Under the Flowering Jacaranda

Fragrant, lilac colored flowers cluster

Together, like hands from a multitude,

Stretching out five-fingered petals, pinching

At the air, reaching out in a last gasp, to grasp

The idyllic serenity their aura emanates. Worries

And judgments fail to cloud their perceptions –

Blossoms signal a momentarily eternal spring.

Purple carpets the ground, providing a regal

Setting for a picnic tryst. A lingering

Scent of harmony drifts on the laconic

Breeze, calmed by the jacaranda present.

A nearby brook enunciates the whispered

Secrets which the gentle wind whistles

Through the tree’s branches. Along the Paraná

River valley, just like a mother’s love, its

Music never ceases, singing through Brazilian

Guitars made from its wood in the way

A baby coos its contentment after suckling.

The jacaranda nurtures without words,

Caresses without touching, and spreads influence

Throughout its sphere without arguing, teaching,

Scolding or demanding. It simply loves for the

Sake of loving because all-which-is deserves

Every ounce of love it can well up and offer,

And nothing is ever lost when love is shared. 

By a Stream

As water undulates and flows
over and between rocks and pebbles,
winds breeze and billow
their frolicking oscillations,
and soil nurtures life, providing
the stage's platform, and moments
inscribe hallucinations upon mirage.

A bird flutters from a tree limb
and delicately perches upon a rock
to sip cool refreshment.

Trout linger in eddies,
their watchful eyes scanning
for unsuspecting insects
to buzz within leaping range.

I sit in an inarticulate hush,
shaded by the broad-leafed arms
of a walnut tree, thawing
in the summer morning,
reverie soaring among the clouds,
polished by simplicity.

Montevideo's Beaches

Montevideo’s beaches I want to sip margaritas there
Where a bright sun bakes the sand concrete asphalt into an oven
Yearning a cause for celebration
The ancient Atlantic splashes blue in my reveries
Why does ice cool me from the inside out and freeze me from the outside in
War leaves me crying myself to sleep at night
Love seeps through my fingers like water I try to hold in cupped hands
The world shovels dirt over me as if I already lay in my grave
I’d have toured the royal courts of Europe
Or I might have been illiterate and poor
Expressing universal passion matters
I am like a snail morphing into a butterfly
As a four-year-old I almost drowned in a swimming pool
I keep my mother’s ashes
Commiseration contaminates contemplation
I’m not looking for a “Heart of Gold” just a woman to smile with me
Her rose-petal skin could soothe my aging aches
Let me taste her whispering flesh with my fingers and smell her ecstasy between my teeth
If only a she existed to ignore my faults and find the latent joy
Love seeps through my fingers expressing universal passion
Passion is my raison d’etre
Passion is my undoing
I miss bodysurfing in Malibu in the summer
I miss Sunday morning polo at Will Rogers State Park with champagne, strawberries, sharp cheddar and fresh baked sourdough bread from the Pioneer bakery
I miss smelling my mother’s kitchen
In dreams I hear the Atlantic waves breaking on Montevideo's beaches

A Wasted, Stubborn Gaze

Glance upon the shadows cast by ficus limbs
as their growing fingers span memories' bridge,
creeping across dandelionclock faces
that mark the consistent progress of seconds'
subconscious wile; while marijuana's wasted,
stubborn gaze persists in calculating odds:
seeping seeds spend evolution underground.

Childlike drifting fascination, feathers
leaf through the creole backstreets of Mardi Gras
revelry under ash blackened foreheads, dreams
squander faintly demented marching brigades'
bound captives; coffin gagged, violence resistent
bodhisattvas' sing supine supplication -
winding a forest carpet, silent, sublime.

A baby's fingers clutch for mother's wet breasts
sucking air from imaginary nipples,
insistent TV ads intercede, "Suckle
from culture's commercial, corporate illusion."
The contemporary model of nature:
mother's too busy to care for baby's needs;
dripping seeds melt, heat seared on the rocky dust.

