Under lacey shade and golden rain
Desert cherry blossom trickles
Bright desert light onto a bed of pebbles.
A verdin hops branches, calling all the time
Honeyed warble from blue-green twigs.
Florid sprigs along crooked boughs,
Silken sun-drops flit to the ground.
Bees delight in their bounty,
Bobbing from petals, bringing new life.
Soon, these skirts are traded for
Seeds, their pods forage for locals.
Gifts abound from smooth-barked
Florida, this Parkinsonia blessing
All who alight in and around her
Resplendent wings.
Spring waits in my closet,
A cool-weather jacket at the ready
Washed fresh with the winter rains
Dried in the chilled breeze.
I slide off my woolen coat of winter and
Set it to the side for the summer's dreams.
My last chance for sweaters has passed,
And now is the time of the budding.
I take the hanger and slide the season
Off its mooring. The linen is delicate from
Years of washes, from changes in climate,
From the long wait and the ecstatic fever.
I sheath my arms in spring's sleeves
Its shivery fabric pricking my heat-adapted skin.
The delight of a comfortable afternoon and cool
Night will never get old.
Steeping in cool waters
The saffron sun on the
Bowl of the pond.
Taking my vitamins every
Morning, the C in my veins
Mingling with the salt in my eyes.
I ride two buses to my chapel
Of peace, a set of flowing
Waters, unblessed but holy to me.
Pacing the dusty paths of
The preserve, I ponder the
Wild waterbirds, wandering.
The ducks, unburdened by
Prejudice, finding their ways
Along the tiny beaches.
The spice of life, I infuse my days
With the fine herbs of musical
Birdsong and chords of clouds.
Finalizing my day's work,
I board the buses home, busy days
Ahead, but for now, hallowed, heady harmony.
Staycation
Rooting through yellowed, dusty memories
Those of my grandmother's back yard,
The smell of sweet maple leaves
And the sting of late autumn
We made "potions" in my backyard,
Collected rocks from the stream
In the park, and amethystine bruises.
April, when the slush finally gave way
To the annihilated lawn, the mud warming
Bringing worms for fishing to the surface.
I remember when my brother lost his
Pink fishing rod to a monsterous carp
At the KOA campground pond,
How dad fished for it with his rod,
I can't remember if he got it back.
We never went fishing with him again.
I fold up my hippocampus and stow it neatly
In the chest from whence it came,
Closing up my ribs, I vow to discuss this
Experience with my therapist,
Cleaning off the dust of age,
Hoping his insight can interpret the
Dregs of this old cup.
The spot near the plastics plant,
Bare earth scooped neatly into mounds,
Preparations for a new recycling plant.
Skittering along the debris of a
Previously undisturbed wild,
Before my memories formed.
Eating hot pink clovers that tasted like
Sweet carrots, as mama said they would,
My little brother hopping in the lazy puddles.
This disturbed earth not a quarter mile
From my new home on the outskirts of town,
Our lot barely having grown it's beard of grass.
The newest children in my small neighborhood
(if there are any) Will never know this place
Apart from where their fathers might work
The spot between the 183 and Liberty Church
Where once was trees and clovers
Where once kids scrambled over piles of dirt
Where once all seemed well in the world
Where earliest memories were made
Bury me with acorns,
Don't bury me in a box.
If you must, bury me in
A shroud of cotton.
Bury me in a simple shift
Don't bury me in a suit;
My rising will not be a formal affair.
Don't wear your best to
See me off.
Wear what you can get dirty.
You'll be spreading the mulch
On my gravesite.
Bury me with grave goods,
So if I am discovered by
Archeologists someday,
They will know I was loved.
Bury me with flowers,
But don't bury me with fresh roses.
Nay, plant on me perennials,
So you can still see me every year.
Finally, bury me with a stone marker,
But don't spend a fortune.
Carve for me the name I chose,
No matter what others may call me.
Bury me under sturdy granite,
So I can yet leave my mark
On something set for years.
While you may not see me,
These marks will be my gift to you.
Bury me with my money,
But the riches of the things I hold
Most dear.
It was only a few weeks,
Shopping at the local
Asian foods store.
Getting used to having
No car to shop with,
Packing a week's worth
Of groceries into a single
Backpack.
We ate mostly rice and
Vegetables with a bit of
Diced chicken for a bit of
Protein, once a week.
