Saturday, March 29, 2014

First Rain - poem

                          Raindrops parry through
                          the particulate air
                         splattering on roofs
                         crusted with dust and pollen
                         crashing onto smog laden leaves,  
                         to finally pelt cement and asphalt,
                         shattering the drops
                         a thousand times again.

                Alleyways creased with ancient urine
                and sticky dried bin seepage
                receive their shower with a stink,
                while endless roadways moisten, fill,
                their gaining waters
                mixing and running with lurid oils
                gyrating on their surfaces.

                On nearby hills,
                parched beds and ravines,
                rivulets begin, join arms,
                becoming streams
                to anoint the arid land once again.

                Twigs soften, stones move, bark swells
                and birds find feasts everywhere.
                Even coyote and cougar somehow know
                their prey will be rounder soon.

                Rinsing the canyons and landscapes,
                the clouds with their rain,
                the perfect tilt of the earth,
                have done their stellar work.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Claim Maker

Claim your ignorance of it,
Claim victory over injustice,
Claim no real understanding,
Claim it was the in-laws,
Claim it was the film you saw,
But is it true?

Claim stake a mine,
Claim you're mine,
Claim your horse in a claimer's race,
Claim the computer did it,
Claim it's their fault,
Claim fraud!
But is it true?

Claim you're satisfied,
Claim negligence,
Claim it was the sun, the weather,
Claim it was the government,
But is it true?

Claim an illness, a headache, a sore back,
Claim drunkenness,
Claim hysteria,
Claim it was the enemy,
Claim it was the terrorists, or the Internet,

Claim anything but the truth.

Cold Stream


                Boulders sit
               in minute erosion,
                knowing and unknowing,
                there like the sun
                without morality
                but dictating behavior anyway,
                season after season.

                Briefly my moss intellect
                hovers about these big rocks,
                earnest with a
                green hued nobility,
                a quaint perception by my
                eye brain
                that thought it mattered
                what I thought.

                Different, but of the same world
                these river boulders.
                At best,
                we go wading out,
                to sit on a big rock,
                to think about not thinking.