Windstorm

A wild wind blows here

through the empty pockets

of my soul, dogs howling

ghosts walking in the dark

every bang a stranger

at the door of fear

knocking loose every

unthatched idea precariously left

hanging leaving hollows

of whistling, rattling space

tattered dreams all strewn about

come daylight’s vision.

Hints and Glimpses

I don’t know about you

but I have these

strange moments

hints and glimpses

of the something else

the great unknowable

as if Gaia or God

dreams us up

we exist constellated

into substance

for a quick minute

in the stretch

of the infinite timeline

much like our own

ideas or children

consciousness manifest

in substance

Someone dreams

of walking and talking

things happen

dream thinking they are awake

Someone walks and talks

things happen

I say “You are awake,

I’m here, this IS happening.”

He looks deep into me

and asks in earnest

“How can you tell for sure?”

Somewhere a wise old lizard

hundreds of years old

crawls through the dream time

of a long life, perhaps many lifetimes

I too can recall some times

back then back when

things seemed so

real, certain, fixed

many lifetimes ago

The best and worst

of times all just ideas

in my mind pictures

in boxes with some fading

and tint changing

old tapes movies

of us back then

documentation

life really happened

as remembered and forgotten

Other life times of

wars, betrayals and loyal heroics

lovers, children, fortunes lost 

and remade days and nights 

of heaven, hell 

and numbed indifference

a dream to the demented

or the built in forgetter

inherent in human nature

allowing repetition repetition

disappeared in the day’s doings

re-minded, re-membered

re-lived in reveries

flashbacks, dreams

“All the live long day”

shifts in consciousness

hints of glimpses

walking and talking

the cosmic dream of real life

lives us.

Equinox

At times between midpoints
not sure if I'm coming or going
staying or leaving, feeling or knowing

welcoming or dreading
all hangs in the balance
time flowing into the next fullness

dying or birthing, dying or birthing
be still, be still while the world turns
on its axis in its little orbit

its homey little pocket of the universe
I imagine its vastness is endless
unable to comprehend any edges

time and space dissipating perhaps
to the nothing of starless darkness
where no light shines yet

billions of years later -
Returning now back toward life
local time lapses this musing

like a swirling eddy spiraling off the edges

of the strong current a digression away

from the inevitable entropy

the natural progression of every summer
summoning the next big push of life energy
spent and the next time out of every winter

each fall asking - So how’d it go
How did you live, what did you sow?

Do you weep or will you reap

enough to get you through?
And if you make it through another winter
another ending, another change

would you do it all the same?
All this reflective mental game
one more hand to play

a house of cards 

in the absence of blowing winds

before dreamy sleep

or balmy walks in fields of wheat
or snow so deep

my heart to keep

her universal primal beat

keeping time in a treasure chest

marked time moves on – it doesn’t rest.

Burb Kiss

There in suburbia

space is bigger

so walking between

cars in the expensive

healthy food store

parking lot seems oddly

forced by the tight rows

of spatial efficiency

a man of practiced

unnoticability sits

idling in his nearly

invisible suburban

car looking more

and more nervous

as I pass between

the rows of cars

toward him

a couple of rows

of anticipation

bringing us closer

there will be mere inches

when I pass his car door

with my shopping bags

heading to my trusty

metal steed.

What if I turn on

my heals fling open

his car door

and kiss him

really, really kiss him

and look very deeply

into him holding

his gaze so he sees

that he has been seen

his channel locks

starting to spring open

then suddenly

I am in my own

innocuous gold sedan

catching the green light

out of there

just barely escaping

all that is suburban

Axis of Evil

 Tired and complacent working

too hard to lift my head up

speak up, push up against it.

Its just how the two percent

of the world’s wealthiest

people want it

running governments

and business and guns

dictating the use of resources

creating little wars

to settle scores 

mafia-like familia tantrums

seems inescapably, densely complex

powerful, uninhibitable

invisible yet omnipresent

running the whole show backstage

while we act out the rage

of our lives, working, worrying,  

showing up for our day

jobs, for life

or for war and death

taking our orders

from boardroom generals

oblivious and out-resourced

unable to keep up even

as we see we are

losing the freedom, the liberty

to edit the script

rewrite the lines, alter destiny.

But why worry?

Yin to Yang. Yang to Yin.

May take 300 years - maybe less.

In nature it is never

high noon or midnight

longer than that moment -

a reassuring and terrible thought.