The bony minstrels
make their way home
before dawn
having played
the night long
in all shades of dark
to those past
those presently listening
and to the unborn–
Songs of hope
and optimism;
strumming chords
and plucking strings
for all who will listen
for a better world;
plying smiles and laughter
instead of worry and concern…
But now it is late
and they must go–
where, exactly
no one is certain
But with luck
they will return tomorrow
to once again
serenade the hopeful
during starlit hours
with every manner
of sanguine song.

What you don’t know
I will never tell you
because I don’t know either–
only guessing, conjecture
and latticework shadows
grown over by decades
of reflections on the glass
that once made sense
turned to opaque smudges–
and you laugh!
You’re right to…
Because no one
will ever know why;
the rocks in the creek
grow round with time
and clouds pause
in deliberate brevity
as they pass us by–
Tell me if you find
the message, or
better yet–the answer
to any of the riddles–
I will be asleep & waiting
for your footsteps
in some dream
out on the balcony–
but please wake me,
So I can add your conclusions
to my list of Revelations
made on Sundays….

I’m reading
random letters
I found in boxes stored
around the house
from bygone eras
that don’t even seem
like part of my life anymore–
unfolding decades
in paragraphs of careful
faded ink, that cry out
still to be read & savored
for their experiences
that made this moment:
boarding school, 1971
anecdotes of acid;
Paris, 1976 along the Seine
The married 80′s;
grandiosity and family turmoil
England later on…
Those times in Mexico
at surf hotels–
postcards from Indonesia…
New York in museum mode…
The crates turn up
their tales of sojourns
of a life I can’t have back
but manage to keep
on living, in new letters
I’m writing to you now.

It’s the same road
but different everyday
and we know it
by heart;
the curves and turns
that keeps us
aware, awake
in vicissitudes
and vagaries
that shake us
as we tremble
behind the wheel;
tremulous drivers
on wayward routes
to who knows where?
The far off sea
beckons us with
it undulating arms–
the sky is a guide
of sorts, and–yes
it’s the same road
every day, except
with a slightly
different approach.

Set your head
on these pillows
and be free for a while
from all the world’s
worry, war & issues…
Even the busy hummingbird
outside must sleep
somewhere, sometime
and now, it is
your time, too.

The truth is
the way of all flesh
and once jade leaves
of another life
that tumble helpless
into arms of wind
that carries them on
to streams and oceans
across rocks–that once
were living things themselves…
And so, it’s true
we turn to stone
after brief residence
in a home of blood and bone
that for precious
years only
is our temporal home.

You have some—
Food, that is…money
shelter, Love…transportation
understanding, kinship
even luck—it’s enough
it’s actually even plenty–
But you find yourself
wanting “more” as some
do–and will–to acquire
beyond the adequate
and the ample; that’s traditional
but must be questioned
in light of true necessity;
wanting more…when
having some is a gift
worthy of gratitude.

In the breadth
of an angle
the day balances
on a splayed
pine needle
that rises in the alley
in a sudden gust
and is crushed
by the back tires
of a garbage truck…
Such are the moments
we savor and mourn
when salvation
seems simple
but then, is
snatched from us
without warning.

There is a time
we will be together
and a time
we will never
know each other–
vast distances
between them
like far countries
across the cosmos;
dust blows
in balls
I couldn’t capture
and a spider
crosses the ceiling
effortlessly…
Most days are like this–
full of fingertip close
disparity.

Open the door
go outside
and kick the wind–
give it a good boot
or a sandal swipe;
it might work, this time
to change what can’t
be changed
with extra effort
a college try–scaling back
the impossible to the
merely absurd…
And then–maybe lecture
those old rocks too
on how to better sit
on the banister and railings
and reflect the sun,
absorb water–and once
the wind responds
with its servile “wooshing” sound–
You’ll know you’ve made your mark
and that Nature will change
to reflect your ever whim
and desire.