Your voice crackles like red logs in a camp
singes the tiny hairs in my ears
burns in my numbered parts
eddies over the big stones
rolls pebbles left and right as if looking for a place
to lodge and rest, away from the pounding environment.

Your long and insistently unruly hair
tickles the tiny places inside
that never thought of being tickled
never figured to be touched by your hidden wildness
the disguised untamedness
stirs my groggy languid waters
your wild, full flushed heart pounds
rhythm into my flat languid and resistant plains.

I am a sandy arid desert dotted with cacti and pigweed
thirsting for the fluid you excite with ease
and draw up from my depths.

Songs erupting from the well of your faith
come forth from your sober mouth
and waft over our sallow selves
over our normality and our implacable comfort.

Your vocal chords echo Leonard Cohen
a pursuer who never found the object of his quest
but you do not deify the journey
like so many traveling troubadours.
You rest assured of your place up yonder
the place safe and secure in green planet that is you.

“As a Royal you were always taught to maintain a buffer zone between you and the rest of Creation” – Prince Harry

I was a working class boy
from an oft-reeking neighborhood
there south of Greens Bayou
where a north wind
made us breathe rotten-egg air.

I was no royal.
But when I read the Prince’s quote today
I wondered if my mom’s childhood-induced fears
imposed a buffer zone on me
to protect me from the tough guys
whose dads ground pipes and did wiring
in local industrial plants.

Years of drinking beer sitting in the rear
I watched bar fights and felt Mom’s fear
as surely as if she’d been sitting near.
I didn’t stay in the Scouts long enough
to learn the stuff of being a man
didn’t hunt with my brother
and learn from him how to take a stand.

Now an adult, I’m sorry I wasn’t wild,
too bad I became too shy and too mild
shunned risk and danger, stayed too clear.

Was it some thin metal strand from me to my mama’s fear
that robbed me of things that make a man?
I know I learned empathy and gentleness from her
and hold not a shred of anger
for her or Dad who worked so many hours
away from that field of dreams.
I know their love saved me from violent extremes
and made me cherish God, music, and art,
tragic, as well as sensual, and exquisite scenes.
So here I sit writing
reflecting with preludes, green plants and memories.

Harry, Prince the Duke of Sussex, Spare, Random House, 2023, p. 54

When I witness your beauty
mingle my soul in your galaxies
bathe in your sweet fragrance
see the piercing tumescence
of your desire
your passion to scatter your seeds
in waves of wind
upon the earth
into the most protected regions
of our minds
I know you are a poet
who cannot resist reaching
beyond the confines of your self.

Traveling the dusty winding road
I reached the rain forest
heard the Macaw sing
saw its flash of glory in air
and I mused what I’d missed
in the dusty doctrines and dogmas
leather volumes
safe and secure at home
a home I feared might morph
into a wooly gulag
or a colonial province
where freedom groaned
and dragged like an anchor
in shallow water.

The cloudy mucky morning
portends this winter’s end
whatever dawning light
needs importing from within
to burn away
the showers aborning.
That’s why I’m here with you
so you can hear and I can read
the plot arising.

I’m awaiting
a vessel fit for floating
a song worth singing
a fire to light the candle
to connect the spirit in me
to the flame in you.

I’ve said only half-jokingly
I’m a slow learner
of life lessons.
I was wondering about snails
if they learn as slowly as they move
but does our species
ever learn
really absorb
even the basic how-tos
of saving ourselves and our planet?

I might never sate my appetite
for ice cream, tenderloin, or fried fish
but sometimes
it’s hard to empty myself
and make room
for the other fella’s little world
or for God.

My slightly shaky fingers
rest steady on the keys
poised to open my heart
to make room for  
a deep dive into the red fibrous
muscle of the cosmos.