Days of Stone

some days I am a stone
that cannot lift its weight,
a dense conglomerate
of errors and wounds,
something that settles
to the bottom
sinking
sinking
down to the silt and suckers
where murk and sightless things
companion me unreachable
in the absent light, if only
I can look up to the pearl
inviting me to reach

Flight of the Dragonfly

Flight of the Dragonfly

commissioned book cover art by artist
William Ho,  
United Nations Goodwill Ambassador of Art and Culture

 

Now

i count the hours like petals
falling from the songs of doves,
waiting for your laughter
to take away my tears

send me your gentleness,
the soft touch of your fingertips
and some good news from the world,
tell me the earth will forgive us

i count the minutes because
life is wanting my attention
all of us, beating against the panes
until the there is only now

Dreamers

dreaming comes close
to the eye that sees inside me,
a warrior wanting to right the world,
making the freedom fighters light
with wings and songs
to break your heart

no man can know
what burns in my belly,
pay no attention to the evidence
that detracts you
from your own dream,
go on, go on and dream it

what sad days will follow
if you never try, forget the critics
and aim high - set the bar
meant for you, stretch your
worldly bones, go where
you fear and sit awhile

Mortal Fathers

In the gorge of Twenty Mile Creek
firs slouched of midnight snow,
entombed like the ancient dead
where my brother and I heaved
our skinny legs into the blue trough
of his striding

Stranger in a red mackinaw,
his rifle shoulder slung
and plumb to the world,
the mystery of whiskered men
spitting a shine into the grip
of walnut checkering,
something seductive glinting there

A father remote and reticent,
sworn to the reproach of surly mouths
turned to us when the shrill and chatter
gave up our place in the woods,
stopped to strike a match
against his jutting chin and said,
fucking squirrels, then lit his cigar
and watched us giggle and squirm
sucking up his sweet smoke

I wondered how a word
could diminish our fear of him
and replace it with adoration,
ominipotence undone,
a mere human after all,
just a man, not so perfect,
not so stiff and absolute,
a man brought to distraction
by small beasts

Pilgrim's Boy

I am a rover
ranging the arid hills
of my father, a seeker
of what I cannot see

I hold his stories
deep in my bones
and they ache
for remembrance

But it is my eye that reaches
for the unreachable moments
that cannot be found
in the haste of a poem

For all that belongs to him
belongs to him

And if I die
with my own stories rotting
in the belly of experience,
who will see my footsteps?

It is not the earth that decides
what is up and what is down,
but the ascension of the heart
beating to be free

For the journey that belongs to me
belongs to me

And he will smile at the prickly pear
pinned to my foot, a boy
and a man walking the path
one summer day

Bitterroot

Come to the margins
of rock and ruin,
stubbled and beaten
like dried parchment
coiled to a fine scrap,
a willful life swelling
from May rain

Out in the desert
something happens
that will steal your
breath, put you down on
your scabby knees old friend,
the petals unfurling at noon
just for you, along the hillsides
and benches above
the deep lakes

Now the tributes
are coming in
from the anointed ones
who know what to look for,
bitterroot showing the world
what can be done from nothing,
how life redeems itself
from yesterday’s loss