Anis

It starts with a migraine
which you curse as you tell your friend
you must leave her celebration dinner
and then walk two blocks in heels
praying for mercy in the shape of a cab
When one pulls over for you
the yellow is too bright
and you must put on your dark shades
telling the driver to take La Cienega
You ask if he has GPS
he laughs and taps his head
then passes right by the place
you told him to turn
"I will tell you a secret," he says
pointing across the highway,
"That is your La Cienega
there are six lights we would have hit
but on this unknown parallel street
we will fly past them all!"
His eyes sparkle in the rear view mirror
knowing he has surprised you
He tells you his name is Anis
you wonder if he was named after the spice
"No," he turns serious, "it means honest one."
You tell him that your name means "friend"
and he smiles, it is a good name
You take off your glasses
and are able to see the shadow
that passes over his features
when you ask where he is from
"Somalia" is his one word reply
You tell him there is a Top Chef
from Somalia but he says it can't be so
You insist it is so, checking your i-phone
only to discover you are wrong
You tell him that you are an idiot
the chef was from Ethiopia
He laughs, "We do not have Top Chefs
we have War Lords, have you heard of War Lords?"
You nod and then feebly mention
Black Hawk Down
"That is just a movie," he says,
"the truth is much worse."
You wish you could say you understand
but it is clear you do not
He asks you what you do for a living
embarrassed you tell him you are a writer
but he is very excited at the news
"Could you could write my story?"
You say you don't really write drama
"Good," he smiles, "My story is a cartoon.
It is about animals and love and courage --
the things this world needs."
There is passion in his voice
so you encourage him to write it
but he looks ashamed
explaining that English is his second language
and he is not so good at writing
"I will tell you my story,
I know I can trust you."
You ask him how he knows
and he reminds you of his name
"You must be honest to know honest."
He slows at a corner and adds,
"I know you are real because you look me in the eyes."
You think maybe he knows he is real now too
your eye contact proves that he is here
and not back there
When you get to your stop he wishes you well
takes your hand in his and tells you to look both ways
and it isn't until he has sped away
that you realize your migraine is gone
and you believe it is very possible
that some angels come from Africa

Weedwhackers and Wordsworth

I note a cloud regatta overhead

the white sails unfurled

in a fast flowing breeze

and can't help but think to myself

Wordsworth would have put it better

of course he didn't have to contend with 

the metallic buzz of his neighbor's weedwhacker

I wonder what the solitude of sitting

high above Tintern Abbey must've been like

before diesel powered leaf blowers 

outdoor power saws and riding lawn mowers

before the noise of type-written words

hurdling through space in every direction

before the neurotic itch to check Twitter 

every thirty seconds was acquired

If only I could rip the fabric of time

like a well-worn pair of jeans

I'd climb through the soft tendrils of cotton

back to those Wexford county hills

where I could devolve into the silence

broken only by a jocund chorus of daffodils

Drink up the honey and dance

The bee knocks at the window
and waves his antenna
knock and wave, knock and wave
turn upside-down and wiggle

Hey you in your ergonomic chair
can't you see the radiant rays of sun
dripping like honey over the earth

Why do you separate yourself
behind a pale wall of glass

Your wings may have shriveled long ago
but you still have a butt to shake
Like this: knock wave turn wiggle
Come dance with me, go ahead and try
that's what two legs are for

Oh -- did you think they evolved
to hang limp and useless
over stain-resistant moisture-wicking seat fabric

How long before your toes and calves
go the way of your wings and tail
before evolution turns to entropy

You can halt the march
just follow my lead
drink up the honey and dance!

Climbing clematis

It looks dead and gone
the bone dry brown twine
wrapped around an old pipe
beside a frozen fountain
Winter has unkindly stripped
the life from a once vivid vine
left a withered skeleton in its place
But all is not as it seems on the surface
for when the robins return
to pull the fat worms
from the spring soaked earth
tendrils of green velvet ribbon
stream forth from the brown branches
and by the time the wood ducks
lead their parade of chicks upstream
that ancient pipe is a thing of beauty
cloaked in a constellation
of bright purple stars

Walking to Walmart

Looking up at the Coke bottle universe
with its effervesence of stars
the crisp clear night slakes my thirst
like the miraculous cup of cola
that was our salvation one July
when as kids on summer break
we decided to walk to Walmart
because there was nothing better to do

and because we did not know it had closed

O how we despaired of those locked doors
the dark windows denying the hope in our hearts
the spirit of adventure shrivled like wood shavings
scattered and blown away by the hot wind
despair setting in with the realization
that the journey would be doubled

how had we not considered the return?

