Trees in the mist

The trees they whisper
One tree was my father
And he was a redwood
He spoke about the time
Before there were people
When there were only
Other trees
They spoke quietly
In a fog
About the darkness
And the coolness
Of misty mornings
Where the ink
Splotches of clouds
Were all you knew
For miles In any direction
In this world
The sun was born
Everyday
Like a torrent of love
From a round fiery
Heart.

A poem for Aunt Carol

In as much as I remember…
Because it was only…
Some time ago
I thought
Life was recognized
In small places
I discovered it in dirty dishwater
My fate
To be somehow
Just the flashes of thought
In between the dark nesses
The thought that finds its way from
Life
Breath in
Death
Breath out
Somehow the moments
Passed between us
Unnoticed
Aunt Carol was on her death bed
Dying of cancer
She was pale and wan and old
And frail
Death is not an illusion
I thought
Looking into her eyes
She said “ Your grandfather is here, what’s his name?”
“Peter” I said
She looked off into the corner of the hospice
Room, eyes filled with transcendental understanding.
She carried on a conversation with my Grandfather.
Then she reclined deeper into her pillow and spoke softly
“I need water”…
Watching her die reminded me not only of my mortality
But of the courage of simple people when facing the enormity of their own
Certain demise.
When she finally died, a weight turned into an emptiness.
In this garden of words and trees where the woods and thoughts become
Wounded roses, I remember aunt Carol.
Her poetry was flowers and cats and small blessings.
Between this thought and another I find her still with me
Still in whispering conversation with my grandfather.
Still speaking of her life

The Music we made

Sometimes music is like drowning
In a brackish pool
Sometimes Music is like
Drinking too much wine
Sometimes Music is like
Living and dying
Sometimes music is a curse
As well as a blessing
“When I play”, he said,
“I see colors and shapes”
I wondered
What color?
What shape?
The music I feel
In my soul is awful
And also beautiful
It comes back
Returning
Phrases and melodies
A refrain
Lost love
Something sentimental
In your noise ….
Music is like
Acid wash jeans
And old CDs
And plunking away on a beat up fender
Music is like that sometimes

Fertile Crescents

iron trees
White caps
The ocean
Flew by
And came into
The tall spires
Mosques
And temples
Of forgiveness
Lay in ruins
Next to
Shattered
Forests of
sky scrapers
this land is
“no man’s”
The Earth
Is full of worms
And the soil
Is rich and fertile
Animals
Run free
Between parked
Trucks

In the darkness
Of my thoughts
I walk alone
The Earth
Is one big
Ball
Of shattered
Pieces
Children
Run barefoot
Amongst
The lions
Children
Of god
Swim
In the ocean in rafts
Small radios buzzing
Speaking to each other
In every language
Nothing is written
Nothing is written
Except the stop
Signs
And the go lights
That hang
Blank and ponderous
Like eyes over the desert.
This place
Like a thousand
Fertile crescents
All new again
In fire
And soot
Can only be my home
If the sand that lives here
Lets me sleep
Under the tall
Towers
In peace.

Cj’s Kitchen

Some piece of the ocean
Cracked
And broke off
Some piece of the sky fell
Like dust falls in a rainbow
My two hands held a cup
Of tea
And the floor was dirty and un-mopped
There were vines
And leaves
And fruit in a bowl
And the dishes
Were clean
\and gleaming
And stacked
On both sides of the sink
And I thought to myself
What is the answer to my questions?
Somehow the tea dribbled across the floor
Overflowing in the cup
The fruit in the bowl seemed to be questionable

The Day of the Dead 11/01/2011

Fearless Sun God
Love
Death
Are a hand in the dark
And a kiss in the morning
Cacti
Flowers
Water blue and desperate
Fingers that make love
Out of sand
pain
horror
shadow
Many skulls line the
Altar
crimson
candle light
This is the face of death
Dia De Los Muertos
The mother of all
Mystery
She pulls bones
Out of her vagina
And leaves them
On the table
sacrificial virgin
That dies
And never leaves
The altar
We let the black birds
Sing and the white doves
With blood red eyes
Sing and coo
To the Mary
In the deathly
Shroud
And roses grow
From her soul
And from her eyes
And from her navel
And from her brow
This love she bears
Takes us
From the place we know
To the place we can never know
And so we die
And so we love
And the flowers eat us
And our sacrifice
Becomes the bones
On the table
And the candle
That we light
Is what’s left of our spirit.

Two birds sitting across from each other, having a conversation.

Just beyond the places
where I can see
there Is a land of mutable possibility
Where everything can become anything else
flower on the mountain
face of a dead man
bite of a spider
vast wash of ocean
bitter hands holding
a child of stone
two loveless birds
threatening to invade
conquering worms
abode
made of mud and tin
and hate-full gloom
that turns from
darkness to glowing
early morning light
two headless men
rode motorcycles
one after the other
Hells Angels or somewhat
Falling tenderly
Through the ages
Of space, time,
Fire…