deftly darting though the weeds,
land on cattails’ pollen hat,
lighting yellow dust into air.
Sunlight glints transparent wings
held steady, fold-up fashion
like thin-winged butterflies
whose bodies shine in blinding blue.
The damselfly’s deft, delicate line
lifts up on cellophane wings.
It darts through the air
to find its prey.
A mosquito caught
by crunching, tearing jaws.
They called it off for threat of rain.
The skies were blue.
The skies were blue.
I wanted friends to come with me,
go for a ride in the country.
They would not come for
threat of rain, though
the skies were blue.
The skies were blue
when I went out
to walk in open woods.
So soon I found my clothes were wet,
from warm summer serein because
the skies were blue.
And creativity. Destruction’s dance will fate
Each cycle, spiral, unity, and all the parts
That reconstruct the world in Shiva’s frantic beat.
Sweet memory, the mother of the poem, song,
And science—from their father, lightning insight, flash
Of rhythms, patterns crafted, chiseled into stone,
The words we sing and print from face and curve and dash.
Remembering is memory—the shadow zone
That we construct, for all we know is right and wrong.
But when play our music, lift our legs and dance,
And when we sing our poetry, our memory
Remembers us to greater things, to newer things,
And we, together, join our hands, refuse to flee
And, as a chorus, know the poet’s words, and sings—
Then all the world in truest knowledge will entrance.
Complexity of thoughts is not the rage
Here in this sullen age—
Each person has made themselves a pawn
To merely pretentious right rage
The mountains are razed, but the valleys
Aren’t filled—the city’s in danger of flood—
Water and trees and mud
All blinding the eyes and filling the alleys
And mixing with heartless blue blood
No thoughts are cool serpents who shed
Their skin and shine here in their auburn sin—
Both-and renewing—win
Our ought in the years when we will wed
And culture will die and begin
The eagles now fall from the sky—
Their beaks and their fathers are oiled with prose
Fragments—the nothing shows—
The hatred of heights—no, don’t deny—
Belie that it’s love they oppose
The lions they want to declaw—
The artists, poets, rock-n-rollers—bright
Culture they hate and fight
To win by the force of the flaw
To bring on the night with their bite
The camels they want to embrace
Would spit, refuse to move—these desert beasts
Burdened to lose—the priests
Who pray and who prey upon the grace
Of hatred—on them they will feast
But the Age of the Poets will come—
The playing child will in the future speak
Truth that the wiser seek—
His wisdom and beauty’s not dumb—
You’re deaf—but this child is not meek.
