He bursts in with an armload of mangoes
in various stages of perfect, rotten, or too soft. One rolls to the floor and
without hesitation, he picks it up and bites in, luscious unwashed, juices dripping down his chin.
"It's warm from the sun," he says, "and the ground. I found a lot of these on the ground."

I still my tongue and watch him eat it whole, like he eats all of life.

I asked him recently if he thought I was crazy, as some do.
He said no, I want all the same things.
I wished I could tell him how I always washed my mangoes and wiped my chin,
I thought if I wore a sweater and a slip and a hat at the right times, life would turn out okay.

I'd like to call him, tell him how the wind is blowing hair across my face now.

Instead, I sit quietly, in the backwoods of Virginia
eating an unwashed, unpeeled mango
with the juices dripping down my chin.

Wind
What if wind
Isn’t wind?
It’s actually our ancestors
Whispering in

Like a breeze
Isn’t a breeze
It’s their calming voice
Guiding

Or a storm
Isn’t a storm
The torment is their anger
Followed by their tears

Our ancestor’s voice
Running through the air
It’s lovely to listen to
If we just stop and hear

From gentle falling snow to air born blossoms Mexico City stroll the city observe the
Architecture with the tree above fragrant and scented the place and its history is mind and soul
Altering the culture undertakes enhancing you could quickly transport yourself to ancient
Mesopotamia at the gate Ishtar a honing emerges from the submersed recesses of knowing
Plentiful abundance you are a space traveler in your own planet what happened the possibility
Of renewal of nature triggered something wondrous you are on solid ground but you are also in
Wrapped by Cinergy so large nature unbound intricate exquisite the very mood of life
Expressed through a wild heart that never fails to excite stillness holds your sight you presume
Certain facts just by the innocence that casually hangs in display beauty enriches then
Sweetly on a wafting breeze the fragrance of Lilac everything now is sought in this perfume that
Can never be bottled but it catches and releases joy and thrills across the tendrils of the heart
Amazing disembodied that can’t be matched or missed every turning ever filling with
Enchantment pleasure that is universal everyone is accosted delighted the spectacle is then
Perfected by rain and mist that leaves droplets on all that is visible saturation enters and drips
Unconsciously in the extravagant folds of the soul bliss awash in environs where only gentle
Fields grow such richness competes with the poverty that rules at so many points in life we
Walk imprisoned then it occurs happens without fanfare or announcement nature explodes as
Far as the eye beholds a virtual fair an extravaganza nothing is left unaffected you are invited to
This show you are to be a participant in life at its far reaches the swirl the blending of affection
And tranquility gifts so unabashedly presented hush befalls the entire world quietly it
Commands Without rehearsal the perfect show comes to life for your viewing and pleasure
Though we are buffeted by strife and challenges that at times seem unreasonable but just by
Taking a stroll and looking at the garments Mother Nature adorns herself in paths and gates
That are lying before you twist and turns that speak to the essential human in us all come to
Such wonder all you have to do is open yourself cherished living you will find created by an all
Loving Heart for His children you are the entitled keepers and reapers of a harvest that
Continues its Renewal year by year and truly does get sweeter as time goes by

I shout to the blossoms,
“Speak to us of love!”
“Tell us what’s right and what’s wrong.”
For I fear while fighting for my life,
I may have forgotten.
And you may have never known.
Their pink petals sneer at your example of compassion.
I tell them to give you a chance, just wait and they’ll see.
But they’ve lost hope, they’ve gone away.
So here I stand with your heart in my hand,
While mine lay on the floor by your bedside.
Close enough to where it needs to be,
But far enough to make it bleed.
As the blood seeps into the carpet, you complain about the stain.
Anger and despair seethe inside of me, threatening the balance.
You look the other way.
It comes spewing out in uncontrollable fire,
Putting it’s mark on everything that once glistened.
I thought the blossoms could teach us something,
I thought they could show us how to grow.
But maybe our love has a ceiling,
Maybe we’ll never know.

The great hanging weak **** of India
on the map

The Fingernail of Malaya
The Wall of China
The Korea
Ti-Pousse Thumb
The Salamander Japan
the Okinawa Moon Spot
The Pacific
The Back of Hawaiian Mountains
coconuts
Kines, balconies, Ah Tarzan-
And D W Griffith
the great American Director
Strolling down disgruntled
Hollywood Lane
- to toot Nebraska,
Indian Village New York,
Atlantis, Rome,
Peleus and Melisander,
And

swans of *****

Spots of foam on the ocean

For Madison Grace
 
So nice to know
you play the cello,
such a fine upstanding
instrument this.
It holds itself so
firm to the floor,
but needs the knees
to keep it still.
 
That resonant rich
bottom C, it never fails
to move me. So when
at the end of Bach’s
Fifth Suite, the music
dances its gigueing way
to that low tessitura, it’s
an open string end *san pareil.