of heartbreaks and severed limbs.
of heartbreaks and severed limbs.
They descended, swarmed
gathered, linked arms
the single voice of multitudes
obeyed a primal directive
to protect the babies
to preserve family dignity
fighting for brown children
against cages and cruelty
against the white whims of insanity
defending America’s future
from repeating acts of evil and hate
from a legacy of future despair
This is Bonnie, my friend, neighbor and colleague. She flew from our comfortable Town of Trophy Club, Texas, to fight for our nation’s heart in Washington D.C. in the Families Belong Together march. Thank you, Bonnie.
Child, you still see through eyes
unobstructed by experiences
of failures and hopelessness
of people lost and love betrayed
Your eyes shall witness a future
that Time herself has yet to conjure
as divinity and humanity wage war
to protect the heights and depths of Life itself
A Time . . .
of countries sundered by evil despots
of inventions that unify global families
of weapons perfected for genocide
of medicines that promise immortality
of streams, glaciers, birds sacrificed by human greed
of Mother Earth embracing warriors who protect Her domain
of portending words of gloom spewed from costly pulpits
of whispers of faith and goodness by those pure of heart
of demons who worship banners of religion and nation
of saints who fight for justice, protection, righteousness
Child, allow me to join your sojourn to the future
for just a Time and a half a Time
to share with you my crumbs of crusty wisdom
to see visions of promise through your eyes
For grandson Roman. Inspired by his mother’s (Megan) keen photographer eyes.
on hot summer days
This six-foot potted plumeria tree started as a cutting I bought at the Honolulu International Airport. In winter, it lives in our garage given our finicky Texas weather.
Shaded by bonsai
He watches me tend and prune
When I was about four years old, I had an imaginary friend. “Mr. Goto” lived in the back of Palolo Valley in Oahu, Hawaii. He was an old Japanese man with a long white beard. I used to talk to him a lot, which really freaked my mother out. Meet Mr. Goto.
I will not ask you to free me from these cages
For Papa told me America is the land of the free
And when you learn my parents do not steal or kill
You will set my family free.
I will not ask you to protect me
For Mama said that Americans love their children so much
that you give them all the food, clothes and toys they want
and someday you will come to love me.
I will not ask you to show me mercy
For Padre told us that Americans love God so much
That they build big buildings to worship and prove
that they love the way Christo loves us.
But I must ask you.
When I finally receive asylum in your country
and I become friends with your sons and daughters,
Will you invite me to your house?
How she longs for the deep slumber of eons past
so she can dream of a simpler existence
when she swam in the cool waters of a lake of her creation
whose green waters merged Pacific Ocean brine
with rainwater swirling in earthen veins deep in the island belly.
Where she emerges refreshed and baptized yet again,
her raven hair flowing over her wide shoulders and draping her brown breasts
her flesh caressed by cool tradewinds whispering her name.
But she could no sooner retreat behind this memory
than she could delay the birth of this child
conceived by a fiery seed before time was invented
when there was yet no one to worship the gods
whose only destiny was to shape all that was forthcoming.
No doula was present to relieve the cadence of her quickening.
And though she has birthed many, she is not prepared for this new one.
Its strength and persistence demand existence
with a greedy hunger for all in its path.
Her guttural moans spew fire and rock and ash and vapor.
Her contractions cause deep fissures in the earth’s crusty skin.
The heat of her pains scorch villages and forests.
Her precious lake evaporates when she exhales in fury.
Her sweat steams the sea.
Yet even as she begs the heavens to let this birth be done,
her child continues to come forth and, with impish audacity,
consumes homes and playgrounds of mere humans
and imposes its presence on the ocean most vast.
Photo from U.S. Geological Survey photos on the Kilauea Volcano
Every morning, a couple of hours after dawn
a wispy yellow butterfly
leaves her sanctuary of tall dry grass and discarded afterthoughts
to sit for a moment
on moist Pahala black sand
polished by the Pacific Ocean’s insistent caresses
and seasoned with salt as old as time.
She performs this daily ritual
in geometric formation
in villages of thoughts and ideas
populated by dreams and illusions
images of perceived hamlets
on canvasses of poetry and prose
to soothe her restless soul
Last Sunday morning
I had so many plans
a once a week breakfast
of bacon, biscuits, casaba melon, strong coffee
followed by emails and papers checks to be mailed
first thing Monday at the local post office
and mindless dusting of shelves and coffee tables
plus a perfunctory vacuum of hallways well-traveled.
Then a friend dropped by
with unexpected gifts
Her knotted macramé cradling a spider
potted in earth enriched by organic sacrifices
plus palaver on past lives, earth, herbs and such
and we walked amongst tomatoes and basil
while my dogs sidled and shadowed her,
eager for a mere glance, a pat, an embrace
with a Sabbath heart