paradise
some have easy lives
of steady routine and trusted ties,
and proper places to place their praise,
and ways of grieving what time won’t save,
and enough to eat and a place to sleep,
always and more friendly faces to greet
forever as memories grow on a tree
while the young bury the old
and the old leave ready.
cicada
they emerge imperfect.
it’s the emerging that’s impressive.
I keep thinking they’ll swarm as in childhood,
and my field of vision will fill with life forms the size of my hand.
decades later, their fragility surprises me.
they surface in groups, here and there.
years ago, at the sewer’s mouth in front of grandma’s,
among the gumballs.
now they congregate on the exterior of our neglected garage,
hang on the side of an old neighbor’s fence,
and climb a forgotten tree at the neighborhood’s entrance
that has always pointed to the sky opening above it,
never saying look here until today.
they come awkwardly,
each with a solitary task of rebirth,
leaving old skins as they prepare for flight alone.
careful not to step on them.
red-eyed like some imaginary beasts
though they approach like the gentlest rain
and will cling softly to your finger
if you help them back on their feet
after flailing upside-down for who knows how long,
and as you get to know them briefly, they will sing for you
ancient melodies for modernity alongside familiar cricket choirs,
regardless of how heavy the next storm will be this week,
no matter if they’ve lost a wing
to the effects of intermittent heat waves on this delicate process,
or the bad luck brought on by some foot traffic,
they will sing for you
after they’ve already missed their chance at flying,
and remain only to linger
between the edges of confusing concrete
among the hungry ants,
until they give in to the inevitable,
they’ll sing for you.
creative responsibility
your mind contains worlds,
every possibility.
your attention is sacred
like the earth.
some will fight over it,
remember:
creation is a deliberate thing.
my mind may be a plot of land
my mind may be a plot of land
where many seeds are planted,
sometimes without my consent.
after the fire
wouldn’t it be nice
to have a say in what is grown?
untitled
beyond the fray
that would dictate borders forever,
we’d find the living
mothers, children,
fathers, kitchens,
generations of rituals
inherited as our relationship to the stars.
we’d find another sunset,
a light behind horizon waiting
for us to find out
come and see
come and see
about a future we know little about,
here, where children once free,
before taking form and fire,
now bleed unwillingly.
the gardener
the gardener’s face is tanned
from re-deciding
to stay another hour with the soil.
the lines in his palms
are permanently stained,
a source of pride,
a source of shame
at silver city markets
under skyscrapers.
he’s aware of heat,
suns, moons, winds,
and he knows in the dry summer
to linger with the hose.
the gardener digs,
through entanglements of roots,
and yellow-white worms
whose bodies flail in his hands
with as much life as he.
the gardener understands dignity.
Sun Dance
on the reservation
the earth supports
certain gold the miners forgot:
a sunflower field.
it’s almost ceremonial,
their brown heads and gold halos in July
upturned towards the sky.
come winter, they die.
their bodies bow
in the harsh temperatures
like disillusioned children.
white replaces yellow
as snow seats itself
upon every bent head
for miles, until the news
has reported enough deaths
to make you resent spring
for lingering too far ahead.
beach day
your wet feet plus sand make
toes frosted with brown grit
while the umbrellas nod
their colorful triangles
towards sea-washed boats
aged-over with crustaceans
as white light flickers on the waves
we trust today
Sharing the Amtrak Dining Car
a girl in a Scarface tee-shirt
enters the café car frowning,
buys a coffee with her friend
now chirping like two birds again,
because coffee comes from the earth
and is naturally uplifting,
a shared ritual across time, continents and reasons.
I wonder if she enjoys the contrast
between wakefulness and sleep.
drinking coffee, you ingest earth’s benevolence.
it always works the same:
doesn’t care who you are
or how old you are
or how much gratitude you show
for being alive.
it’s indifferent like her and yet,
it can have a real effect on a place.
Tower of Babel
an economy of pride and convenience, was that what it was about?
when it was erected high in heaven, did some helplessly cry out?
perhaps its architects were men of knowledge, discipline and high rank,
who hoped their lands, from grains of sand, would rise stably to owe them thanks,
who knew a thing or two of the effect of elegance on the eyes,
a sight to behold, like a dream in bold, or a line italicized.
perhaps they meant to catch the attention of all forces in the world
the way some carve their names in trees, graffiti cities in lines and swirls.
when it fell to pieces, their dream, their plans, new diversity sprang
with less of the view they knew and new excuses to spread their blame.
confused among new languages, trapping ideas for centuries,
like a puzzle once finished easily, now splintered eternally
with many scripts to interpret each flower on ornamented hills,
like the endless ways to know the presence of an individual,
whose uniqueness cannot be captured by a definition or phrase
or a night beneath the generous eyes of one dome’s returning gaze,
asking what else beyond oneself exists in everything together
across time, idea, landscape, language, species, faith, and weather?
a divine moment beyond achievement, one silent prayer hopes to know;
it matters not who lit the flame but how it speaks with a dancing glow.
Buddhist at St. Louis Basilica
everything was perfect until
the blank, official sign of peace,
the dome of gold and royal blue
contentedly held you and me.
I looked at you, to hold you too
beneath singing antiquity,
your hesitating shrug betrayed
a mastery of falsity.
then, with more sense I knew I’d strayed
far from the realm of proper hosts,
mistook your awkwardness for graves
of his dead lover’s hungry ghosts.
you were new to the sign of peace
and eager to act properly,
a stranger at a crowded feast,
kneeling, sitting, standing, offering.