Gazes turn to the wind, a blowing bellows,
a roaring, raging inferno of frothing,
rabid dogs carving out the latest fashion,
erecting statues of glorification,
their gleaming eyes slobber with gluttonous glee;
just out of sight, in the seedy underground,
a wasted, stubborn gaze breeds revolution.

Crestfallen

Scrambling up a mountainside
slippery pebbles slide under foot.

Fingers grasp, clutching emptiness
in the crestfallen starscape
where prayers wander aimlessly.

Who dares suckle the night?

An owl prowls
the moonless land,
a rodent in its talons.

Slithery scavengers
witness eons crumble into dust,
strewn across time’s sandy highway.

A cavern’s frigid bowels
fossilize ancient tales
etched on evolutionary walls.

Even created ignorance leaves
a trail: demented dementia.

Who dares nourish the suckling mother?

Moonset Sunrise

A bright, silvery-white orb
swims through night's celestial ink
arcing a path from crag
to mesa - jutting up to wall off
a desert expanse. The ancients
chanted many names:
Hecate, Diana, Ishtar,
Artemis, Europa;
still, this hour
a bell tower struck
Selene's chimes, tolling
an approach: winding
to her abode in Mount
Latmus' cave. Silvery
light yellowed, Selene
sank into the muggy
morning monsoon
clouds, drifting aimlessly.
Her fullness strummed
descending, peek-a-boo
moon chords, magnetic
Selene attracted dense,
wetly drenched dark
condensation, she winked
light rays on and off,
diffusing heat in a blink,
melting diaphanous
wisps into clear, dry
skies. Skin sponged
the night's persperation.
Behind the crag facing
the mesa, Eos' orange
wash, from pastel
to burnt sienna, crayons
the dawn as Helios bleaches
the inky dome, erasing
shimmering stars -
Jupiter and Venus stand
as twin sentinels, balancing
opportunity with beauty
and justice; the first rays
of sun sliver over
the edge of the world.
My body stood, trapped -
the poles of two magnets
charged by the haunting
voice of Jim Morrison,
gulping the tequila worm
at the bottom of a bottle,
laughing bloody phlegm out
from his lungs, pulling
the tails off lizards, wizards
churning out incantations
of cheap pop crap; and winds
swirl up a twister, blistering
across synaptic highways
as I reach out from darkness
finding light slips through
my fingers, and lightning
bolts magically charge
the ions of a new world
only found in the dove-
tailed resin of a joint
smiling from the street
corners of a One World
popular rally, six billion
strong marching across
corporate plasma TV
screens in the instant
between moonset and sunrise.

And Create a New World

Who decided America's

beauty should be hidden

beneath asphalt and concrete?

Profit motives serve up

excuses for the swallowing

of all natural, pastoral

pleasures by corporations,

cities and suburbs.

What happened

to the wide frontier?

It seems to be missing

along with the teeming

herds of prairie wildlife

that once scattered

across the open plains.

When did this nation stop

being Woody Guthrie's

promised legacy, your

land and my land?

As fences caged

wilderness, reining

freedom of movement

and lifestyle, individual

choices and opportunities

narrowed into servitude

to one corporate

master or another.

Where does all poison

polluting our rivers

originate and spread?

Dams wall up

waterways fish travel

to spawn and feed,

while factories dump

their sludge and cities

flush chemical waste

right into the aortal

veins of earthly life,

lapping genetic deformity

and pestilence up

against muddy shores.

How can so many

just sit back and allow

so few to set every

agenda and determine

the world's future?

The power of change

vests in the crowds

who gather together

and speak with one

voice, creating a clamor

which cannot be ignored

as they pile out

of offices and cease

filing income taxes -

standing up to wealth

and looking suffocating

waste and consumerism

right and the eye

as they boldly cry out

"I'm mad as hell

and I'm not gonna

take it anymore."

Why is it all we hear

spoken anymore

are discouraging words?