We would've laid down right there
on the molton lava asphalt, become
another set of abandoned parking bumps
had you not spotted the sign
lit up red and green like early Christmas
Grinder's Family Restaurant -- Open
redemption in the form of a cool blast of AC
and the deliverance of unlimited refills

Dark chocolate

Break open the chocolate bar
boasting 72% cacao
and it will teach you
that darkness is to be savored

Do not bite the bitterness
let it melt on your tongue
until it gives up its sweetness
slowly but willingly

In youth you could not handle
such richness of experience
you needed sugar and milk
to lighten the darkness

But with age you have learned
too much sweetness corrodes a smile
but the right amount of dark
can strengthen the heart

Propagation

One-winged migration
brown paper butterflies
descend from mother tree's
outstretched arms
coming down from such heights
to kiss father earth
and shed their temporary wings

For some it will be too hard, too dark
but others will deign to embrace the dirt
loosing sight of the sun
they will cloak themselves in darkness
and wait patiently for the growth
that will lift them towards a new light
and the chance to touch the blue
with their own green arms some day

Lessons from a Dragonfly

You must be born of the breeze
unpredictable in stillness and motion alike
able to flit as easily as float
you must never shy away from color
openly embrace shimmer
love the water as dearly as the air
be caught, always caught
between two worlds
do not return to the place of your birth
you can not breathe there anymore
just keep moving
taking short but frequent breaks
until some cool November day
you leave your body behind
on a painted maple leaf
slipping through the surface
to the verdant shores of an infinite lake
utterly unafraid and well acquainted with change

Blackbird

A shadow alights upon my arm
and I look to see a black bird
watching me from a branch
outside my bedroom window
onyx eyes cloaked
by feathers of spilled ink

The somber creature of night
sends an involuntary shiver
skittering up my skin
like a scarab beetle
emerging from the earth

Shoo, I say,
take your omen elsewhere

But then the sunlight reaches out
a warm finger of grace
to stroke the bird's silken head
with an iridescent shimmer
of vivacious greens and purples

That is when I understand
even the darkest blackness
hoards a multitude of colors
deep within its soul
and will willingly give them up
to a single ray of light

Sunday afternoon

White gloved paw on my knee
body like a chenille throw across my lap
murmur apparent through ribcage and fur
like hummingbird wings against my thigh
watching the raindrops get caught
in the window screens like fish in nets
flashing silver in a sea of green
and always mimicking my mood
he breathes soft as young leaves
shuddering under the weight of small water
his black nose wet as newly turned earth

Migraine

Drawn curtains eclipse the sun
sweet balm of dimness
salve of shadows
diffuse the ticking bomb
with the calm of a cool room
shut out the pain of a perfect day
liquid gold rays heavy as steel
driving railroad spikes into the mind
close the door, douse the lights
lie still as a fallen branch
and wait for the deliverance of darkness

The things that stick

The geometry teacher's fingers

were stained black under the nails

the flesh colored a watery brown

like chaw spit in the dirt

from working his tobacco farm all summer

The first day of class he lifted them up

for all of us cool kids to see

"This is why you don't smoke"

He didn't answer when we pressed

"Then how come you grow it?"

I don't remember his name

don't remember any of the math he taught

(except that beauty has perfect proportions)

