Poems

Rocking

I write late at night
under Venus and strong wind
after baby sleeps
after bath and pulling
the sheets straight finally
and I remember back to day
to monarch butterfly winking
over garden wall wings
like kites white clouds close
and moveable changeable
in brilliant cyan blue
and the strings of hammock
leaving red marks on
my skin swaying rocking
the child slowly

May be

The house is quiet except
birds chirping in their
dusking habit. Orange blasts
along the edge of sunset
clouds and I follow a plume
of smoke to the baby's window
hide behind curtains to peer
at the fire going in the oven
well in the neighbor's yard.
The body of an animal hangs
from branches in a pinetree
slick and fresh. May be sheep
may be pig, unidentifiable
but as dead midsize skinless
headless its sinews shining even
in the dim dropping light.
Party tent yellow and cheap
is pitched there too and headless
skinless animal may be pig may be
sheep will party all Saturday
hanging its soul from a branch
may be in heaven.

Sending Everything

I look back at everything
and realize I just write
about the sky all the time,
the moods of clouds moving
and massing above me into
black walls. Clouds wisp away
like white tassles into the breeze
swept up with leaves, dangling
ornaments of red peppercorn from
swaying branches. Or the night,
that endless shifting indigo,
Venus stripping herself naked
and winking right under the full
moon. I write about the sky each
time because there I am standing
under it burning papers with intention,
written hastily or carefully, lighting
match to wish to magic to moon,
always looking up, always looking.
The great universe must be out
there in the sky and that is where
I am sending everything.

Stones

They throw rocks
like runes like stars
Life stones falling
on the checkered tablecloth
and I look for my fortune
love out there on the far edge
but heart close by
prosperity in the middle
spirit and feminine
in a straight line to me
I look for my fortune
and want to make rocks
real and he says
the life stones never lie

Life

How cruel is life
that a man stands
in a metro passage
shirt pulled up to show
zigzag scars and colostomy
bag in his limp hanging
belly begging pesos
How mean is life
that a tottering old lady
has feet so ravaged
and arthritic that her toes
are crossed as if
wishing for good luck
and she still walks
So cruel and mean, and
then life looks back at me
and I have to look too
A fair eyed baby rides
snug against mother's belly
peering out bright
train rushing out
of a dark tunnel
into day light

End of Days

I haven't seen a sunrise
in a long time and when
I do it's apocalyptic.
Yellow meets blue
plus pollution and casts
phosphorescent green across
the sky. Green sky,
or is it the tint on the bus
window, looks like the end
of days. I see the faint
silhouette of a volcano
poking at the dab of orange
on the horizon. Thousands
of grey block houses crawl
up the mountain sides like
tumors, and the bus descends
into the illness of the city,
the seething chaos of metro,
thousands pushing in and pushing
off, hard faced and hitting,
or just plain sleeping.
A lady, with child strapped
to her back, sings, plays guitar,
toots a pan flute rigged to her
chin. I'd have given her money
if she had been on my car
sooner. Instead I walk
for blocks in sticky heat,
listen to someone yell
Hebrew into a cellphone,
look for coffee and wonder
how can people live in this
growth on the face of the earth,
looking like the end of days.

Years

Years go by slow
and fast somehow
all at the same time
I want the baby big
already want to understand
his foreign words want
him to calm down stop
screaming flailing
on the tile floor
but I don't want to lose
his sweet giggle shiny
eyes tickled belly
head nuzzled into
the curve of my neck
People reserve rooms
three years out already
tagging December 2012
when the baby will be
five a big boy shiny
eyes watching eras
end eras begin earth
and sun line up with
milky ways and black holes
galaxies and will he
still nuzzle his head
into the curve of my neck
three years out and 26,000
years later?

Simple Night

Dark falls softly
no rain today just
crickets strumming
the strings of warm night
of boys kicking soccer
balls down the street
men drinking beer
on the corner
We go for a drive
bouncing over gravel
looking for half moon
in the blue blanket
of sky just pointing
sighing oh ah at simple
glory in summer night

Endless Forever Things

I see a sky cleft by day's
last light, night's storm
clouds rent open by a gash
of color. I see dark banks
give way to periwinkle, apricot,
maiz, and cayenne, like a sea
parting, then waves of black
crashing in, consuming the final
lashing of light. I am walking
down the street, lamps burnt
out overhead, or crackling
with a fried connection. I am
walking with market bag in hand,
chicken stock in tupperware,
stopping at the store for cookies.
I am looking at the sky, the big
dark sky, wondering how my breath
can possibly ripple out and impact
the roiling infinity above me.
I wonder how I can presume to give names
of Home Depot house paints to light,
to God cracking open Mystery, to
endless forever things, to heavy
raindrops pelting me every step home.