From newscasters

to radio personalities

to politicians to bloggers

to everyone on the street,

didactic opinion unwilling

to listen to anyone else

dominates the American

soundscape, promoting

one point of view

or another, but always

serving the personal

interests of some group

of the wealthy class.

No one seems to understand,

acquiescence is acceptance,

and the failure to take back

your own birthright: freedom,

liberty, natural beauty, a clean

and pristine landscape

with a widely diverse

teeming wildlife, cooperation

of effort for the benefit

of everyone, peace and security

without violence, eradication

of all weapons of mass destruction,

yes the failure to demand

and obtain hope for tomorrow

through true human destined

legacy is your own doing

and expresses greed and lust

and envy and anger and pride

and laziness and gluttony -

and you raise them to the nth

degree of exponential power

as humanity overpopulates

the planet like a virus or cancer;

yet, the mass of you together

can change course anytime

you decide you want

and create a new world.

The phrase, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore," is a quote from the 1976 released and copyrighted movie "Network," produced by Howard Gottfried for MGM, written by Paddy Chayefsky, and directed by Sidney Lumet and is used without anyone's permission.

In the Still, Night Sky

A glassy lake stretches as far as the eye can see:

calm, blue water, warmed by summer's breath.

High rise firs line the surrounding hills, dotting

right up to grassy beaches strewn with fallen

pine cones, and cuddling close to rocky points.

Wading barefoot into the temperate mountain

pool, the lapping waves' soothe my feet with

restorative caresses. The wind does not rush

since there is no hurry in the air. Small mouth

bass leap above the water line, attacking gnats

hovering and buzzing near the surface, and flip

backwards into the lake, disturbing the surface

with tiny, circular ripples which pass impressions

across the vast, liquid expanse. Black Saw-wings

swallow the sky as they jet near the surface,

cooperating with the back-flipping lake bass

to herd insects into one awaiting mouth or another.

The evening song of three, majestic, bald eagles -

soft, short, high pitched whistles - echoes across

the broadly expanding sunset which burns clouds

into molten, orange embers. They soar high above

my head, cutting a direct path to their nested fir tree

aerie not far from my silent beach shore. The long

finger shaped feathers at the ends of their wings

point a warning against even the most unobtrusive

intrusion. Slowly, stars emerge from the blackening

dusk. In the distance, a campfire warms a small

group by reflecting the last cloud embers in the still,

night sky. My palpitations cease as my lungs inhale

larger gulps of precious, fresh air; I'd forgotten

how delicious was their flavor. Children's

laughter drifts on the barely stirring breeze,

echoing into deserted, naked coves of serenity.

As a smile curves my lips and a full moon

lifts itself over its glimmering, watery reflection,

I am overcome by an ancient appreciation for awe

inspired accumulation of serene acceptance to Gaia,

knowing the moment serves greater sustenance

than humanity's amassed wealth and possessions.

From simplicity and attuned harmony grows

connection and passionate, purposeful redemption.

lingering spirit darkness

"Compose on the tongue, not on the page." Lawrence Ferlinghetti

a great circular cloud in the shape of a donut ringed
above me with a calm eye staring from the center -
an electrically-charged halo with brilliant-white
fingerszapping from the cloudy, circular, misty mass
to the dry, desert earth - broad, massive bolts burned
afterimages onto my retinas as a snarling wind rippped
in circles around and through me, the surging current
jailed me with the sweltering, suburban, summer
night sweating salt out from the porous sand, a musty scent
of pre-rain coagulated with damp sage and juniper leaves
in the silent arc, the booming sounds of thunderclaps
radiated out from the center, deafly hushing my ears
and my blood sizzled as high-voltage juice flowed
into my crown, exciting synaptic delight with mirthful
wonder and awe, and my flesh tingled as freight trains sped,
sped down the tracks behind me with the ghost of Woody
Guthrie grinning and waving from each boxcar skidding
across the rails, screeching and careening, as a cloud
billowed directly overhead into the bust of Thor - arms
outstretched into the night, hands open, palms up - and bolt
after lightning bolt jaggedly illuminated an Andy Warhol
caricature of a Norman Rockwell portrait - Timothy Leary's
wildly grinning countenance - and I sand painted an ancient,
native night with tomorrow's lingering spirit darkness

