Rainfall….
Where light has lain with the floating leaves
These spirited ones sit in bundles of air….
Juku….
Jukumari….
Winds scented of the saliva of spirits…
For those resisting …
In the streets of la Paz…
Deep mystery and strength in the
Veins of the Aymara….
Warrior fires flickering in
the mountains….
For Evo Morales
Aymara leader
Juku…..owl
Jukumari…bear
Aymara language
11.18.19
The first time I saw sunny
She was dancing in a Tijuana bar
To procol harums another shade of pale
The borders we crossed
Along the Mexican peninsula
Across the illegal plains
Saved me from my floundering self
Her beautiful smile as she danced ankle deep in the luminous
Ocean night….
Smuggling books into East Germany
Under the Berlin Wall
Later in a ghost filled room I made a prayer
For the lost….
And they went home
And the wall fell down….
10/13/19
Son
An orphaned night rises over the saintly gardens of Bologna…
I am looking for you among these ruins that call themselves poems
Looking for you as if it the last thing to be done in this greying mist
Before dusk I have seen you moving as a thread of silk from a spiders
Cloak I have seen you tasting water made of prayer and ash
And a little horse in your pocket
Made of
String….
The solemn world drinking at the
Wells of indifference….
Names falling out of the autumn
Leaves…
For michael
10/25/19
Bologna
Between each spoken word….
A sacredness resounds
It’s quivering motion turning in a
minuscule whirlwind
As the silence that glistens in a ravens eye….
Of what can never be spoken
Watching in its spirit voice
Toward our yearning….
Toward
Our dreams
Our
Slowing lives….
Bologna italy
Where light mirrors through
Shattering glass….
Breath falls out of a crescendoing wind
Breath looking for its life
Bells of paper prayers burning where once
the sentinels stood
Trees calling to one
another before
they fall
Trees in their remembered shadows
Going away….
Amazonia rhapsody
Bologna Italy
October 4 19
Soft words that have never spoken
Inside the abandoned tennis shoe
Of a child….
On a Texas riverbank….
still warm imprint of Hotneh
Steam rising
from its track
Howling across
The miraging rain….
torn white cloth of skin and fear
as a grey moth escaped from a torn nightmare
On concertina wire shining under a full moon….
We must begin the war drums
Again….
The dog soldier texts
Marina de Lesina
August 13.19
Hotneh (wolf)
Time is not made of Stone
It withers before us….
Silences that rage between memory
I listen for the sound of their claws….
Along the burning floors….
Waiting for the words
They will whisper there….
Keepers
Marina de Lesina
August 13.19
Sorrow is no longer a word….as sadness….
as loss….
They are no longer words
If you are brown……if you are the
Other….they have not been words for us
For a long time….
They exist with us….
Fear is a word to us….
It marks the path of our enemies….
They fear….
They are not like us…we can smell their dead souls….
Their empty shadows….
Colorless….
Alone…..
Dog soldier song
For El Paso
8/5/19
Dreams crossing a field of yellow flowers
Names falling out of them as they pass…
Where the footprints of migrants…
Are etched in dried mud of human misery….
Between each word sung or spoken….
Screamed or begging….
A sacredness resounds
In the minuscule….
It’s rounded motion….
Speaking in its spirit voice….
Toward our inward yearning….
Lesina, Italy
Where the immigres toil in 100 degree temperatures
Picking tomatoes.
