When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man's dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and ***** seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
   Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it's Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it's the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL--
        ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
        WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS--
        AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
        AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT THAT OTHER'S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
        BETTER TO DIE FREE
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper's Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
   Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
    Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, ****** and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don't be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don't be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
        BETTER DIE FREE,
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
   FREEDOM!
     BROTHERHOOD!
         DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
     Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
     KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

The trees expand with my eyes, here in
this solace, this international scene.
Pigeons, rowboats, the water and a

solitary swan – each a gift or a
gift’s ribbon. Snaking off into the air,
a balloon is cradled by the bustle

of the restless London-summer’s landscape.
The ordinary habitation is
so releasing: a miniature smile

scooters by; slow sweeps of saxophone
notes clear the sky; two bodies blended
in shin-height grass release a single sigh.

Abstractions felt but failed by my speech
take root here. Like semi-singed threads or strings,
they slide upward from the dirt to grow leaves.

All of  the rowboats in the paintings
They keep trying to row away,
And the captains' worried faces
Stay contorted and staring at the waves.

They’ll keep hanging in their gold frames
For forever, forever and a day.
All of the rowboats in the oil paintings,
They keep trying to row away.

I Hear them whispering, French and German.
Dutch, Italian, and Latin.

When no one’s looking I touch a sculpture
Marble, cold and soft as satin.

But the most special are the most lonely
God, I pity the violins.

In glass coffins they keep coughing
They’ve forgotten how to sing.


First there’s lights out, then there’s lock up,
Masterpieces serving maximum sentences.

It’s their own fault for being timeless,
There’s a price to pay and a consequence.

All the galleries, the museums
Here’s your ticket, welcome to the tombs.

They are just public mausoleums,
The living dead fill every room

Here’s the formula: you and me
Ok, we’ll have some quarrels
Every couple does
But it will all be great
I’ll make the money
You will spend it
We both have voracious appetites
For knowledge, fun and dare I say, smooching!
I promise rowboats on lakes
Even some rafting
Good hats for your alabaster skin
And lots of laughter
Yes, all for you
I’ll get to share in it
Life is good
Been that way ever since we met

i. once upon a time, there were old gods and new gods. under crumbling archways the divine and the cursed share cigarettes, lighters cupped in their hands. rain pours relentlessly from the heavens, falling to the uneven cobblestone in a sheen of silver spears and smoke. this time, nothing but prayers are shed.

ii. this is their communion: an errant hand brushes against the marbled form of Hades, rowboats rock harmlessly to the temple of Asclepius, feet shuffle across the white line and into the holy land. it is in these moments that solitude begets peace.

iii. angels tuck in their tired wings, roosting on bridges and cathedrals and alleyway corners spun with ivy. amongst themselves they count the crowds that take shelter in their shadows. every day, the numbers swell until even the loneliest of the celestial feel a warmth in their gilded chests.

iv. these same seneschals pour life through golden urns, as they had done eons before the she-wolf who nursed the founders of Roma was ever born. water flows steadily from all four rivers and through the eagle-face spics that dot the roads, blessed by frail, rosary-stained hands. even the Tiber, full of harsh currents and deep embankments, softens under the touch of a child at a fountain. life flourishes. the gods smile.

v. once upon a time, i met these cursed and divine and celestial beings. all lived together in a city as old as time itself, in a city born from clay, then wrought with brick, and finished in marble. and in this place of impossibilities, i found my heart.
.
.

i found my home

The utmost beauty, I ever espied,
a river ******* overtaken by a saltwater tide.

The sun bleached pebbles "Ka-ching"
Climbing down an ocean wall of railroad ties,
I see the ******* from this L-shaped cove,
I do not tarry for my burning soles,
the cooling sand then ankle cold.

My foot feels the soft murky grass,
A crab's tickles across my foot,
then I trip over line of a derelict trap,
I quickly recover after chilling splash,
And search a more clear and sandy path,

The horseshoe crab retreating to waist high deep,
Where forlorn buoys and rowboats rock to sleep,
Like a helmet with many mechanical legs,
She disappears into the darkness with her eggs,
I turn to look back at the cottage I left behind,
Like a cat o' nine-tail the flag whips the sky.

I reach the clean and purest sand,
Of this island not made by man,
My steps bring me up amidst this river,
unlike the coming current that makes me shiver,
the water is in no rush, so a nice warming touch,
I find a hollow and recline as if in a tub,
and watch the seagulls battle the wind above,
The cottages looks so distant fleeting,
The air above shingles distorted from super heating.

The wind intercepts all shouts from shore,
like an osprey swooping down then back to soar,
It is alittle lonely, and beyond the ******* scares me,
I think a jellyfish--
when my foot touches something hairy,
Things cruise by in the current,
Then I start to notice my ******* fading,
I must leave or soon be wading.

Back at the cottage,
With childrens laughing, calling, sand castle making,
Through itchy dune grass and hot sand traipsing,
I look back at the river in full high tide,
Waiting for my island to rise.