the firestorm of raging opulence

faded denim streaking through the night air
caresses the warm fingertips of somnolent
violins' mourning phrases for ancient cultures
caught in the firestorm of raging opulence

native bows drawn no more, their quivers
emptied by gunpowder tea leaves rolled
into balls and stuffed into peace pipes
with purple Scottish thistle a smokey poultice

father sky cradles brother sun and sister moon,
illuminating mother earth through a succulent
expanse as the four winds carry the seeds
of tomorrow across a vast forest silence

as the repetition of seasoned cycles cavort
between the hewn blades of merriment
trampled by the heavy steps of leather boots;
marching concoctions cover happenstance

This piece is inspired by the bloodshed in Peru, by the 40,000 brave indigenous Peruvian natives standing up to their government's corruption and desire to land lucrative contracts with US businesses for oil rights and commercial farms. The government seeks to force these people off their land, destroy their way of life, and put an end to a whole culture. The people are trying to keep their sacred lands and preserve their heritage.

"The indigenous community says at least forty people, including three children, were killed by the police this weekend. On Friday morning, some 600 Peruvian riot police and helicopters attacked a peaceful indigenous blockade outside of Bagua, killing twenty-five and injuring more than 150. Eyewitness accounts indicate the police fired live ammunition and tear gas into the crowd. Over the weekend, Peruvian President Alan Garcia said 40,000 natives did not have the right to tell 28 million Peruvians not to come to their lands. Since April, indigenous groups have opposed new laws that would allow an unprecedented wave of logging, oil drilling, mining and agriculture in the Amazon rainforest by blocking roads, waterways and oil pipelines. President Garcia’s government passed these laws under “fast track” authority he had received from the Peruvian congress to facilitate implementation of the US-Peru Free Trade Agreement."

"Alberto Pizango, the leader of the national indigenous organization, the Peruvian Jungle Interethnic Development Association, or AIDESEP, said, "They’ve said that we indigenous peoples are against the system, but, no, we want development, but from our perspective, development that adheres to legal conventions, such as the United Nations International Labour Organization’s Convention 169, that says we, the indigenous peoples, have to be consulted. The government has not consulted us. Not only am I being persecuted, but I feel that my life is in danger, because I am defending the rights of the peoples, the legitimate rights that the indigenous people have. I feel I am being persecuted, and the situation can get much worse with my criminal prosecution."

A Pointy-Fingered Firth

strip and rape your mother earth
carve her into a pointy-fingered firth
steal all her hidden, unmined treasures

utter aloud her unspoken, secret name
nurture wildlife within a crosshaired aim
drown her with watered-down tinctures

gaze upon her with gauze covered eyes
pour concrete into every crevace of the skies
with tar and asphalt pave over grainless pastures

a feast behind an ivy covered wall
just down the bend from a free-for-all
graffiti etched, black-sheep sloganed scrawl
that silent corpse with a dead man's gall

an angel takes the assassin's hand -
while a black limousine devouring funerary retinue
smashes a Kennedy legacy into glass slivers on the floor

an untouched maiden drowns in luxuriant opulence

cathartic spew
vitriolic voodoo
embryonic guru
sadistic, tortuous thumbscrew

mothers marching in the avenues
while sons lie dying in foreign streets

networks crashing in the dry desert air
pointing chimpanzees scream their "There!"

a rabbit scurries through the brush
as lightning crackles through cloud anvils
raising the hairs on the back of my neck -
dancers writhe, cavorting in brothels

burning desire paints black walls
with red licks of flaming envy

we're all running at top speed
legs churning, feet slapping the ground
the only non-nuclear option;
dig the fathomless gravy of experience

the rotting entrails of corruption rusts corrosively
eating away and decomposing the philosopher's stone

uncomforted suffering

children wailing through the dead night air

"Hold me!"

shiver into the cold dawn

huddle together as the moon whispers
shadows across the dusty ground

burrow into the earth, carving out dens

ancient choruses sing sacred earth chants
sacred earth chants sing ancient choruses
chants sing ancient choruses, sacred earth
ancient earth chants sing sacred choruses

Behind the Garden Wall

I sit behind the garden wall
in an alcove, beside a solitary
rose bush, a single bud
blooming on the stem.

