. index .

we scattered our seeds at the base of the mountain
each with a new dream attached with a thread
of soul's breath and raven's dreams.

the tree brigade whispered, 'not long now'
as the horses murmured with impatience.
the periwinkles ogled the poppies.
so coyly they often play.
dance with me, forget-me-nots, and find
our better days

our sunworn fingers plucked up our past
and made offering to the
last of the snow's great child.
the cold tears rained down the mountain's face
the joys, the winds, the life, the death
of each spring and winter's embrace.
the rush, the breath, the pulse raced on
along the stony lane, past our bygones
to the place where peace welled full and clear
a time of change, the eagle's whisper.

and we cooled our brows
in the waters of the past,
crystalline with futures dancing at last.
and out to the deep, where pure truth lives
swims the sun's golden fingers
urging to forgive.

08.22.08

. texas yeehaw .

my good friend is about to embark on a new exciting adventure in a small town just outside of Dallas, Texas. wow. i remember my impression of Dallas...

here is a poem i wrote during my stay there...

wandering, wondering on starlight sparkle pathways
lined with the coo coo ca-choos and fallen ice cream smiles
i pass the ladder to the clouds and wonder why
someone has locked up the gardens from my child-eyed frolic

blue monday
art seems to sleep
sirens wail, grackles squeal
and pulse is kept in time with the clip-clop of feet
diverging on pigeon part time pathways
the seas rage/flow
the waves of blue and red
black Pontiac with white Subaru
zipping like schools of fish
in this big time southern ocean
i hold my breath and dive between
the steel sharks and fiberglass fins
joining the rush of this city tide
ebbing to the west end...

Elvis stops and passes me a flower.

the memorial sits in the late afternoon caress
white and neatly boxed
housing yet another curious creation
marked with nothing but a name.
the book depository has changed hands
the rumble of the passing cars that flood
the Elm and Houston crossroads fade
the city scene loses focus and the movie begins to play...
... a motorcade and celebration
a waving beacon of hope casting love
and youth cheering, children, picnic baskets, balloons...
an American afternoon buzzing towards the light
but moths cry out when they get burned
and four casts of light take over the beacon
the tower of Camelot crumbles into Guinevere's white hands
November day, chilly sun filled
births shadows a hopeful era
and in slow motion
history is changed forever
the lense closes
and pans to the sun
condensation to cheekbones
the vision is blinding.

i sigh.

and Elvis tries to sell me a newspaper.

02 may 2005