Sometimes adrift is the best option. Uncertainty, a sure thing. Wavering, a symphony of resonance.
Leave the list for a whim. The cracks in the wall signal character; the tilt of the roof, charm.

Play like a child with a brand-new toy. See, smell, touch for the first time. Angle, circles, wood, plastic.
Forego the plot summaries and join the story. The runner runs backwards, the swimmer floats idly.

Swiggle a circle where there once was a box and leave hems undone. Plant your feet on terra non-firma.
Letting go. Swinging every which way. Lose the myopic lens. Black-and-white pales against blooming flowers.

I remember the ivy-laden trellis that tried to impede our childhood climb up the house.
The two of us, boy and and girl dressed for kindergarten, finally made it to the top.
How frightening then it was to leave that trembling ladder and get onto the roof.

Afraid to look down, I focused on the view, wanting to reach out and touch the soft hills.
As I turned to my childhood friend, he was gone. I looked down in a panic and saw nothing.
I walked clumsily to the center and felt the wood soften and buckle beneath my feet.

I woke up in a carnival scene of odd characters and screaming music, my friend nowhere to be seen.
Crying in fear, I could barely make out the walls. Someone whispered in my ear. I wanted my friend.
I searched other rooms but found no sight of him. The music was hurting my head and I felt cold.

A wisp of a woman waved for me to come to her. She bent down, kissed my forehead, and said “Free.”
I woke up back with my friend on the roof. He was doing a little dance, as if nothing had happened.
My mother was yelling for me. She had to climb up to bring us both down to earth. I was scolded.

Looking back now I remember the feel of the ivy, the kaleidoscope of colors, a dreamlike wave,
a dress rehearsal for life, a nebulous event threaded out of childhood experience, a lifelong warning.
Her kiss so threateningly soft and persuasive. Her “Free” so musical yet so fleeting. Child’s play.

An ungainly creature at first sight. A massive trunk with but a small canopy.
Ancient creatures as old as two thousand years that feed the world with pride.

Many have fairy-tale hollows massive enough to house critters and humans alike.
Every part of this monument blesses us with resources we use every day – no waste here.

The Baobab is the tree of life, never giving up. It deserves respect and reverence.
If you are ever so lucky to meet up with the Baobab, touch it with love.

And ponder its creation, this upside down species that spans the centuries.
Did it spring forth ready to do business, or did it adapt to its environment?

Is its existence assured, safe from predators who crawl all hunched over on two legs?
Only if the upright and valiant two-leggers among us prevail against the troglodytes.

Love is that heartbeat that quickens to a roar and then slows to a comfortable, affordable compromise.
Hate is burning white and pure with vengeful conceit and the will to smash something to smithereens.

Religion is the need to belong, the desire to ignore mortality, the comfort in community and its restrictions.
Atheism is that cold sweat in the night, the reclusive hideout, the dark vision of humanity cruising toward its end.

Noise is what we crave as proof of our existence. Music, chatter, drilling, birds,  the couple screaming next door.
Silence has no echo. It makes us feel small. We turn inward and feed on ourselves. A remedy or a curse.

Freedom is a welcome mirage, a nod to our participation in an already stacked deck of cards. But we persist.
Suppression from within or without is the human condition writ large. Players on the stage, if I may be so bold.

Life comes cheap, handed to us without our permission. Moving from one goalpost to the next, suffering and exalted.
Death is a conception beyond our perception. It is an unsparing one-way trip without a backward glance or a goodbye.

Good and bad. Black and white. Who’s to say? It’s a poet’s decision.
Take the trip, pratfalls and all. Passion is the driver for all ordained passengers.

We laughed, we danced, we ate and drank until dawn, then blinded by the fiery sunrise.
We slept little and ordered a car to drive us to the opening of something or other.
The notice was on our phone, our selfies from last night still making us silly again.
And the band plays on.

The trade winds are ominous, the plutocrats reign supreme, the riches trump the rags.
Bully pulpits abound with demagogic appeals to the ancient terrors of the other.
Countries dissolving, oceans rising, fires unabated, and glaciers disappearing.
And the band plays on.

My friends, we have only this moment in time. Why waste it on anything we can’t fix?
Life was made to savor and enjoy, not to worry and fret about anything beyond ourselves.
We can’t change other people; we can’t fight the battles of good and evil; we must just breathe.
And the band plays on.

The mobs are at the wall, bellicose signs at the ready. The defenders of freedom look the other way.
The intellectual, the artist, the different among us are trampled into conformity. No one is spared.
The lights dim, the bullhorns blare, the flames erupt, the crystal night begins yet again.
And the band plays on.

Now listen to the truth: You have little to no power.
What happens is by pure chance and the roll of the dice.
There is no karmic response from the universe.
You are ironically sentient for no reason other than to suffer.

So what is the point? The midnight ocean, a tropical
Sunset, vanilla ice cream, words that resonate, a good battle won,
The feel and taste of a lover, the child skipping down the street,
The energy of sunlight and the calm of darkness. And one more day.

They come outfitted for the hunt of long ago, dressed in colonialism par excellence.
They love the people that serve them so obsequiously, not a wrinkle in the process.
The abject poverty seen from a Jeep elicits empathy tinged with a blessing for themselves.

They are privileged to the native shows of dance and culture performed for shillings.
What’s hidden behind those smiling eyes that seem unable to look at us directly?
Their dependence upon us creases their faces and keeps them singing and dancing.

I look away and revel in the majesty of the wild creatures in their native habitat.
Here I feel on the same level, no confusion of what to do or say. Silence reigns.
Time to go home. How was your trip, they’ll ask. I have no easy answer for them.