I sip from a crystal chalice -
only a few droplets, blood
red, wetly stain my tongue
and lips with yesterday.

A rill winds around,
bending between footsteps'
markings left in the dust
as dusk shrouds around.

A full moon climbs stairsteps
leading up to a purple night:
awakening me with a stark,
chilling breeze, fluttering.

A hush gasps fragrantly,
grasping the thornless stem
with intuitive fingers,
caressing my luminous flesh.

I emerge from a cocoon,
the chrysalis falls away,
as wings spread and tremble
my heart beyond tomorrow.

Chariot Driven upon Dry Graves

Buds shiver against a reedy, brittle, brown stem
as a hoary, ice wind corrals damp, gray fingers
into mustang herds, unshod and trampling dusty,
back door trails that lead out of boxed canyons
and up the sheer cliffs of craggy mountain passes
carpeted by the soft, white sheets of powdered
snow that clings to the walls like static balloons.

Ancient wooly mammoth tusks scrape hollowed
out, petrified tree trunks on the icy sloped ridges
as their trumpet heralding calls still echo
through ageless nights where constellations still
slither across coal black skies like diamondbacks,
rattling warnings in rhythms only babies in cribs
decipher but ultimately lose the code's key
when language invades minds with simplified
brands of ambiguous meaning - begging cries.

Wiley geysers spout unfaithful jets of steam
and boiling liquid from the churning bowels
of gas-sick, earthen chambers, releasing
the parboiled, rocky flesh of screaming ocean
reefs, hundreds of years in the making, dying
as seductive actresses bat false eyelashes.

Fossilized, crystal geodes glitter iridescently
above the crowded Eurasian steppes, sacrificing
cultural immunity to the conversation god
of technology on the unwired, rippling auroras
fashioned by the solar wind as it rips Mother
Earth's plasma right out of the center of her
soul - as if a chariot driven upon dry graves.

A Grave I, Myself, Dug

I am listening to stereo with only one ear
and lookin' at three dimensions with just one eye.
I stand, facing a cold, cutting wind without a blanket,
smelling your flavors through a stuffy nose
and tasting your aroma with an icy tongue -
only good for biting out acerbic remarks -
as my snaggletooth mouth snarls a grin
which can only be read between the braille
lines drawn across the linen draperies
closing off my mind's synaptic connections.
I play guitar with fingers cut off at the first
knuckle: tipless, insensitive stubs, unexpressive
and lacking a pulse. I wade through thigh-high,
melting, snow drifts on rickety legs: nothing more
than flesh and bone, all muscle tone withered,
becoming a willow, tearlessly weeping
from inside a coffin in a grave I, myself, dug.

Rarely Tapped Corridors

The cascading resonance resounding
darkly in a cave, illuminated haphazardly
by a single candle's furtive flickering
licks of light, floats harmoniously,
like a shuttlecock, blithely rambling

a nonsensical contrapuntal interjection
in the conversation shared by wave
and shore. A furtively flitting firefly
careens in the moist evening air,
sporadically blinking its luminescent,

arboreal beacon encoding recalcitrant
themes injected onto the common epistles'
veins, coursing through the dramatis personae
occupying life's succulent stage. Fascinations
fastidously fasten wholistic hermetic caprices

courageously, contemplating uncommon
theses shared by the finely-tuned,
prankster-experienced experimenters
whose acidicly altered electromagnetic
fields overlapped rarely tapped corridors

through the universally sublime fabric.
Calloused fingertips flit across
Jerry Garcia's fretboard, missing
no fingers at all, delivering mantras
to life's moonlight sonata. Caressing

the underbelly of an expectant supplicant,
teasing undulations of cozmic proportions
calculate the astonished agitation
which adulations' arrogance accumulates.
Zapping a voltaic, synaptic pathway,

marginal, mocking Meanderthals
congregate in solipstic quicksand,
while intuitive shuttlecock trails
etch irridescent, glowing patterns
through our rarely tapped corridors.