but I do recall the buckeyes he handed out

to each of us restless students

after the dramatic show of hands

a token for entrance to an end of year party

held on his farm on the last day of school

I didn't make it, don't know why

And while I have never found the need

for geometry in my life since then

I use my clean lungs every day

and for that I thank him

Wild God

We tame the wild dogs

and shoot the wild deer

we cage the wild lion

for wild things we fear

They make us see the truth

that we are weak and chained

plagued with insecurity

labeled, boxed, and named

We crave control and safety

and so are kept instead of free

that's why we took our wild God

and nailed Him to a tree

Cardinal

Boldness born on a barren branch

red flame in a sepia world

herald of spring enliven the landscape

stoke the coals of nature's imagination

sing the tune of what will be

gone with a rustle of a strong breeze

but your absence does not undo

your presence, you were and are here

your vibrancy a relief to hungry eyes

the world warm beneath your wings

Wind dance

The bare trees bow

to their queen the Wind

unable to resist

when she bids them Dance

arms lifted in exultation

whirling dervishes

whipped into frenzied adulation

of the force which animates them

and gives them Life

Snow fall

An afterthought of flurries

lighten the dusk

just a whisper of winter left

and even though they'll never

amount to anything

still they fall

because that's what snow does

there is no question in nature

of purpose, of meaning

they are one in the same

here they are, there they go

it is a wondrous show

Same sky

February has proved

that peace will elude me

as long as I exalt the snow

for its gentle lightness

while reviling the rain

for its harsh dreariness

serenity is understanding

they are two sides of one drop

falling from the same sky

Breakthrough

Maybe it doesn't always happen

like a dam giving way

water crashing through the cracks

with irrevocable certainty

Maybe it is more like the carving

of a great canyon over time

atom by atom the winding river

erodes the stubborn rock

revealing a path of patience

Maybe awakening isn't

the scream of a bedside alarm

and we are meant to linger

in the in-between a little longer

so that we can remember our dreams

Adaptability

Amazing how quickly

a cut rose can be revived

just a few fingers of water

in a mug I forgot to rinse

and already the petals

are fluffed like feathers

on a cardinal in the snow

soft and red and round

wrapped in the parenthesis

of old lipstick stains

and a ring of tea remnant

the grandiflora blooms

just as beautifully

as if it were lounging

in a priceless crystal vase

pronounced with an ah

Compline

Tolling bells give voice

to dozens of flames

beating an ancient rhythm

like wings of the seraphim

lining the centuries old church

candles in hurricane lamps burn

reflections in glass chimneys

dance around their source

cleaving and bending away

before melting into

a single brightness

while upon the alter votives

hold a range of luminosities

wild flares leaping high

reaching for the heavens

or maybe just hungering for a taste

of the wooden cross suspended overhead

as nearby tapers burn steadily

efficiently fulfilling their purpose

no more light than expected, no less

and a few faint flames flicker

exhausted and barely breathing

glowing dimly but still alive

effecting a mesmerizing grace

proving that it takes

a variation of brilliances

to illuminate the night

Frozen ocean

Quicksilver winter sky

muted sunlight gleaming off

clouds like schools of fish

changing direction fast as a thought

platinum becomes white gold

snow dizzy from the rapid descent

its lack of direction

creating a visual cacophony

flakes blown like spiral shells

wind ripping righteous waves

across the drifts of a backyard beach

that has become of the barren forest

there is a new name for magic

written in the sea foam snow

frozen ocean, above and below

Strange grace

See the strange grace

of a soaring vulture

to whom death is life

and carnage, beauty

it is noble, majestic even

with wings stretched wide

in its cylindrical search

hoping for the hopeless

taking joy in the descent

Beneath the rubble

As you sift through the charred remains

of the room that was your heart

you catch the glimpse of something

shining beneath the rubble

Reaching for it with hopeful hands

you discover a polished silver frame

cradling an unblemished picture

of yourself at a much younger age

Red circle sled under one arm

trudging up a snowy hill

delight in your eyes

the curl of bliss upon your lips

And holding that perfect moment

between your blackened fingers

you realize -- it is enough

to rebuild this ravaged ruin

Welcome

If we do not make room

for the unexpected

set aside a small space

extend a welcome

it will barge in

and take one for itself

probably the best room you have

the one you have filled

with your most delicate treasures

the place you have guarded

and called your very own

it will not be yours anymore

so why not leave the side door open

a soft candle in the window

two comfortable chairs ready

for you to sit and listen

and become good friends

Prudence

The black-capped nuthatch

is decisive in his hunt for food

this seed not that

not that

not that

he does not blindly take in

whatever he comes across

instead he deliberately chooses

a single black bead

clenched in his beak like a third eye

he swallows wisdom

then returns to the search

The sky watches

The sky watches with curiosity

written on its wide clear face

chin stubbled with tree line

eyes spying mine from behind

tufts of wispy clouds

Is that amusement I see

in those waggling bird brows

could it be that as I delight in it

it delights in me?

For what I'm worth

I used to think my worth was in my ability to answer

at least half of the Jeopardy questions correctly,

in my fake blond hair with manufactured curls,

and my ability to break into dance at any given moment.

I believed worth and charm were inextricable,

and that I needed to work hard to maintain both.

Then came the clouds, the pain, the fear,

the inability to curl and dance and answer --

and a new understanding of worth.

It does not lie in my ability to capture attention,

in my humor, my talent, or my perfectly lined lips,

my worth does not lie in any part of my perfection,

(because perfection has a price, it does not give one.)

Not just a pretty piece, but the wounded whole

these grey hairs, this pierced heart,

these bowed legs, this mercurial brain;

My worth is not in me -- it is me.