silent night

stones in darkness

the cold wind sighs.

O hear my prayer

on this silent night!

the faint breath

of waning life.

November 1978

i.
November lies in wait, violent month
stripping life from the garden
wind ripping leaves from living trees.

So much can happen after the harvest,
life can be broken,
the grave made rich.


ii.


Kennedy rode exposed in the cold Dallas sun
when a bullet ripped the November air, and
dark winds ran riot through fields of heaven,

dirty cyclones scattering dust
into our stinging eyes

and we cried under the black crepe
draped over blank, empty windows.























iii.



November, 1978, loomed large
in the twilight haze as we waited
and uneasily watched the news.

In thirsty Jonestown
the November heat swelled
the bodies of black children,
huddled in the arms of still mothers,
empty paper cups strewn on the ground
dripping purple Kool-Aid, happy drink for a hot day,
poisoned with bitter megalomania.

The stench of fear
permeated Geary Boulevard,
filling the looming, empty halls
of the People's Temple.

Protected by the glass wall of my television
I observed this distant slaughter
my eyes spared from the sting
of personal tears.


iii

But November soon became personal,
and quickly took my father
and left me stunned,
empty and cold as frozen Ohio.




Bad comes in threes,
and in my rented car,
on the way home from the cemetery,
I heard of bloody mayhem in San Francisco,
madness splattering City Hall,
in the thick blood of Moscone and Milk,
struck down on a cloudy
November day.

(22 Nov. 2013)

Changes

Bird song rises 

in pure, liquid waves

as golden leaves

arc, twisting

to the ground.

Heavy gold

must fall.

October heat

will give way 

to winter rain.

Yet inevitably life flows 

like the breeze

rising from the broad sea

to the high Sierra;

grey clouds rise

and heavy snow falls.

All living waters

give praise.

(5 Oct 2010)

Rain blurs my windows

Rain blurs my windows

melting color into color,

green grass merging

to luxuriant red blooms.

Golden leaves

fly wildly to the grass

and make of the lawn

a mottled carpet,

waiting for a brighter day

when my rake will scrape

them all into tall, brittle piles.

But today is a good day

to stay inside,

warm and dry.

(24 Oct. 2010)

She Sits in the Old, Red Chair

She  sits in the old, red chair

feet up, the red crush of the ottoman

giving rest to tired ankles.

At ninety-nine, her face is lined

and thin, cheekbones jut beneath

piercing young eyes, as hands, 

thin, pale skin barely concealing

vein and bone, lie in repose in her lap

as we talk, remembering all the days

and find her mind a crystal stream

vibrant, alive with a life of love

filled with places past 

and people gone.

Chocolate Hills

the green world drinks

the blue sky dry;

life’s tender leaf declines

while ancient cambrian

fire survives.

(17 March 2013)

The Homecoming

When you were in Vietnam

we got your letters, two or three at once

and then the whole house buzzed like a nest

of honey drunk bees as we poured over

your every word.

We kids imagined you, strong, tough,

blazing with righteous American fury

cutting down those dirty commies,

but Mom and Dad

read each letter more slowly

glancing at each other

with darker looks.

Then one day we got the recording you made,

tiny plastic reels, shiny brown tape wound

in fragile loops; your voice!

just like you were in the room, speaking

re-assuring, everyday chat about R&R

and shopping in Bangkok. Finally,

the tape nearly spent, you said that

you were coming home soon.

And one bright July morning

you came home! Your hat was rakishly tilted,

a Lucky cigarette carelessly drooping

from the corner of your grinning mouth,

all paratrooper swagger, gold braid running

through your buttoned shoulder loops,

colored ribbons and medals all over your chest.

As you walked through the door

I stood aside, awestruck, shy.

You sat like a visitor in your own home

and we opened the packages you brought for us,

Christmas in July, as one by one we held

our Asian wonders, and watched

as Mom held your hand and

Dad searched your eyes.

But you were tired, so upstairs in my room

you took a midday nap, and when Mom told me

to wake you up for supper, I nudged your shoulder

and you bolted,

breathless,

down the steps,

into the quiet street

and stood at tense attention,

(the neighbors all gawking),

as you waved your M-16

made of air

and memory,

and waited

for the morters

to fall

and kill us all.

Then the light returned to your eyes.

Slowly you walked back to the house

and gently took me by my shoulders

and told me to never,

never

touch you when you were asleep,

and I never asked you why.

(11/11/2010)

Birther's America

Sit in dark rooms

as Fox news

complains

that the President

is really from Mars,

hell-bent on preventing

our Saturday-nights

from being

special.

We have the Constitutional right

to carry death

like a flask

in our hip pockets.

But this foreigner

wags his black finger

and calmly spews

sense

like spit

on our red necks.

So the plan is to wait

patiently

until the day

all these bleeding hearts

are dropped, one by one,

by lone

assassins,

and in the end,

alone in our darkness,

we…will…win.

(9 April 2011)