Poems And Quotes - Blog Posts

Per Amor Ad Astra

Take only photos, leave only footprints,

The mantra of the visitor

To nature's stoop.

We tread lightly on our mother's carpet,

The grass or soil or sand deforms

Under shoe or sole.

We watch as our cousins trot or sway or chirp

As our brother sets on the horizon,

Brilliant and silent.

Together are we on our little world, starstuff all.

As much of the ground or sky

As we are each other.

Watch as the stars rearrange themselves,

See the passing of eras, young ones,

Rise to your feet and behold.

I Don't Have Hands

Eating daisies, yellow paint,

Drinking water, taking pills.

Doing everything as I should

Following all the doctor's rules.

Working hard, walking often,

Happy wallpaper, pretty songs

I wrote my feelings in the notes app,

Going to therapy, watching birds.

I have a cat, have a roof,

Have a bed, have a girl.

I don't wanna be sad no more

But my mind has been made up for me.

The ball's not in my court, and I

Don't have hands anyways.

I Take Pictures of Flowers

Who:

For my love, to make her smile

When a purple blossom makes

Me think of her favorite color.

For my Tumblr followers when

I post proof of my wilderness walks.

For my soul, so I might revisit these

Moments of awe and beauty.

For these,

I take pictures of flowers.

What:

A moment caught in my

Binary bug net,

A digital trace of my travels,

A daily commute or intentional stroll.

And along the way,

I take pictures of flowers.

Where:

My cloud storage fills

To the brim, and I deign to

Empty a single pixel.

Yellow, then red warnings of

Limited space,

But still,

I take pictures of flowers

Why:

To preserve what I cannot

Trust myself to remember.

Every detail, every shimmer on

A petal, every ring of color,

Every fold and roll and pleat.

To replace what I cannot have;

With no box or garden or

Sun-exposed pot,

I can only hold onto these beauties

In digital form.

When:

The golden hours escape me,

But they are probably sour grapes,

A cast of yellow hue on a face,

Not meant for leaf or colored bract.

Nay, whenever the feeling hits,

I pull out my device.

No process or plan in mind,

I snap one or two decent photos

And continue on my way.

Moment by moment

I take pictures of flowers.

How:

Only carefully, gently,

Holding the camera as I would

Carry a basket of down.

Motionless, I hold my breath and

Press the button.

My phone, with the help

Of an AI worth my trust,

Or with my moderately expensive

Camera I would like to buy

A macro attachment for.

I know not the specifics of how

My precious ladies make it onto

Film or image, but even so

I take pictures of flowers.

Don't Hide Your Wings

Pieced together with scraps

Of holy books, bound with the glue

Of a mad and desperate hope

Hang them on your shoulders,

Shine with the terrifying joy of being known.

Indulge in the sacrament of transformation,

Commune with the highest powers,

Feel your sacred self soar

Out of your bones; float in the whispers

Of thin air and cold mists.

And touch the terrible, destroying

Light of the great and fiery sun,

Falling up into the clear and silent realms

Above; the light piercing through your

Gilded flesh, radiating silvery threads.

Shed your hallowed frame and return anew

Crash and scorch the forests,

Turn the desert sands to glass,

Strike the earth with the force of

Lightning, scream your name like thunder.

Rise, smoldering, skin in embers and blessed

Black char, step from your crumbling grave

Bring new life to desolate plains,

Cleanse the salt from the fields,

Extend your arms, and breathe finally.

Breathe new air,

Breathe in new lungs,

Breathe fire and flame

Breathe nothing and everything

Breathe, at last, you.

Farmtown Vibes

Planting seeds in the rich brown of my eyes,

Watering them with the cool blue of yours,

We gaze past irises and into souls

Our identities blurring and blending

Fusing into something entirely new.

The harvest is lush, my basket overflows.

Corn of ideas, creeping beans of love,

The flowing gourds of acceptance and

Understanding give a cornucopia of

Nourishing food for the soul.

