A WOOD-FRAMED WINDOW

"And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come. . . "
--William Wordsworth

A wood-framed window
Framed my world
As a small child.
On a rainy day
I saw a visored truck
From thirty years before,
And remembered them all.
I saw an old woman,
Wearing a coat too heavy
For San Diego, with a
Scarf tied over her head,
And I remembered
Many such.
"The child is father
Of the man," they say.
To understand me now,
You must understand that boy
Who peered out that window,
That wood-framed window,
On a rainy day,
And knew no death.

8/15/15

SAN DIEGO DREAM

I've lived in many
Places, but I was born
In East San Diego,
Then a sunny and
Peaceful place.
You can't go back,
They say.
My boyhood house
Is now a crack house
With a truck mirror
Mounted on it to see
If the cops
Are coming.
Freeways that I
Don't really know
Cut through
All my old
Neighborhoods.
My boyhood church
Now offers Masses
In Vietnamese.
Like them,
I'm a refugee.

(That much is true.
The rest is a
dream, but can you
tell the difference?)

Intimidated by
Massive hotels,
Some impossibly
Dark,
We sought refuge
In Balboa
Park.
We found a small
(and very dated)
Guest cottage
In the San Diego
Zoo,
There, we comfortably
Spent the night.
Yes, it's
True.
I'd rather live
In the zoo.

8/4/15

LEAVING THE BLUE RIDGE

"You-uns fixin' to leave?"
A mountain man asked at
Our garage sale. "Yep."
No details asked or
Offered. (Mountain
People don't pry.)
Icy morning in
February, moving
Van with car trailer
Behind. Temp sixteen
Degrees Fahrenheit.
Two people and
One cat. "Ever drive
A rig like this
Before? "Nope."
But mountain
People try.
Was never so glad
To see Georgia.
Two thousand miles
To go. Miss some
People, miss the
Music. Got to
Make some money.
And mountain people
Don't cry.

8/2/15

YOUR WRITING
For Toni Bentley​

Your writing is
an extension
of your dancing,
full of beauty,
strength, and
boldness of spirit.
Your writing is
an organ that
enchants us
with its rich
and broadminded
tones.
Your writing
liberates
us all.

7/16/15

CHEROKEE NATIONAL CAPITOL

Both East and West I've visited them, my
Cherokee people. Thirty
Years ago I found their
Capitol in Tahlequah
Oklahoma. A nice building,
But inside so
Empty. so
Full of echoes.
The sign in front
Told how it had been
A finishing school for
Young Cherokee women.
(Unlike their neighbors,
they could read.)
Not much furniture,
A reception desk and
A grand
Piano.
The voices of the young
Women are silent now.
The grand piano
Now plays
Amazing Grace.

8/1/15

JULIE

I.
I've visited every part of your body,
but you're still a foreign land.

II.
You visited us in our hotel room,
just before nine-eleven,
and though I had no inkling
of that, something inside me knew
that I would not see you again.
So I wished it were someone else
getting slowly out of the car.
Our eyes drank each other up,
and then we went to breakfast.
You and Fred were on your way
up north, to see about a dog.
Sandy and Fred,
so understanding,
left the hotel room first.
As I held you in my arms
to say that last goodbye,
I said, "Please, take good care
of yourself." You said,
"I'll try."
But I knew
that you wouldn't.

III.
It happened on Good Friday
of the following year.
A winding road in Mexico,
a road I've known for years.
Sandy, who loved you too,
was the one who got the call.
Only your husband
and your dog
survived.
We each raised a glass
of brandy, and I
could find no tears,
though they
are coming now.

IV.
In a dream you came
a few months later,
I guess to show me the way.
Springing from the board,
you dived in deeply,
and I followed you
to a sunny beach.
There were others
that we knew,
but I could not
stay there yet.
I knew that I
had found the Summerland,
and so had you.

7/10/15

I REPRESENT THE BOND OF ALL HUMANITY

I represent the bond of all humanity,
A tale told richly in the ancient DNA,
At least one-half a hunter-gatherer,
A quarter sod-buster and one-eighth herder.

It was farming that made civilization possible,
And cattle-herding that made it what it is--
Nothing to be proud of,
And rather problematic.

And there is still the trace of those who left
Africa by the northeast gate,
Filling all Asia and Europe
And Pacific islands, too.

The history of Europe is in my blood,
From long before the biblical flood,
When a knife was a sharpened stone
And the ceiling was the roof of the cave.

We told stories huddled beside the fire
While women signed the first art,
Pressing delicate hands to the cave wall
But all of this was not to last.

I represent the common bond,
An ancient blend of all humanity,
Not gently swizzled by peace,
But shaken hard by war,
And victims
Of our own
Intransigent ignorance.

6/26/15