crocuses
eerily
announce
way too soon:
this is a fool’s dream
winter is far from done,
rains
still drown
the morning sun,
and the sound
of cascading
water thumps
dawn’s
quiet
tip tapping
the metal roof:
tin soldier
not about
to stand down.

These dark
winter
days
force
the soul
to blanket
itself
in memories
of brighter days
when
shadows
give way
to blazing
incandescent skies
green hills
dotted
with wildflowers
jasmine blooms
pines
thick
with beetle life
rose buds
on every corner
in this city
of mud
turned ripe
and
tender
gifting
beauty
daily
on even
the plainest street,
daisies
lilies
apple blossoms
hyacinths
lilacs
magnolias
tulips
camellias
irises
wondrous
copious
roses
stomping out
winter’s long shadow.

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On this Inauguration Day

 

Dreary winter light
gray
faded
washed too often 
by northwest rains:
clouds
formless
too tired
to grow
into feathery
giant mystical
creatures
we might
imagine
and
name,
sun faint
hidden
by morning
haze,
as slow
to rise
as we
on another
long
formless
day,
but then
past
the chill,
a golden
glimmer
colors
the fir’s
topmost branches
as crow’s
gather
in boisterous flight
announcing
loudly
as they are want to do
that change
has come
now
sooner than later
full on
so they might
groom
in warmth
and banter
into
late afternoon
when
a new moon
in all its
tender
shy
splendor
will rise
forged
above:
a sure emblem
of change
new beginnings
and hope.

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Anahad *

Naad
sacred
sound
current
opens
our throat:
waves
coursing
in ritual
melodies
vibratory
mantras
cosmic
energy
pulsing
from
the ethers
into
our souls
then
 streaming:
back
into
universal
silence.

And then there
was the Word:
Kulning
howling
crying
ululating
we call
our humanity
back to us
high pitched
eerie
thin in the night air,
a fire
in the dark cold
winter of our
reckoning,
burning through
incessant
lies
torrent
of
evil
manipulations,
it is our
war cry
as
we forge
into
a very real
battle
for our fading
humanity.

Open
your
ruby
throat
and
chant
sing
vibrate
as the sun rises,
and sets:
it’s
our purest prayer.

*Anahad – the unstuck melody: primal creative sound

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