Bones and Kneecaps

I am
addicted to
stones
and I blame the
gods
for creating such
exquisite crystal
bones
and
kneecaps
for Mother
Earth.
They have it
all

beauty
power
mystery
magic
inner peace

They ride
in my
pocket
wherever I
choose to be
without a peep
of objection
and when they speak,
(which is infrequent),
it is always worth
leaning in to
hear.

I choose them over
humans –

mostly –

my wife
and good
poets
are encouraged to
stay
and a few other
souls
from along the
way

Caw! Caw!

I write well,
a decent poet
who could be
magnificent with
passionate devotion

true also of
the teak sitar
leaning against the
corner chair
and the even
more sublime
teak surbahar
standing silent
against the wall

yes, magnificence
awaiting my
passionate devotion,
to include
the ocean
of handcrafted flutes
now collecting dust
unused
beside
two high end
guitars.

Surrounded by
unbounded
possibilities
while I float,
ungrounded,
accomplished at
nothing
save imagining
accomplishment,
unable to choose
a final legacy,
the special
something
to define me
in a world that
doesn’t know I
exist,
a wayward
crow
gathering
shiny things
for no
particular
end

the dead
don’t give it
a thought

Woody

He’s the foreman,
crimson hardhat
nose like a
jackhammer
and a knack
for extracting
bugs from
the knottiest
problems.
You’ve probably
seen him,
up in the
trees

Albatross

Finally sun

sans apology
for being gone
so long,
still haughty
and hot
sweat sluicing
down through
awkward spots

Finally sun

My penance for
shooting away
the pouring rain,
burning my neck
sits Sol’s
searing chain!

Finally sun

I must borrow
a towel, or become
a guacharo!
Shall you come again
tomorrow?

Sodden

I am
seized,
ensnared,
sleepily staring
through the pane
at the drear,
incessant rain,
Nikhil Banerjee’s
Bhimpalaspri Alap
deepening
my trance,
the trees
hypnotically
swaying.
The trees –
green,
the only damn color
in the whole damn
dark
damp
day

Predator

Worry is
unbecoming –

but it is always
coming,

relentlessly

like the wolves
doggedly
following
the old
frail elk

knowing
it will eventually
slow

a faltering step
and it is
upon us

creasing the skin
around our eyes
twisting our spines
stealing the color
from our hair and
leaving us there

reduced

stooped

withered.

worry is
unbecoming –

but it is always
coming

Sojourn

The morning
arrived quietly,
a subtle,
pregnant
pause,
the comforting
hum of a
neighbor’s
air conditioner
and the steady
clack
clack
clack
of a distant
westbound train
the only sounds,
as if the
breathless
week having
rumbled through
half its life
set aside its
ponderous bustling
for a moment
to reflect.
The gentleness
of the
interlude
moved me
to tears,
and I held
wednesday’s hand
in silence,
wondering
what would become
of us

12:47 am

I drank too much wine tonight and Bukowski would find some poetry in that but I haven’t – not yet. Odds are, I never will. And I would never want to be Bukowsksi, a cigar smoking sheath of pain, not to mention – dead. Tomorrow awaits . . . we shall see

No One Knows

Poetry is
simplicity,
the spattering
sound of a cow
pissing on a
flat
rock
beneath the
lilting melodies
of songbirds
and buzzing bees
in an idyllic
pasture of green
and yet,
complex beyond
comprehension,
devoid of a standard,
absent a criterion
that decides,
“this is good,”
so we float it
out on a cloud,
let it drift,
and see who
looks up and
exclaims,
“I see it!”