Gratuitous Dread Presence

When it rains on election day

When it rains on election day

it make the world of politics just

a little softer

by reducing the rhetoric to a soft hum

of a gentle rain upon the rooftop.

 

When it rains on election day

the voters come in after

braving the element of water

and air if it happens to be windy

but within they bear

the element of fire

a fine passion that glows

on a soft day.

 

When it rains on election day

the intensity of making a decision

is replaced by the soft mummer

of idle judges trying to solve

the problems of the world

one anecdote at a time.

 

When it rains on election day

history is made

not with the harshness of brass horns

pelting out populist ideology

under the the waves of an intense and naked sun

but rather by the eyes of a toddler

watching their mother cast a ballot

while attempting to master

the adhesive on a sticker

that makes the unlikely claim that he voted.

 

When it rains on election day

the voters who come out

are older and worn

from the wrath of time and experience

taking this only precious moment

to share their opinion

in the only way it matters.

26.01.10u

Can I complain about the status of the government

Hypocritical vestige of an ideal

Beset in the petty of the gravel and assorted trash

Found in in a dry urban gutter

Or an instance of injustice

My indignancies braying and echoing across

A place groomed for sport

Delicate instrument lit with sodium and electricity

So it seems brighter if I reboot

Slurping qualm because of the good fight

Red Oak

Coming from an island of blue-green water
the murmur of laughter and fun times
muddled by the still, hot air
splashing whiffs of chlorine
and I am no longer a man
but a plant.

But not just a plant but a tree
better then that a mighty red oak
standing stiffly in the lack of breeze
my gnarly and weather worn branches
casting about sudden shadows
spreading the wisdom of shade
in patterns that grow longer
as the day grows older
an articulate soldier.

Children come to graze upon my mottled bark
and mock the insects I harbor
they laugh and name the squirrels who race high
scavenging my seeds in which I have spit among my leaves
but what they call mold I call moss
and if they don't understand it is no great loss
because here I still stand.

At my feet lies summertime
the sun is so close and hot
children cavort beneath my branches
a random breeze brings a promise of coolness
and I am no longer a man.

Izzy's Hat

Isabella left her hat
upon a post painted green
next to the well
where it would respond to the folly of a vicious wind
in the early summer.

I watched it as I left
knowing that she was going to miss it
yet powerless as the march of time
commanded my presence elsewhere
I was sympathetic for her loss
as the waves rippled the surface of the water
that we had so recently fished to catch memories
that neither of us would remember
and yet the hat
just waved in the air.

It was perched upon her head when we arrived
as she charged from the car with the other kids
and they all laughed and cheered as she
worked the rusty sounding hand pump
bringing forth the water fresh from spring
water rich in iron
to strengthen the blood of love.

And now ahead of her
is a tunnel that she will travel
encased in the darkness of unknown
with an innocence left behind like her hat
upon the pole near the lake
a hat
that was also green, a vibrant green.

I see upon that pole
a history that has yet to come
of loves lost and found
of life lived and loved
of even tears wiped away as those who love her
watch as she becomes her own person
watching with great emotion as
their little girl becomes a woman
while still flattering upon that cold summer breeze. .

The wind takes the hat away
and I stop my car and rush into the field
the grass is too tall and the wind too strong
and I watch it sail away as if a cloud
or as if the promise of a child
and I cannot catch
Izzy's hat.

Raindrops

There must be a place for me

in between the raindrops

of this summer storm--that's so warm

at least until it stops.

 

There must be a place for me

under the soft gray clouds

no lightning flashers--no thunder crashes

just a hot sun now hidden in shrouds.

 

There must be a place for me

where puddles await my thirsty feet

pools of rain--that bring no pain

but just make this afternoon a treat.

The Rabbi's Dinner

It's always better late then never
so it's par for the night when he gets a moment
to nourish the soul that so many souls depend upon
guarding the vision of g-d seen in the red potatoes
but a meal is a meal
and it's hard work to manage such a siege.

The sauce is so creamy he thinks
surely it must be the milk of a kid
and so I will close my eyes for a minutes
abandon my religion to savor this meal despite penalties
for a deal is a deal
and it's hard work to teach.

Through the doors the horns call the first dance
the remains of his hasty meal shoved aside
and he will then stand and don his black frock
a messiah unnamed ready to preach of a second coming
for what is real is real
and some truth in what bites he eats.

Queen Be

 

I'm a queen bee and I'm only three

so I don't have any problems being free

to pursue my search for summer's flowers

in which I can use to draw my powers

with my wand and my wings I can spread love around

and shun those things that are profound

because I'm a queen bee and I'm only three

and I'm too busy being free.

 

I'm a queen bee and it's fun to be me

each morning a gateway to to a world that's free

of pain and desire and withering glowers

or of the complications of weighted bowers

my energy and passion robustly abound

as I spend my afternoons running around

because I'm a queen bee and I'm only three

and that's the only way for me.

 

I'm a queen bee and I can see

that the twilight makes it harder for me

to play in the grass amidst the flowers

because I didn't care that minutes change into hours

but if I listen carefully I can still hear the sound

of my giddiness in simplicity abound

because I'm a queen bee and I'm only three

and the whole world seems to love me.

Church of the Rez

It was kind of dead here

in that last gasp of darkness before dawn is made apparent

but came a man likened to a church mouse

to unlock the door, to walk across the floor

and flip the switches that woke up the building

once he attired the pile of bricks with appropriate light

he drew upon his vestments

thickly white and starched to hide his tail

and stood at the head of the staircase

to watch the reawakening.

 

And that’s how we found him

at the top of a steep staircase

urging us on to the glory of a world steeped in faith

below we conspire

to burn the incense and light the candles this time in a way better then perfect

using smoke and light to breathe fire into the belly

staining the bricks brown with the soot of our sins

before we leave them in the basement

with our other inconvenient prejudices.

 

But when we crack open the recycled manuals

there are stories to be sung into life

at this church of resurrection.

Stopping for a light lunch

Butterfly Garden, Balboa Park, San Diego, California.

Autocorrect

It's not like you can fix everything
so it's best to leave it
to something that can do it while you're writing
so fast that it counts the letters
and lets you know when you've erred
and then
just maybe
it heals itself.

It's not like you can take to wing
soaring above the vast whiteness
of snow or paper or ash
spewing out pollution like the newspaper ink
that stains the fingers of the intellectual
carving signs that can be read from space
as if
there was someone to read them.

A conciseness you meant to bring
to the table; a projection of invulnerability
because it doesn't matter how wrong you are
the problems will fix themselves
not in the direction you might have chosen
or with the plaster you carefully mixed
but an almost repair that leaves a ridged scar
a place to rest your finger
a memoir of the ability
to heal thyself.