unbeknownst
to the human race,
every year the free trees,
those of the forest, the great gardens,
have an annual convocation, a solemn communion and a
delicate conversation

the gathering is attended by insects and avians,
for theirs is the heavy responsibility,
that which the trees cannot do,
they must do, i.e. move, be agents
of pollination

Trees gather, the sequoias officiate,
for they the elders, are wise in the
rings of history that tells of ritual,
sacred sayings, the reasoning,
the young ones don’t full  comprehend

“Who shall give aid and comfort to the human dead?”

Who shall give of their seed
that will be carried by our friends,
they may be scattered planted,
in the graveyards where
those that tended and
sheltered us,  
lie buried,
and the living
who tend to
their ancestral,
will adjoin, all
in need of shade and
comforting song?

there is great rustling of the wind,
the most honored,
query those attendees,
why must we choose?

let each of us contribute
according to their needs,
let the randomized
scattering by our winded
and flighted avian friends
best express our gratitude…

thus forests, parks, great gardens,
and yes, the cemeteries of mankind,
ALL
were seeded, deeded and refreshed,
and the world was cleansed,
commended, interdependented,
defended and extended…

Wed Aug 7 2024

She came with hope, eyes full of dreams,  
For her girl’s bright future, or so it seems.  
The weight of the world on her weary heart,  
Seeking help where she could, doing her part.

The first time, a hand was given,  
To lift her from the dark she was driven.  
The second time, the heartstrings pulled,  
In a world where kindness should never be dulled.

But now, the third time she stands before,  
And you can’t offer what you did before.  
Your own struggles, your own despair,  
Leave you feeling helpless, it’s so unfair.

You see the pain in her tear-stained eyes,  
The desperation, the silent cries.  
She’s knocked on doors, begged and pleaded,  
But at each one, her hopes receded.

Rejected, ignored, turned away,  
Still, she rises, day by day.  
Her girl’s future, a distant star,  
Yet a mother’s love travels far.

You wish you could do more, give again,  
But your hands are tied, you feel the strain.  
Yet know this truth, hold it close,  
Your compassion is a gift, the most.

For sometimes, it’s not the help you give,  
But the understanding, the will to live.  
To feel her pain, to share her plight,  
Is to stand with her in this fight.

So don’t feel useless, don’t feel small,  
You’ve done your part, you’ve answered the call.  
And though you can’t help as before,  
Your empathy, your care—mean so much more.

Amidst the throb of bodies and bass, one,
The moon and chill call me.
A kind of playful peace and lightness that draws
Its fingers across my bare skin.
I crave it’s cleansing touch.

Like smoke rising, finally free and full
Of cathartic, selfish purpose.
For who watches it dance and wilt?
Who cares to miss it where it’s gone?
Ethereal by nature, does it long to feel in this realm?

In myself I write letters to no one.
The pages I would read to you.
The lyrics I would share,
So you might feel the way the words move me,
The purge I feel when I scream them.

Reverberations of truth
In places so deep and raw
They shock me. They scare me.
I want to give you this, as I give you myself.
Feel it and feel me.

~a unconscious commissioned poem~

<>

La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur

advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede

we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those,  we are
best at
confessing in

first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams

Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end

the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding

is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations

morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness

Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…

and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)

<>
commissioned by Pradip

7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds

<>

music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion

The one umbrella I give her
and get drenched in the rain.

My eyes are not dry
as rain bathes my eyelashes
makes me cry in joy.

I'm happy she's not wet
as it pours on pitter patter
pitter patter.

In the rain I find the might of love
and in the music of the pour
I hear my heart burning
in the light of sound.

Sometimes
Give the poems in your head
Some rest.

Don't write them on,
Write them off.

Internally arrange a funeral
Bid them farewell
Give them an unceremonious burial.

The rising poem won't complain
They know well your anguish and pain.

The labour you go through birthing them
Shape their body, give a name
They would understand.

Failed poems are not as arrogant
As the birthed ones.

They too are weary pounding your head
Making holes in your soul
They would rather rest than be born.

Sometimes
They deserve rest.

Let them float away to a place
Where they find peace
And will not be missed.