Desert Cherry Blossom

Under lacey shade and golden rain

Desert cherry blossom trickles

Bright desert light onto a bed of pebbles.

A verdin hops branches, calling all the time

Honeyed warble from blue-green twigs.

Florid sprigs along crooked boughs,

Silken sun-drops flit to the ground.

Bees delight in their bounty,

Bobbing from petals, bringing new life.

Soon, these skirts are traded for

Seeds, their pods forage for locals.

Gifts abound from smooth-barked

Florida, this Parkinsonia blessing

All who alight in and around her

Resplendent wings.

Fresh Laundry

Spring waits in my closet,

A cool-weather jacket at the ready

Washed fresh with the winter rains

Dried in the chilled breeze.

I slide off my woolen coat of winter and

Set it to the side for the summer's dreams.

My last chance for sweaters has passed,

And now is the time of the budding.

I take the hanger and slide the season

Off its mooring. The linen is delicate from

Years of washes, from changes in climate,

From the long wait and the ecstatic fever.

I sheath my arms in spring's sleeves

Its shivery fabric pricking my heat-adapted skin.

The delight of a comfortable afternoon and cool

Night will never get old.

Potent Ponds

Steeping in cool waters

The saffron sun on the

Bowl of the pond.

Taking my vitamins every

Morning, the C in my veins

Mingling with the salt in my eyes.

I ride two buses to my chapel

Of peace, a set of flowing

Waters, unblessed but holy to me.

Pacing the dusty paths of

The preserve, I ponder the

Wild waterbirds, wandering.

The ducks, unburdened by

Prejudice, finding their ways

Along the tiny beaches.

The spice of life, I infuse my days

With the fine herbs of musical

Birdsong and chords of clouds.

Finalizing my day's work,

I board the buses home, busy days

Ahead, but for now, hallowed, heady harmony.

Staycation

Rooting through yellowed, dusty memories

Those of my grandmother's back yard,

The smell of sweet maple leaves

And the sting of late autumn

We made "potions" in my backyard,

Collected rocks from the stream

In the park, and amethystine bruises.

April, when the slush finally gave way

To the annihilated lawn, the mud warming

Bringing worms for fishing to the surface.

I remember when my brother lost his

Pink fishing rod to a monsterous carp

At the KOA campground pond,

How dad fished for it with his rod,

I can't remember if he got it back.

We never went fishing with him again.

I fold up my hippocampus and stow it neatly

In the chest from whence it came,

Closing up my ribs, I vow to discuss this

Experience with my therapist,

Cleaning off the dust of age,

Hoping his insight can interpret the

Dregs of this old cup.

Between 183 and Liberty Church

The spot near the plastics plant,

Bare earth scooped neatly into mounds,

Preparations for a new recycling plant.

Skittering along the debris of a

Previously undisturbed wild,

Before my memories formed.

Eating hot pink clovers that tasted like

Sweet carrots, as mama said they would,

My little brother hopping in the lazy puddles.

This disturbed earth not a quarter mile

From my new home on the outskirts of town,

Our lot barely having grown it's beard of grass.

The newest children in my small neighborhood

(if there are any) Will never know this place

Apart from where their fathers might work

The spot between the 183 and Liberty Church

Where once was trees and clovers

Where once kids scrambled over piles of dirt

Where once all seemed well in the world

Where earliest memories were made

bury me with my money

Bury me with acorns,

Don't bury me in a box.

If you must, bury me in

A shroud of cotton.

Bury me in a simple shift

Don't bury me in a suit;

My rising will not be a formal affair.

Don't wear your best to

See me off.

Wear what you can get dirty.

You'll be spreading the mulch

On my gravesite.

Bury me with grave goods,

So if I am discovered by

Archeologists someday,

They will know I was loved.

Bury me with flowers,

But don't bury me with fresh roses.

Nay, plant on me perennials,

So you can still see me every year.

