Links to articles that inspired this piece listed at the end.
Time reaches across
cold decades of Decembers,
whispering of you
in me,
of me
in her,
of me
entwined
between
you and her
within those eight days
of December
containing
ghosts of ghost
cells
there dwells
somewhere
inside Time’s touch,
understanding.
winds carried the dusty remains
of a nation across the land
burying bleeding women
in breeding graves
dug by their slave masters
who thought to teach them
of their homespun place
woven in a tapestry
of chains
the remains devoid
of time’s progressive thread
that once contained
something more
than the prison
of being named property
The words, the words--
They rattle in my head,
louder than
the tail of a snake,
louder than
the breaking of stacked billiard balls,
louder than
the concussing jack hammer on a city street--
too much noise to hear distinctly
what must be written,
what must be said, screamed
into the foul fiery smoke-filled air
One word, one.
Just one, larger than the others,
louder—
settles against my skin,
a lash of fiery noise,
burning, burning deep--
betrayal--
burning away tiny scars
of other betrayals
a lifetime ago
This wildfire of betrayal
burns away
soul held beliefs
of common good.
(Revised from 2016 on the eve of our 2024 election)
The captain of industry gleefully looks to history
As a populous forgets all the tales of prophecy
While writhing in the seduction of blame and lies.
Thus, all the best in humanity is left behind.
Firing squads, internment camps, and torture now promised.
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.
The angry populous forgets
The path of anger makes the “world blind.”
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.
The sun dons a robe of sackcloth, grieving.
The ocean’s rasping last breath,
As the moon’s face rained blood tears,
Turning rivers red.
Yes, the captain bellowed, “Let the horsemen ride.”
The swallowtail paid a visit this morning,
a flutter of striped wings,
tipped itself in hello
as we sipped coffee
and looked up from our morning paper.
We smiled at the swallowtail then each other.
You swear it is the transformed caterpillar
we rescued from certain death
as it hung from the dog’s lip
and then tenderly placed
in safety on the gourd vine leaves
growing by the wood pile.
I do not know. It could very well be.
It is beautiful in its flight.
Its morning joyful greeting of belonging,
of having found its place.
These mornings are life here with you.
Image is my own
Sitting here in New Mexico and looking at these mountains, I wonder if my mother ever heard the mountains of Appalachia sing as I do these.
The mountains sing their history--
of when they knew only tranquility
in the land of their ancient salt seas,
when the sun could not touch them,
when they were virgin still--
safe from the rough hands of the wind,
long before the rise of humanity.
Their song holds the rhythms,
the bars, the layers of the time before--
before an angry molten core,
containing not a single drop of mercy,
drove them from their ancient, peaceful home,
forcing them to be refugees in the kingdom
of sun and wind.
Their song holds the rhythms
of all they grieve
in witnessing humanity’s rise,
dripping in eternal inhumanity.
At the feet of the mountains, the lilacs,
nourished by snow melt tears,
bow their heads and dance in the rhythms
of the mountains’ song—
A dance of homage
to such ancient ones.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wITB_k8gX78&list=OLAK5uy_nKHcHbv67IP6facZWpq6ZwAhVrhAxMwQg&index=5
Forgive me, I ramble,
telling you of life at sea level--
where a steady pour of hours stream,
and minutes bead against the windowpanes
as the seconds mist into fog--
decades of earth and rock liquify--
A mottled mix of flowing colors and viscosities
defiant and devoid of any beauty
to ease a slippery sharp-edged flow
carving out an emptiness
within this near ghost of a soul
waiting in unacknowledged darkness,
while asking for a way to the light—
before waking in the softness
of morning at altitude.
morning wakes
while a warm stretch
of sunlight crosses the room
to sweetly caress--
as morning sighs
a sleepy breath,
flowering in its soul.
The mountains draw their shawls of clouds
‘bout their shoulders to ward off the damp chill,
humming as if about to settle down
into rocking chairs before a fire
and knitting away this afternoon of winter
as they chat about the doings
of their children, grandchildren,
and their neighbors to the west.
Perhaps, this is why--
the birds flit and chirp
singing songs of spring
as they nibble at the suet cakes
you’ve left for them.
Though the mountains shroud
themselves in snow filled clouds,
a warmth spreads
as if the air contained
no freezing chill.
There is a light here
I’ve not found before
in this early morning
of snow cloud
shrouded mountains,
filling me
as if a sun lighted spring
prodded the mountains
to shrug away their shrouds.
undone in spectacle
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