The Flying Squirrels' Wailing Lamentations

Frozen outside,
on roughly coarse crags,
the vanilla king rode
on the back of a coal
colored panther
flinging Melipona bees
at dark orchid pods
until ice cream rained
over every velvety carpet
that stubbornly refused
to stimulate consumption.

Acorns, meanwhile, ceased
issuing from oaks and hickory
nuts eschewed to be chewed
with inanimate reincarnation,
leaving a whole generation
of starving, skinny, crazed
squirrels to offer their bodies
as asphalt roadkill sacrifices
to the great nut god -
for whose favor they pined
throughout the unfalling
autumn failing in 2008.

The god of nuts, cruelly
and remorselessly
denied sustenance
to flying squirrels,
relegating them to a fate
Boris and Natasha never
succeeded to inflict on Rocky.

"What's a few squirrels,"
pundits deadpanned in the Post,
as the entire east coast
became an acorn free zone.

The god of nuts bellowed
bellicose guffaws, as he schemed
in league with the vanilla king,
and the risen-cream's rain
suffocated each bank's acorn
retirement stash squirreled away.

The flying squirrels' wailing
lamentations fell on deaf ears,
echoing through empty safes'
depositories; for redemption,
the sole solution
offered by the vanilla king
sanctioned doling out more
bees to pollinate the orchids
believing that increased vanilla
wealth would end up trickling
down to feed the squirrels.

Unquenchable Thirst

Concrete and asphalt sprouted palm trees
as the caravansari out-flanked the oasis
in every direction. The one-time savanna,
bared of all nurtrient laden vegetation
by the grinding, pulsing prurient horns
blaring out "The Stripper," bore witness
to shrinking wetlands' evaporation while
deep within Gaia's bowels her black, oozing
blood gushed upward, poisoning the sky
with the fool's gold of scheming human
design. Metropoli blossomed on the polluted
banks. Glaciers, melted by the stifling,
rising temperatures, which should have fed
irrigating rivers who wailed the agonizing
screams of poverty's emaciated children,
while the bottled remnants wound their
way to the lap of luxury, shipped across
the globe, slaking the opulent craving
of a nation who polluted their own
waters into actual undrinkability
with the plastic, petroleum chemicals
they force-fed into Gaia's dusty dermis.
The nation's public only cries out
in concern for their wallets' reduced fat,
blinded to the onrushing sandstorm
of unquenchable thirst.

Behind Nature's Pall

The body interprets what the mind contemplates.

Horizontal couplings incite rabid
erections beyond circadian rhythm's
reach. For the sky blankets
lovers' conundrums with blind
mole rats' unalterable endogenous
clocks, which constantly tick off
precise calculations, external
stimuli rendered unnecessary.

Sightless coral reefs secretly secrete
eggs and sperm, perfectly timed
to the moon's phases, with
orchestral precision. Their babies
glide on currents' whimsy, unknown
homelands secured without
conscious predetermination.

Forestall cranial coronations -
for empirical delusions'
unreasoned collusions install
solutions behind nature's pall.

Oneness

A branch of paths, a maze of roads,
Which way shall I take flight;
All mortal minds seek calm abodes
Which vagaries excite.
A supplicant with hopes encodes
Sweet pleas for life’s delight,
Disrobed by moments, episodes –
Sense brazen heat tonight.

That which I was no longer is,
Nor what never will be,
Since brain’s neuronal synapses
Re-map with memories;
Impose a form, exegesis,
Is mental circuitry;
Bridge the chasm and span abyss –
Defeat futility.

