WRITTEN IN THE WIND
Dandelions dance alphabets in the breeze
see-through hieroglyphics, word spells not yet invented
choreographed by the seasons
the rain, the bustle in the warming soil
sprouting green patterns become discernable
slender, stalk frameworks expanding into comprehension
arms, fingertips pointing, weaving gossamer mist
curtains of haze behind which lies a stage
where busy technicians rush in and out, making
last-minute changes to the décor and then the lights dim
the corps de ballet take their places
and pouf …the curtain rises
Make a wish, says the little girl standing on the hillside
pulling at the stalk and pouf…she blows into the gossamer
and parachute spores begin their dance into the air
high they fly painting patterns as she, delighted tries to catch them
runs through the grasses after them, arms raised, hair flying
skirt colors singing round her legs and pouf…she takes off
becomes a butterfly singing between the flying spores
twirling and pirouetting from leaf to grass, to branch, to flower
as the music drifts back to a hush, the dandelion spores
catch one-by-one in bramble, on twigs, on spider webs
Caught, one after the other, I watch them drift to the ground
wrap them into a poem
these words, written into the margins, of my program
shall be my applause
WRINKLED MOON
Two crescent moons
rising, setting
bracket our lives
between then and now
Yesterday’s moon
rustled into
departed spring
as if it never was
We call today’s:
come back,
look can’t you see
don’t you
recognize us?
But you, crescent moon
sail away
between the clouds
your secret smile
not fooled at all
WINTER'S HERE
Trees shiver naked
clothe themselves with snow
bears sleep in caves
worms squirm deeper into graves
cats fight for the right
to be closest to the fire
desire wilts under downy quilts
and we freeze and sneeze
as overcoated, scarf throated
we puff breath clouds dense
which coalesce and then condense
on windows, spectacles and glass
as we wait to catch a bus
WIND CLOUD PEEP SHOW
Faces in the clouds
forever changing
rolling round transformations
circus tricks where
lions turn into wind trees
decks of rabbits scuffle across snowfalls
donuts loop on jugglers’ poles
bears climb over after sugar candy
and curtains part for the briefest
photo album glimpse of a moon mother
hurrying across her appointment
crying it’s late, it’s late
wait, wait
WATERMELONS
Have you seen how a middle-easterner strikes a watermelon?
He lifts it, tests its weight,
holds it tight to his body with one arm
while with the other gives it a short flat slap
If the flesh is firm and red and full of sweet juice
it will give off a ring of fullness, just like
a crowded bus packed with the goodness
of soldiers, recently children,
or like the chatter of busy mothers choosing
Sabbath fruit from market stalls
Some fruit are not perfect inside
they have no sweetness, are full of pain and resentment
the scouts seek them out, select them for matyrdom
they are primed for the buses, prepared for the markets
disguised as tasty fruit they seek entrance to restuarants
pass harried guards, mingle with the crowds
Have you seen a rotten watermelon, when
hurled to the ground
how it bursts apart in the crowd
turning the world instantly into a red screaming hell
fragments of pink flesh and limbs explode in all directions
coating walls, pavements, wreckage of furniture
a ghastly dripping hue?
Have you seen a field of ripening watermelons
their leaves all withered and dry
rows of pregnant globes all luscious and green
connected to the earth and to each other
by fragile umbilical stalks
sipping sustenance from the caked sods?
This year as the seasons change
perhaps things will be different
and the rotten fruit will be left on the fields
for the rats and the crows to pick
TREES OF JERUSALEM
Ripe in every heart
silver fig trees decorate
the hills around the place
where temple walls once rose
Split purple skins
picked by birds and time
adorn trunks and branches
bedecked with leaf
so white and naked
when winter winds
blow coats and scarves around
the faithful hurrying
up the mount for prayer
Generations of broken stone,
of claim and counter claim
have bloodied these walls
changed the shape of edifices
the language of devotion
Not so the fig and the olive
like faithful servants
they wait year after year
arms outstretched against milleniums
offering their fruit without complaint
to all who need sustenance and hope
This is the language of the fig
the song of the olive
sweet and purple
green and bitter
more ancient than the stones
more faithful than the prayers
UNDER THE LEAVES
Under the tree spreading
its dense umbrella of leaves
rusting now between hills and heaven
lies the body of a cat
much loved and resting
as if still in some corner of the house,
a laundry basket, a bookshelf,
or admiring the garden’s slumber
from some hidden perch
As if waiting to be called for dinner,
to purr her way back inside,
to nibble again with satisfaction
almost toothless but determined
to savor her way lick by tongue
through yet another tasty meal
But of course she can’t
I know all this, but what of
the beetles, the passing breeze,
the leaves, the twigs, the blue jays
that hop by in their busy visits;
do they perhaps hear some faint echo
of a purr from that motionless coat
of fur and bones, that empty bag
buried under a mound of stones
that once contained a friendly soul?
But of course they don’t
For them the days are diligent
with sun and labor, their nights are
hidden, deaf and blind
in some sheltered nook,
they clamber and step over discarded coats
and bags as if they were only twigs
or rocks, not emptied companions
whose contents have been returned
to nature one way or another
I think that the nicest cemeteries
are those that rest under trees,
on hilltops, or by the banks
of a stream, close to the music
of some waterfall
A grassy knoll under the shade
where you can rest your back
against a gravestone or a tree trunk,
take off your coat, put down your bag,
admire the view and let the murmur
of the passing days lull you to quiet sleep
like a resting cat without a purr
TUGGING
Yesterday I saw a leaf walking
it was pulling itself along in shaky tugs
like a driverless carriage
yet quite certain of where it was going
With this thought in mind I bent to take a closer look
and beheld a tiny black ant at the tip of its stalk
like a tugboat leading a freighter into port
And as I watched and tried to calculate
the ratios of size effort and weight
I saw another dragging a long thin stick
as if it was battling with a difficult piece of calculus
yet inching steadily over little obstacles
the way skilled porters do with bags and straps
as they maneuver furniture up stairs and through doors
Last summer on the way back from the Rockies
we camped by a long lake leaping with salmon
all night the freight trains lumbered along its length
from south to north and from behind a clutch of hills
came others up to Calgary and beyond; unable to sleep
I counted the cars and after exhausting double digits
several times, discovered that over a hundred
was common on this line, each convoy rumbling behind
a single locomotive, endless nights of fuel, grain, timber,
electrical equipment, food supplies and fancy goods
enough to fill a thousand warehouses or more
And concerned, more than a little
I asked the ants if perhaps they knew
how many twigs
how many car loads
until no more remains
TO A DEAD CHAMELION
Tiny green corpse
sprawled so still on the gravel
heedlessly flung into the margin
of a hurtling black highway
who was he
friend or foe?
one leg and incredible looping tail
a jaundiced saffron
the rest of him still green
caught forever in the act of changing colors
How incongruous
his back legs spread wide
as if in flight
his front paws bent together
perhaps in supplication
(praying for another chance?)
Squashed skull
dreams spilled out on the road
long long tongue revoltingly brown and thin
tracing a trail in the sand
A fly, unconcernedly perched on his head
never realizing that he had teeth
Yesterday he could disappear into the foliage
merging and emerging
delicately dancing a game of hide-and-seek
now, unmoving he will disappear slowly
fade away day by day
The ants will pick his skeleton dry
the wind will blow his bones away
and all that will remain will be
a memory of a mark in the sand