What I like tonight

I like this:
The warm
Wood stove,
The red
Wine lips,
The long
Soggy night,
The burning
Hash spliff,
The sleeping
Black bears,
The melodic
Mali music,
The dirty
Dishes piled,
And the poetic
Solo sojourn.

Autumn

Welcome now
The ragged
Tattered wing
That is autumn.

We call it fall
Since all things
Fall into ruin,
Ain’t it true?

Or is it leaves
Falling, leaving
Their blueprint
For spring?

This season
Descends like swift
Swords, sometimes
Like solemn sighs.

Mostly it surprises
Because last month
Became this month
Just the other day
And I still have
Yet to properly
Prepare for it.

Ode to Ali Farka Toure

He was born on the back of a donkey
At the edge of the world.
As a child the snake hypnotized him
And taught him to sing the songs of spirits.
He held centuries of African memories
In his rice farmer’s hands.

What he accomplished in seven decades
Transcends time:
He caught the echo of enslaved Africans
From across the Atlantic
And turned them into a gift,
Reuniting a broken family.

His music is not his music.
It is the spirit of the Niger River,
The soul of the Sahel
And the shadow of the Sahara;
It is a djinn that sings in a dozen languages
As it asks you to lay down in the grass,
To let the serpent look into your eyes.

He was a Grammy-winning rice farmer
Who toured the world
Only to be content to be at home
Tending his crops
Upriver from Timbuktu.

What he did was for all people,
For all people.
When will we in the West understand
This basic guiding principle?

*a djinn is a spirit in West Africa. they inhabit all forces of nature: the wind, rivers, trees, rocks, etc. they can be either good or bad and they are thought to be responsible for the order of nature and human relations.

Ode to Toumani Diabate

When the wind
Passes
Its hands through
Trees and soft grass,
When the river
Slides
Through the rocks
Slapping the banks,
When a bird
Flaps
Its feathered wings
Through the air,
And when his fingers
Dance
Like a fisherman
Walking on water,
Then a certain
Beauty
Takes on a life of its own.

What he does
Is not done,
Rather
It is merely a heart of gold
That has found its way
Into sound.
He tells a secret
Revealed
Note by note,
He tells a story
Centuries old
Yet never told
In this way.

He makes wine of water
And intoxicates your ears,
Unveiling a polished gem
That the colonizers ignored,
Mistaking the Mande musicians
As handfuls of Sahel dust;
But really he and his kind
Are the hands that worked
The unforgiving land into the priceless
Mineral and bone that is Mali’s legacy:
Its music.

summer passing

summer passes
as witnessed by
the passing of these
clouds
pressing their pitter-patter
drops of rain scattered
upon my roof.

i listen as rains
fall
like autumn
peeking around the corner
sneaking up on the equinox,
equating time's passage
with the passing of the torch:
the sun descending
steadily
seeking the lowest horizon.

ah, but it is a fair time,
a sigh between breaths.
the parched earth
drinks a toast
and bids good night
to the glories of the long day,
filling her cup
with the full sky
falling
as it is now,
stretched across the lengthening
night.

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.