Gratitude

I am grateful for this day,
For this purity of air
Rinsed through the onrushing clouds
Embarking upon their perpetual
Journey with softness, with the cycles
Of coming and going, with the wind
Which grows within me,
Throughout me, throughout this sky
Wrapping me like a blanket of lapis.

Summer is always an explosion
And the morning rain reminds us
Of our reliance upon surrender,
Giving in to what comes,
What goes, and what returns;
What returns may have never left,
These clouds that pick up where they
Left off, returning from memory,
Describing clock-work: the secrets
Of seasons are written
By fluttering leaves and the prodigal
Water, secret messages carried
By flocking geese and butterfly
Armadas.

This Earth is our song,
Our flag of our solemn being,
Profound mystery and the only thing
We could ever love--
If such a thing were possible--
With her daily ritual
Waking me with this familiarity,
With this gratitude.

Summer Sun, Summer Moon

The sun and
The moon
Have conspired
This summer season,
Plotting
Their glorious
Displays
Of splendor
Causing panic
Within the masses
Making people
Crazy
With fever
And fun.

Have your way
With us,
Make us
Your slaves
And bid us
Fair days
And furious nights
Drinking in
The beauty
Of sweat,
Of skin,
Of smiles,
Of sin,
Of synergy,
Of laziness,
Of laughter,
Of alcohol’s light
And of celebration!

Leave us
Alone
Down here
To make sense
Of your gifts
Bestowing us
With the
Intoxicating
Recipe for repose,
Supposing
We were created
In some image,
Making magic
On this stage
Called summer.

Hope? Change?

Somewhere between
Blood and passion
There lies hope,
Stark naked and gaunt,
Scarcely recognizable,
For this world has died
Countless times in hope
Of being reborn.

Come colonizers,
Come marauders,
Come assassins
And come corporations,
Generals and presidents,
Kings and conquistadors,
Come with your vengeful swords
And your bombs of fury,
Come with your treaties
And your laws that bar
This weeping earth,
And like an afterthought
Comes this beggar
We call
Hope.

Hope for change,
For peace,
For a chance to bury
The dead,
To call out ancestors
Newly born,
For a chance to scatter
The flowers,
To mark life
With death in passing;
We hoped for change,
We at last
Hoped
Change
Would arrive
And not leave us
Standing at the station,
Waiting for a lone passenger
Yet to arrive.

Hope did change
From unfamiliar optimism
Back to familiar cynicism,
To the same old shit….
Change!?
More like
Changing the diaper
On this old man called
Civilization.
Hope passed us by,
Our votes cast by our hopes,
Passed by like a beggar
Getting only chump change
In a ragged cup.

And what of it?
We eat images of the dead,
We eat three meals a day
Accompanied by the filthy
Newspapers of the murderers
Who soil unknown streets
And invent new words
For murder.
The casualty of war
Has become just that.
Ain’t nothing casual
About becoming a
Statistic.

What is left
To hope for
Comes like a season,
Anticipated
Yet overdue
And never to one’s liking;
What is left
To hope for
Has yet a name
To identify itself,
Merely a distant object
Fading in and out
Like a mirage
Painting our collective
Dreams
That fade when we awake
And have to change
The diapers of our
Democracy.

Ode to Coffee

Since God is
An African
Woman
She saw fit
To bless
Her children
With her
Embodied vulva
That emerges
From fruit and fire
And assumes
The form
Of the sea
Like a bitter
Cowrie.

Rituals of fire
And water
Bring forth
Midnight blood
Rising with the dawn
Rising with inviting
Steam and aroma:
Aroma of companionship
Aroma of friendship
Aroma of comfort
And the union
Of bitter and sweet
Completes the coupling
Of divinity
Contained
In a cup of liquid
Sunshine
Fueling our blood's
Desire to perpetuate
The invocation
Of the caffeinated
Ritual.

Ode to Beer

River of bitter
Sunshine
Dressed in dark
Cloaks,
Laden with blonde
Hair
And wearing jeweled
Amber:
Alcohol’s amulet
Of crisp,
Cold
And refreshing
Sensation.

From the spring
Of my childhood,
Enjoying watching
My father enjoying
His working reward,
To the summer
Of my youth,
Discovering everything
Under the sun
And within my grasp:
Girls, cars,
Dancing, wilderness,
And you,
Motivator and chaperone,
Cheerleader and coach,
Gradually introducing
My brain to harmonious
Inebriation.

Beer is indeed
Divine.

For what other purpose
Could you exist, at least
For me, than to imbue
The human heart
With the capacity
To open its lips
And kiss liquid bliss,
Tasting the miracle
Of a metabolic yeast
And its metamorphic
Excrement.

Yes, it’s true that microscopic
Shit causes car accidents,
Makes a fist of rage,
Accounts for countless accidental
Pregnancies, eats human livers
And is twelve steps
Away from catastrophe,
But for me it will always be
Like water,
Like air,
Fire or earth;
It will remain
Elemental,
Akin to companionship,
A necessary medium
For the process
Of listening to the moon
And uncivilizing my mind.

north beach

this morning
the sea looked tired
half asleep
without the moon
to mirror
her fatigue

those ruffled
sheets of seaweed
strewn about beds of rocks
were the evidence
of a passing season
that lasted too long

the tears were shed
the salt broke over the waves
blood rained as
sorrow reigned with
liquid fire
and the desperate
struggle for understanding
was reined in by
the truth

what i knew
i didn't want
to acknowledge
i refused to
listen to
the mad
rants
of the seagulls
and the echo
of the crows
even though
i knew
they were right

so i lay it to rest
whatever was left
i left
at her fluid feet
and left
without looking back

poem for the flowers

with what
script
could i
describe
the colorful
inscription
of flowers
depicting
flaunted love
encrypted
in aromatic
gifts?

in other
words,
there are no
words
i care to
employ
in attempting to
employ
poetic metaphor
celebrating
flowers
celebrating
summer's flag.

snow day in august

some things
happen,
like a map
unseen,
like life
unforeseen.
so today
the work day
went away,
like
a snow day
in august
without
snow:
so now
i slow
down.
this morning
was a kiss,
an inspirational
bliss,
a witness
to the heart
of the sea,
her wetness
planted
upon my lips,
her dreamy
mist
crisp like
this morning,
not with snow
but rather
the slow
saunter
of summer
in (f)august.