A Poem at Mid Night

What would Wordsworth say

About today’s poetry,

About the over-saturation of words,

“Spontaneously over-flowing”

or a cry for help? In

A world burgeoning in self-deprecation

And violent human provocation

Some words sink to the bottom

And some float to the top

In dead zone books

Of undercurrents

Often called education

Where thousands of miles away

Intelligence is dictated by the few

And for the many

Where the loss of the value

for nature and

A forgotten art of pondering daffodils

In the stillness of a wild field

Is the real deficit

We are looking for.

 

The thoughts of half a century sway

Unsteadily in my mind

And I want to get away

From what is surely my own death throes

Of expectations

Dissipating slowly in

This mid-night hour

Starless and moonless,

Blocking out the noise that is my life

And merging into the soul of the earth

Where money no longer chains me

In that vicious cycle of measurements

In words that analyze

Haves and

Have not.

 

April 18, 2015

Ode to a Gardener

How she digs deep into rich loam

absorbing the currents of earth’s hearth

in the palms of  her  hands,

strong and sure,  wet with rain

she must guide tiny tendril sprouts

into the threshold of spring.

 

Mud and sweat, digging, diving into earth,

A firm grip pounding solid pole,

Driving a staff into readied amber ground

made rich with her finger-tips,

pressing softly into the warm walls of life,

her healing hands gently guiding home.

Raining Without You

 

Let brisk winds blow away my fears

Destroy those demons from my heart

And let the sun dry up my tears

‘Cause it’s been storming day and night

And I can’t sleep if its been raining

‘Cause rain scent reminds me of you

streaming,

pattering love,

dripping, sweet crying,

dull-aching, dying,

I can’t sleep,

without you.

 

April 5, 2015

It Is I

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there”,

She used to say,

And I wondered if I would find my way,

Through winding muddy trails

I would go, tripping on rocks,

Sinking in holes, climbing back out

To get there, and one day I found one of my own.

 

But I didn’t cross it;

I went under it.

 

Solid braces reached across a gap,

Wooden beams over a river path,

And the hollow sound of our footsteps

on emptiness, a plank to balance on

with arms stretched out,

Railings daring to reach over,

A place to dangle feet

And tell stories,

And spit,

And sing,

A suspension in space,

A diversion of place

To hide under.

Cool slabs of cement on our backs,

Damp ferns and moss off the beaten path

And roots growing from river banks

A step away from rain drops

And cool mists pattering gently.

 

Gather rubbish and twigs,

Light a fire at night,

huddle in laughter,

gaze in wonderment

warming hands together

in the middle of the night.

 

Trip, trap, trip, trap.

Who dares go under my bridge?

It is I. It is I. It is I.                                                                                April 3, 2015

Hair

 

My Pacific Island roots

flow through my hair,

An ocean-tangled savagery

that moves through me

like heightened drumbeats

sliding across soft skin, aching

wind-whipped bending wild grass,

sun-soaked and salted sands

breathing and rising with the tides.

My hair commands the Milky Way,

Spiraling Swirls of stars and comets

dancing like  sea anemone in

Sensual-swelling waves

Synergy Cascading,

Powered by pride,

And chanting, Earth offering,

Absorbing heat and warmth,

Hot magma goddess force,

Mud-spattering, Ehu-streaking

Light of Fire-sweeping,

Navigated by stars and wind

my woman’s glory

is the Universe

Flowing freely.

 

April 2, 2015

Life Stage

 

I hope I’m not a “pantaloon” in my middle-age

Clowning around in my own self-importance.

with paunchy sides and drooping eyes

Silver–lined hair wanting repair,

Laughing at my own self-imposed despair.

 

I want to be elegant in my carriage

With eyes bright like morning’s light,

And poetic tongue—quick and lithe

to praise the soft petals of delight

And sing my urgent heart’s desire.

 

Who wants to be a doddering fool

With slack mind flowing with repetition

Of unsung dreams, and hopeless monologues

Of how things aren’t what they used to be.

 

Instead, take me to your snow-clad mountains

To drink, to taste, to breathe such majesty

And let my blood run wild like maple syrup

Such sweet infusion of sun and scent and

Spring me, pour me, take my every starlight fervor

For if “All the world is a stage”, I’ll be alive

til’ my last bow, when petals fall, my day is done

without so much of a second childhood.

 

April 1, 2015

*Note: Shakespeare writes of the seven stages of mankind, the 6^th being the Pantaloon.