Tag: Poetry

Tent City Theology

We thank you
truly
o’ King
for this
bounteous
harvest of pain
o’ do tell us
again
of the
treasures
you’ve saved
for our
devoted
faithful
deaths,
alone,
undone in
mental
wards,
starving
at this
table of
promises

Divine Opera

The gray
catbird
looks nothing like a cat

I can overlook that

Its melodious
aria
drifting
deliciously
from deep
in the
magnolia
moves me
to set aside
such pettiness,
a performance
so grand
the gods
are in
attendance

Cradle

Blood red
Orange
Africa
Like a zircon
gouged from
the ground of
Tanzania
Like a shimmering
sweltering
serengeti sunset
Like blood on
Sierra Leone
diamonds
Like the
corner of the
Zambian flag
Like the
feverish
flow
of my
ganglion
imagination

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