Lazy Moon,
why are you
so ripe
so round
as winter
approaches?
Beautiful black
Moon, is
your whole
being blooming
and beckoning Love?
Sunday, June 8, 2008
"DANCE OF LIFE!"
“And You Garcia Lorca, What Were
You Doing Down By the Watermelons?” (Allen Ginsberg)
The young lithe Spaniard thumps
these frutas verde, muy grande,
muy gordita, these pregnant sandias,
like ancient Arabic drums
found in dense dry chapparal
on the Andalusian roadside,
blessed under a virgin’s black moon.
Music imbued with gypsy songs
of our invisible dead, sweeten
these days blazing with joy.
The hot clear air is pungent,
smelling full flavored
thick with saffron and thyme.
Lorca licks his wet lips,
and for one grateful instant
by God’s good grace
every fascist in Spain
takes up a pistol and shoots
himself straight through the head.
The poet and his people dance in the dirt,
rejoice aloud in strong praise
of the life~giving Sun.
They drink wine from the hills
as white blossoms of words,
honey from beehives deep
in the heart beguile
and liquefy the night.
Shiny black seeds spit forth
from the belly of fruit become
the wise, foolish twins holding hands:
MADNESS she grins, BEAUTY he shimmers,
TOGETHER CREATION CONTINUES.
You Doing Down By the Watermelons?” (Allen Ginsberg)
The young lithe Spaniard thumps
these frutas verde, muy grande,
muy gordita, these pregnant sandias,
like ancient Arabic drums
found in dense dry chapparal
on the Andalusian roadside,
blessed under a virgin’s black moon.
Music imbued with gypsy songs
of our invisible dead, sweeten
these days blazing with joy.
The hot clear air is pungent,
smelling full flavored
thick with saffron and thyme.
Lorca licks his wet lips,
and for one grateful instant
by God’s good grace
every fascist in Spain
takes up a pistol and shoots
himself straight through the head.
The poet and his people dance in the dirt,
rejoice aloud in strong praise
of the life~giving Sun.
They drink wine from the hills
as white blossoms of words,
honey from beehives deep
in the heart beguile
and liquefy the night.
Shiny black seeds spit forth
from the belly of fruit become
the wise, foolish twins holding hands:
MADNESS she grins, BEAUTY he shimmers,
TOGETHER CREATION CONTINUES.
Stepping Towards Transformation
Come, step with me
into the waterfall….
Come. Part this wet curtain.
Breathe in the moistness here.
Feel inside watery molecules.
Fall freely into liquid goodness.
Generously radiate this cool
mist of yourself
into the damp soil
and soft fresh ferns.
Give the enduring firs and alders
deep drink
of your life.
Come….
into the waterfall….
Come. Part this wet curtain.
Breathe in the moistness here.
Feel inside watery molecules.
Fall freely into liquid goodness.
Generously radiate this cool
mist of yourself
into the damp soil
and soft fresh ferns.
Give the enduring firs and alders
deep drink
of your life.
Come….
Saturday, June 7, 2008
"News Piece" (Questing for Home)
There was a news piece
on the radio this morning:
about people displaced from
their homes for many
many months now after
the destructive Fall firestorms
in Southern California.
They all possess such heavy disappearances.
Gone are favorite chairs and bedroom doors,
cherished notes from friends or grandmothers,
dressers full of socks and secrets,
smooth well worn banisters,
the reassurance of neighborly connections,
grade school artwork and
cardboard boxes piled with photographs and buttons.
No longer are the easy familiar
smells of cinnamon toast on Monday morning
and roasting chicken on Sunday
redolent in the air of home for them.
They sense the absences of floors feeling just right
beneath the stepping foot,
and have become a kind of nomad floating
in the suburban drift of San Diego.
It can occur sometimes that a person
or whole family loses home due to disaster,
job transfer, gypsy wanderlust,
or necessary migration,
and although may live later
tidily under a tile roof within four
sturdy walls in a house well stocked
with warm beds and blankets, a silver
toaster on granite counters, and a large deep
bathtub, they might wander forever in a subtle grayness,
unplaced and unconsciously forlorn.
Searching,
not quite rooted in the real,
their calloused tired
or soft pink feet
have partly
forgotten
the sacred touch
of the safely known
ground of particular,
pleasurable being.
And so,
may all such persons
who inch along
such a meandering
hard packed path
find in their hidden
mourning and seeking
small havens of time
warm with comfort,
the goodness of place
and true belonging.
May moments of grace’s gaze
leaping between them and a found friend
proffer a new dwelling
for hope, clarity of sweet
waters running strong
from every forest,
and a returning
some where
so welcoming,
as in the center of a circle
of love and memory
or
quiet
human joy.
on the radio this morning:
about people displaced from
their homes for many
many months now after
the destructive Fall firestorms
in Southern California.
They all possess such heavy disappearances.
Gone are favorite chairs and bedroom doors,
cherished notes from friends or grandmothers,
dressers full of socks and secrets,
smooth well worn banisters,
the reassurance of neighborly connections,
grade school artwork and
cardboard boxes piled with photographs and buttons.
No longer are the easy familiar
smells of cinnamon toast on Monday morning
and roasting chicken on Sunday
redolent in the air of home for them.
They sense the absences of floors feeling just right
beneath the stepping foot,
and have become a kind of nomad floating
in the suburban drift of San Diego.
It can occur sometimes that a person
or whole family loses home due to disaster,
job transfer, gypsy wanderlust,
or necessary migration,
and although may live later
tidily under a tile roof within four
sturdy walls in a house well stocked
with warm beds and blankets, a silver
toaster on granite counters, and a large deep
bathtub, they might wander forever in a subtle grayness,
unplaced and unconsciously forlorn.
Searching,
not quite rooted in the real,
their calloused tired
or soft pink feet
have partly
forgotten
the sacred touch
of the safely known
ground of particular,
pleasurable being.
And so,
may all such persons
who inch along
such a meandering
hard packed path
find in their hidden
mourning and seeking
small havens of time
warm with comfort,
the goodness of place
and true belonging.
May moments of grace’s gaze
leaping between them and a found friend
proffer a new dwelling
for hope, clarity of sweet
waters running strong
from every forest,
and a returning
some where
so welcoming,
as in the center of a circle
of love and memory
or
quiet
human joy.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Sudden Victory
In the middle of our bruising break-up,
me all in a tumult of fear and grief,
in the midst of her small kitchen
in the Guatemalan cottage tucked
back in the jungle above the blue
vast beautiful lake,
I suddenly saw ‘VICTOR’ boldly
printed on the label of the brown
liter beer bottle.
I’d meant for the alcohol to anesthetize
our pain, but when my father’s name leapt
at me across the messy table in my sorrow
and confusion,
I knew in a flash of sobriety
we were through,
completely through,
stale beer in a broken vessel.
me all in a tumult of fear and grief,
in the midst of her small kitchen
in the Guatemalan cottage tucked
back in the jungle above the blue
vast beautiful lake,
I suddenly saw ‘VICTOR’ boldly
printed on the label of the brown
liter beer bottle.
I’d meant for the alcohol to anesthetize
our pain, but when my father’s name leapt
at me across the messy table in my sorrow
and confusion,
I knew in a flash of sobriety
we were through,
completely through,
stale beer in a broken vessel.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
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