sometimes i wonder if all the effects from wars, pain, and horrible deaths in the twentieth century
did not find their way into the human psyche and then into the culture somehow blinding us to realities…
somehow strengthening superstitions, myths, and beliefs…
somehow making us drones of a very powerful minority of billionaires who pay homage to no one…
who salute no flag…
who live wonderfully narcissistic lives on their private aircraft and yachts…
From a mountain top bright with snow
I watch the peasants plant rice below.
Like motes in a bleary eye
or black counters on a go board
they shift position as the day unfolds.
At noon they eat beneath a shade tree
while I, squatting alone in a frigid cleft,
consume whatever alms the villagers left.
There are maoists hiding in the forest
who refuse to treat me as the poorest
of men despite my loincloth and worn sandals.
Crouching in a circle, guns within reach,
they ridicule contemplation as the quest
strips of paper
torn from time
slammed
against the pane
wiped by gales
from Earth’s scarred face
Trapped
by degrees
a fugitive from time
damned
to complain
soaked
to the knees
in unheard pleas
to sink to the deep
while toeing
the line.
Transcendent energy
embracing ego
with soft hands
so as to nurture
its existence
toward the light
Ascendant vibration
allowing truth
to flow freely
without holding back
the absolute necessity
of transformative change
Evolution in a nutshell
breathing the essence
of holy hallelujah
into healthy lungs
that long to exhale
purity back into the world
Underneath,
around the side,
out of view, normally.
I see it,
sense it…
the warmth is dizzying,
the light blinding.
It’s hard
to put your finger
upon it.
The walls,
moods
and everyday noises
hide
its… perfectness.
But when
the obscuring breaks,
temporarily,
and the hurt
forgets itself
for a moment.
There is a MOUNTAIN
sized part of your soul
which I wonder at
and fall
desperately in love with
over and over, again.
On the least of these they feed,
devouring dreams deferred
delighting at the prospects, of
blood diamonds and deals on
the green, greedy mouths move;
mitigate with lying lips
tearing flesh from bone,
heart from humanity
soulless in their sight, a bottom
line as legacy, their leadership
labyrinthine walls erected errant
losses. Death comes for
the weak, artists and poets
occupy every cell.
Audacity or hubris, call it
anything but just. There is no
silver lining for the Average American
When the last man on the shore sings, waves
return with a shoal of corpses. The rotting flesh
piled on the dunes bares the skeleton, à la
the starving ribs of boats in Van Gogh’s
Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. The fixed gaze of the
dead, parts the long hair of the night, flashes
the searchlight, calls the floating corpses home.
The trail of their disfigured hands vanish along
with the crabs. The hands that no more hold an
oar, swing a catch, or hug the sand. The night, a
burrow to Alice’s Wonderland. Our fantasies go
As I walk the wintry paths of Christmas in my dreams,
I see evergreens bending down and bursting at the seams.
The cold air on this deeply dark night,
And the drifts of fallen snow,
Have long been forgotten
From within houses all aglow.
Inside there are hearts filled with remembering
A child of the past,
And there are minds filled with the joy of Santa
Which causes dreams to last.
There are tables burdened down
With turkeys, hams and pies.
There are dressings, puddings, and sweet things
Jesus! Lord!
Son of God!
My dude!
Like your arduous journey of life
Full of strife
I too faced difficulties
Miracles
Cured lepers
Restored vision to blind
Hungry people received loaf of bread …
I do not believe in miracles or supernatural healing
But I wholeheartedly appreciate your yearning
To cure people of diseases
And eliminate poverty and wretchedness
You are a Budha prince
Wondering from place to place
A prophet Muhammad
Teaching universal Brotherhood
A Guru Nanak
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Squat junipers dot valley and mountainside
in the desert view from David’s photo.
Juniper boughs, cool green on the dexter side of the landscape,
some tree, in shadow, arrests a partial symmetry on the sinister.
Symmetry is a human craving, desperate and consoling.
Below notice to the vulture
whose consolation is to perch atop the skeleton
of another juniper, the human camera’s
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middle focus.
A purification.
It is desert.
Desert translates light to clean air and arid breeze.
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