Discover in the ebb and flow
How water seeks to merge,
That as all streams combine they sow
A river of one urge;
Where rivers meet in ocean’s tow
Life forces do converge,
Revealing nature’s grand trousseau:
Oneness’ concentric surge.

Life Happens (Paean to the Sea)

persistent crashing roars,
waves resound between
cool, gentle breeze-breaths
meandering about the shore;
clear skies shine a fragrant,
salty elixir, inciting gulls
to peck at the moist
sand, seeking a dab or two;
three or four yards out
in the refreshing Pacific waters,
a seal lazily floats, bobbing
on the rolling current, fins
sticking up, occasionally
snorting out a gleeful guffaw
as a pelican skims over
the surface before rising
into the morning only
to plummet into the sea and emerge
with a meal; two dolphins repeatedly
surface in the same calm spot,
clicking, whistling and giggling as they
circle each other; the sun's heat
wrings sweat right out
from my pores, so I wade
into the sea; a group
takes turns laughing and groaning
at their paddle ball games'
results; a fishing boat cuts
through choppy waters halfway
between shore and horizon as I
body surf cresting breakers'
faces which regularly rise
in sets; soon I recline,
face down on my towel, rising heat
enveloping me as it reflects off billions
of tiny grains; I recall days
thirty-five years ago with friends
sharing these same pursuits until
my eyes doze closed, allowing
reflective gleams' visions:
sparkling points gleaming off wave
tips amid the eternal ebb
and flow - the tides’
unremitting regularity;
I hear a mother call her baby
boy to discover wonders
and open my eyes to see
flickering motion picture frames:
a toddler who will take my place
swimming on the currents eddying here
and there when, fifteen years
hence, I will not be
able to do what comes
so naturally to him; still,
I cry out my rebellion, "I will not cease
to surf these waves," and I recall
the scent rising off gleaming bodies
before suntan lotion morphed
into numbered grades of cancer
preventing sun block; my mind opens
to two blackbirds on center stage
carefully tiptoeing over the sand
pecking order here and there -
then, a double-take reveals
two lithe, supple, young ladies,
clad in black bikinis with bronze
bodies and long dark hair, sunning
where the two crows had strolled
only a moment before; they soak up
the young mens' stares and sing
conversations, youthful voices
expressing the twenty-year-old earnest
concern for every moment's poignancy
and the significance in every fantasy
and action; out on the sea a gull sits,
unconcerned with thought or deed,
content in a moment like no other:
every instant throughout eternity's
reverent re-creation; this gull and I lock
eyes into a fused sympathy, erasing
my mental slate but flooding the gull's
emotional storm into my memory; sweet
surrender to smiles and tears and laughter
and anguish blots out the sun and every
distinctive inkling separating sand
grains; breath hangs suspended; the waves
stand still; only one cozmic current
hums in my ear; a siren silently beckons
her plea: immerse myself again, again;
I wade, then dive and swim
in the ocean; salty flavors wash
over my tongue; the seal nears
and playfully barks a dare, venture
out as far as he, maybe
a challenge, perhaps
derision; this is his playground -
not fit for me; and the dolphins
dance and twirl, they jump
and submerge at my feet, the gull
lands and bobs while wind-whipped
waves crash in white foam;
one black bikini adorned girl slinks
off her top, avoiding tan
lines; is it the same toddler, now
eight, who wanders away
from his mother to playfully romp
and jump in the surf; and even
as the Earth rotates, the horizon
never moves an inch
further distant; the waves'
tempo never wavers off beat;
I in the water,
I on the sand;
I the witness,
I destiny’s hand;
I the chronicle,
I the vision;
I, the voice in my mind’s ear,
remark, "to suggest
thinking proves
existence is like looking
into a mirror;" echoes
and reflections unclothe imagination,
offering no edifying glimpse
into a tangible ever-present
unbound by definitions, unproven
by formulas or incisions; feeling
distinct resides in hallucination, only
Unity and Love crystallize serene
bliss in every footprint made
while life happens