Bone-hungry and sick,
Despair set in.
"I want my mom" I said.
I didn't want her often,
Or even at all since leaving.
But after a few weeks of
Rice with nothing,
Anything seemed better
Than waiting for the anemia
To set in.
P.S.
(I didn't call my mom. We relented and subscribed to Walmart's delivery service and now we're doing okay)
A pair of mallards sits on a
Manicured stone by an
Artificial fountain
Ah, the massive continuity of ducks
Here there be lakes,
(Or ponds, or even fountains)
Here there be ducks.
I start with parks,
Unassuming grassy expanses
Rimmed with palms, perhaps
With a pond or playground
I graduate to preserves
Larger ponds, sometimes with
Geese, always with ducks
I walk along its paved paths
Or rocky byways, but I
Run into the road
The sounds of cars inescapable
Beyond the quacks and honks
And rustling of untrimmed mesquites
I try a "hike", more of a
Stroll through the stones of a
Great, holey hill
I lose track of my impromptu
Guides, so I take the easy route
It leads to he canal, another
Reminder of man's hubris in the
Desert biome I now call home
I was born to a land of true wilds,
Of old growth forests protected by
Fences, yes, but standing proud, uncut
I was born to hills, and creeks, and
Bushes bursting with black berries,
Counting the stars on a clear night,
Camping in the back yard,
Craning our necks to watch deer
And woodpeckers working
To hear bats screech under the new moon
I sit on a plastic bench, molded like wood
I watch men fish at stocked ponds,
I hope the sounds of motorcycles
Doesn't scare their catch,
But these creatures are likely as
Trained to the sounds as the grackles
Are to rooting through trash
I pray that the little natures around me
Remain un-golfed, and undeveloped
That the canal can yet give rest to cormorants,
That the bougainvilleas can shelter the sparrows,
That what little respect my new home has
For its many gifts can yet be preserved,
For the sake of the hikers, the birds,
The saguaros, even the God-given rocks
I pray for all of these things with my one
Little soul, with all the nature within,
Though futile my tiny words may be
To the unrelenting force of mankind's
Unending greed and craving for more,
More, more
Sleeping in and breakfast
Shower and coffee
Not necessarily in that order
Walking to the bus
Walking from the bus
Working
Working
Working
Sometimes sitting down,
Sometimes working
Walking to the bus
Walking from the bus
*
Cooking
Gazing into the abyss
Screaming into the void
YouTube
Sleeping
*Optional (but not so):
Migraine, Joint pain, Irritability, Talking
our destinations differ, but
while we share this liminal space,
between here and there,
not really anywhere,
may we find a modicum of
peace in the reality that we
are moving, and that we
move together.
-
Also whoever smells like barbeque should know it is delightful and I hope their meal is nice.
First crickets of an Arizona
Spring breaks the hush of
A cold-snap winter.
Light rain makes for a soggy
Week, but is never enough for the
Reservoirs. The streets grow louder
As motorcyclists break out their
Bikes, emboldened by the rising
Warmth. Finally, the last citrus fruits
Gain their ripeness, falling lethargically
To stone gardens, preparing to
Adorn themselves with new blossoms.
Church luncheons abound at the
Pavilion next to the lakeside beach
Concrete floor, cold against the
Raw, sandy feet of playtime
Coming out of the water for the
Potluck buffet, cheesy potatoes,
Dessert salads abounding.
A prayer goes up for the community,
For the healing of souls, or
For donations for the new church.
Small parties too, celebrated.
Confirmation class completion,
Ready for Easter Vigil.
Pungent incense and sweet oils
Will follow close by, but for now
We feast on our collective meal,
Camrederie with the priest before
Our big day.
I wish I could pray every day,
Over dinner or at bedtime
Or anytime during the day perhaps.
I would say I have nothing to
Pray about, but that would be a lie.
I have plenty to pray for, both for
Myself and for others.
All I would need to do is
Clasp my hands, bow my head,
Talk to God.
Then my hands become repelling
Magnets, my head, full of helium.
My prayers stay stuck in my throat,
Choking my soul.
On occasion, I vomit up these
Words caught up inside,
Spewing out of my eyes and mouth,
Screaming a silent scream as
The rain streams down my face.
It's either this, or the prayers
Frozen in place would chill my heart,
Turn me to stone, kill my spirit.