8 poems
From later '24
Familiar Ground
The owl was here during the night. She left
her call hanging in the tree
across the wash. Five o’clock, still dark, something soft
rubbing on the silence.
And there are some lies
littering the walk
up to the foothills, but the Rock Wrens
ignore them. It’s difficult to argue
that the ground here is beautiful, some ups
and downs with a dry trunk fallen
from summer’s last mesquite,
trails that crunch underfoot
and a mountain wrung out
of the Earth over years
left to shoulder sunlight and shrug away
drought. This is
rough truth, no left,
no right, no arguments except
with God, or whoever tore the edge
of creation’s wayward plan
and called it desert.
Madera Canyon Mine
Do not enter: Rainbows
on the water, echoes flying
through the tunnels
and a slow clock dripping time.
Red-faced warblers in the oaks
and trampled grasses on the meadow
where a bear walked on the way
to the pass with a view
all the way to Mexico.
Peligroso: There’s poison in the shadows
where once upon a springtime
ore was a gleam
in the mountain god’s eye.
A boiler holds its ground
by the switchback in the trail
where the sycamores listen
for trogons calling. April
on the upper slopes, blue distance
and sunlight. Stay clear: The darkness
inside can’t find a way back
to being air again.
Brief Encounters
It's their ways to detain, their ways to disgrace
A Singer Must Die, Leonard Cohen
One evening early
with sunset stretched like a tiger skin
across the sky a waste lot
comes to life. Ominous questions
of identity scatter on the sidewalk with the weeds
and the asking outlives all the answers.
Another time, just out walking, nowhere to be
but a summer afternoon
when a voice issues directly from the sun
asking for name and address and the reason
for being outside when even
a blue uniform is like smoke in the heat.
Same street, next time
it’s dark and the moon shines down
spotlight style. It wants to know who it has stopped
before slipping its face behind a cloud. Does the rain
keep a record of where
it has fallen? The groundwater knows
who protested the war, who joined hands
with the homeless, who is black, who is white, who
has no color at all, and who
happens to look
like somebody they’re not. Is innocence
a defence against the light? Was it the stars
who tapped the phone?
Late morning, the order not to move. Stay perfectly still,
say your name; let it plead Not guilty,
let it fly among the city pigeons
who survive on scraps
and ancient wits.
Election Season
Midsummer heat as October begins
and a shivering cry
from out of sight signals
the coyotes’ prayer to the sun
when they give back the world
to human rule. The quiet neighbors
have begun setting out
yard signs to reveal
their innermost beliefs.
One side sings, the other
screams. Some just want
a shake-up to discover
what outlaw spirit brings
while still as thought
the Cooper’s hawk
on a street lamp against
the orange clouds has winter
in one eye and summer
in the other. Another day the heat lasts
into darkness, later
than the evening news, long after
Happy hour is over
and midnight’s face glows bright
high above mendacity,
doubt and the choices
to be made between line dancing
at Cactus Jack’s
or voting for the silent stars.
Apart
From just across the street it’s hard to tell
who’s for and who’s against. Chance
conversation could reveal
a clue but when
evening shadows fall
dreams begin
their march into the mind.
Suspicion turns to moonlight
and nobody knows for certain except
the midnight owl.
*
A friendly word in the cereal aisle, the offer
of help going home, any time
for a favor is fine. No strangers here, nothing
asked in return for help.
But what’s
to be made of the campaign sign in the yard
that reveals a generous heart
will vote against social kindness.
*
First light; the cactus reaches for sky and truth
while neighbors talk:
Our son, he wants nothing
to do with us. Half the sky
is glowing, half is cloud. The Roadrunner appears
for the second time this week, tail up
and moving faster
than opinions.
Won’t even answer the phone
In a divisive time the mountain doesn’t care
what the lower desert thinks
as the sun comes looking for a home.
Heat-Stroke
There’s a picture postcard sunrise
back of the apartments
at 48th and Warner
and a fire truck in the parking lot. Smoke on the second storey,
three bodies, no clues, this neighborhood is zoned
for stillness in the afternoon. Water
for the sparrows, suet for the doves, a whole sky for the hawk
who flew through the yard this morning.
A hummingbird drinks light,
the sun drinks desert
and the desert drinks a hundred years
of silence in a single gulp.
*
Dustbathing quail in a hollow; eight half-grown
and one adult, each
with a tremble in its throat. Two flickers
on the tallest palm, a hundred
degrees high and climbing.
Night on its way, the rabbits are out
to listen for darkness. Sure enough, it’s crossing
the ridge now, leaving nothing
but the bones of light behind. 2:20 a.m. reports
of swimming pool shots,
monsoon clouds arguing again, no arrests
are made.
*
An evening when homicide
hangs between the trees
and stops halfway along the path
to where a hawk’s nest is woven into the wind
the sky turns suddenly electric.
All the stars are flashing.
City lights behind the mountain,
Heaven’s rain falling
and thunder wipes the darkness clean.
Day and Night
Woodpecker knocking on the doors of fate
or against the siding
to a house that floats on good luck
and bad
while a hummingbird drinks from the light.
Tap, tap, tap, who’s there? Tap, tap, tap,
will it rain? Tap, tap, tap, do the numbers
that count money
count the bees?
What
does a roadrunner cost? is an oriole worth more
than a thrasher? tap, tap, tap,
are starlings no more
than small change? Why are there people
asleep on the street? Is a shopping cart a home?
Grubs in the tree bark,
insects in the walls, honey in the desert,
stars in the world beyond traffic
and street lights, beyond language, beyond zip codes,
where no password exists
to grant entry to night.
The owl’s calls say
go to the outskirts of knowledge
when the song the world is singing
goes out, out, out of tune.
The Cats
The cats don’t know there’s trouble
in the world. Their job is to look graceful
in disturbing times. The golden hour
is upon us, late light streaming
from the mountain ridge
and a chill in the air.
To lick their paws
in sympathy with those
who sleep on the streets, to stretch against
the window surrounded by an outdoor glow.
No borders for them, they open every cupboard
and occupy the highest places
they can reach.
Dreams flow
through their limbs while they sleep.
Nothing earthly matters
then, it’s a world of fish and backyard doves
in there. Elections never happened,
the pursuit of happiness translates
into Spanish, to carry concealed
means a mind full of ideas.
Just look
at how the more mature one occupies
a chair with regal demeanor, how the younger
one has all his outlaw spirit
still intact. The desert winter
sharpens itself under moonlight. They curl
into the moment and obey nature’s order
to serve the gods of elegance and sleep without pity.