Finally, bury me with a stone marker,

But don't spend a fortune.

Carve for me the name I chose,

No matter what others may call me.

Bury me under sturdy granite,

So I can yet leave my mark

On something set for years.

While you may not see me,

These marks will be my gift to you.

Bury me with my money,

But the riches of the things I hold

Most dear.

Mostly rice with a bit of chicken

It was only a few weeks,

Shopping at the local

Asian foods store.

Getting used to having

No car to shop with,

Packing a week's worth

Of groceries into a single

Backpack.

We ate mostly rice and

Vegetables with a bit of

Diced chicken for a bit of

Protein, once a week.

Bone-hungry and sick,

Despair set in.

"I want my mom" I said.

I didn't want her often,

Or even at all since leaving.

But after a few weeks of

Rice with nothing,

Anything seemed better

Than waiting for the anemia

To set in.

P.S.

(I didn't call my mom. We relented and subscribed to Walmart's delivery service and now we're doing okay)

The ducks by Stonegate

A pair of mallards sits on a

Manicured stone by an

Artificial fountain

Ah, the massive continuity of ducks

Here there be lakes,

(Or ponds, or even fountains)

Here there be ducks.

My futile attempt to find nature

I start with parks,

Unassuming grassy expanses

Rimmed with palms, perhaps

With a pond or playground

I graduate to preserves

Larger ponds, sometimes with

Geese, always with ducks

I walk along its paved paths

Or rocky byways, but I

Run into the road

The sounds of cars inescapable

Beyond the quacks and honks

And rustling of untrimmed mesquites

I try a "hike", more of a

Stroll through the stones of a

Great, holey hill

I lose track of my impromptu

Guides, so I take the easy route

It leads to he canal, another

Reminder of man's hubris in the

Desert biome I now call home

I was born to a land of true wilds,

Of old growth forests protected by

Fences, yes, but standing proud, uncut

I was born to hills, and creeks, and

Bushes bursting with black berries,

Counting the stars on a clear night,

Camping in the back yard,

Craning our necks to watch deer

And woodpeckers working

To hear bats screech under the new moon

I sit on a plastic bench, molded like wood

I watch men fish at stocked ponds,

I hope the sounds of motorcycles

Doesn't scare their catch,

But these creatures are likely as

Trained to the sounds as the grackles

Are to rooting through trash

I pray that the little natures around me

Remain un-golfed, and undeveloped

That the canal can yet give rest to cormorants,

That the bougainvilleas can shelter the sparrows,

That what little respect my new home has

For its many gifts can yet be preserved,

For the sake of the hikers, the birds,

The saguaros, even the God-given rocks

I pray for all of these things with my one

Little soul, with all the nature within,

Though futile my tiny words may be

To the unrelenting force of mankind's

Unending greed and craving for more,

More, more

I write poetry on the bus because it's my only free time

Sleeping in and breakfast

Shower and coffee

Not necessarily in that order

Walking to the bus

Walking from the bus

Working

Working

Working

Sometimes sitting down,

Sometimes working

Walking to the bus

Walking from the bus

*

Cooking

Gazing into the abyss

Screaming into the void

YouTube

Sleeping

*Optional (but not so):

Migraine, Joint pain, Irritability, Talking

to the other people on my bus

our destinations differ, but

while we share this liminal space,

between here and there,

not really anywhere,

may we find a modicum of

peace in the reality that we

are moving, and that we

move together.

-

Also whoever smells like barbeque should know it is delightful and I hope their meal is nice.

February

First crickets of an Arizona

Spring breaks the hush of

A cold-snap winter.

Light rain makes for a soggy

Week, but is never enough for the

Reservoirs. The streets grow louder

As motorcyclists break out their

Bikes, emboldened by the rising

Warmth. Finally, the last citrus fruits

Gain their ripeness, falling lethargically

To stone gardens, preparing to

Adorn themselves with new blossoms.

Scaffolding by Seamus Heaney