Changes keep us running, swirling and twirling,
Creating echoes of ourselves.
We hear them calling,
But can’t stop from falling at
The worst of times.

Bells chime.
Not of church or dinner,
But wind.
Time to take a leap of faith and
Relax.

Wings flap as gulls ceremoniously take flight.
Rowboats constructed from bamboo,
Floating down the river,
Through strands of weeping willow’s hair,
Waves are iridescent and calm as the bright blue sky,
Fish swim beneath the invisible barrier separating life and death.
Forget.

Evening gives way to nightfall.
The bright sun recedes, among a spectrum of colors,
Into its home behind a mountain or
Under the sea.
Light once shed transforms to a dim shade,
Running along the cracks and ridges of the
Broken shoreline.
Believe.

Sitting, wondering and dreaming
Of our lives to this day and
What they will become.
Reminisce, then
Regret.
Breathe, look at the stars.
Those ever-glowing crystals in the dark, radiant sky.
The moonshine is as uplifting
As a baby’s first smile.
All is well.
Sleep,
And dream of times to come.

Now here we will rest in peace.

Most people would say
things were better here
before the hurricane—

granted
living on top of your roof
has its drawbacks—

no shade in the day
and no friends nearby—
it’s a ****** quiet time—

things certainly were good
two weeks ago
to watch a funeral step second line

droning a hoarse dirge
down the street—
before this town began drowning—

furniture floats by
on its way out of town
smarter than most watchers-by—

but there are upsides
to the situation—
the view

now free to swing
at its leisure
over a whole city of roofs

spread like Monopoly houses
across the flat
teal-blue board—

small rowboats float
down the brand-new waterways
picking up waving folks

from one roof
after another—
there’s people that have done this before—

the quiet after disaster
expecting help wanting none
and hearing no music for days—

driftwood floats
to a corner
of the lake
hidden from view
in a cove
shrouded by trees

sailboats glide
on a breeze as
mild as september
over water as
smooth as glass
tinted amber

hidden depths with
spring-filled caverns
limitless
against the
ebbing tide

summer haze and
autumn colors
new day’s glory
turns to
evening shade

flying fish and
water urchins
fishing rods
with baited
hooks

swimmers dive
into pale blue
water
crystal clear
with a hint
of green

fishes ride
in the wake
of rowboats
speedy oars
pulled by
teams of men

gentle times
as the lake
remembers
passing times
that remain
the same

Cold ocean crashing
Windy beach reacting.
The frozen rain pelts,
Making indents in the sand.

Collective ***** compensate
For the hills they hate,
The foam that catches their eyes.
Seaweed washed up ashore.

Clanking clouds condemn
Ecstasies of the hymn
Sung once amongst the rowboats
That now are lost at sea.

there are neon lights tonight
at the edge of town
and i was sleeping in bed
with the lights on

pale yellow against paper skin
hiding in caves, counting crystals and gems
and finally i walk out into cold violet twilight
with bare feet and the wind in my hair

every time i think i've forgotten about you
you come back to me
in a flash of candlelight
that stirs my soul

while i sit here taking notes, buying tickets
i remember the way your nose felt pressed against my shoulder
the smell of your coat when you'd come home
and i hugged you in the hallway, a sprite in stocking feet

nights stayed up laughing. my head thrown back against the pillow
listening to soft ***** music and tambourine
frustratingly happy to call you mine

a dozen dances, a handful of weddings attended
side by side, a pair of foxes in moonlight
rolled up sleeves, champagne cocktails
rowboats and stumbling feet, each kiss like white sugar on my tongue

your unshaven face meeting my cheek
the wild, moon-kissed look in your eye
you'd give me when everything was quiet
before reaching for me, your hands as open as the endless sea

i loved you every night of my youth
but i'm trying to move past all of that
fix my hair, drink my tea
fight against every thought that wraps around my head
like brown, thorny vine

you pick and scratch at my mind
all the time
even though you're not here
i feel like i danced with the devil too long
and now he thinks that he's my friend

why else would i be clawing out of bed
so i can stop dreaming about your sleepy kiss

my head the tinkling remembrances of sparkling suns
and innocence , of Silver Lake , and stepping
on a Blue Racer as I ran back up to the cabin,
shocking, yet part of the days, nights, things,
all the rowboats the roped off float swimming area,
being attacked by a snapping turtle,
the small nest up the hill of trees
where mom discovered the
nest of tiny rattlesnakes, bad dreams I had one night
listening to the radio and the stories of a big hairy creature ,
surviving it, getting stronger, no longer a tiny
creature of the concrete subdivision,
where trees were rare and creatures were real,
the bus route down at the corner.
April was , there.

my most recent self published Lulu book, [MOON tattoo], was reviewed by Krystal Sierra, and part of what she says is here:

Because of the relationship between the line and white space, the reader turns back to the poem again and again, a practice that speaks to religious tradition, incantation byway of word and image, how the poem itself becomes the way God, or Spirit, communicates with us via channels we understand, the interplay between the word and white space much like what we know and do not know about the nature of the divine. – Krystal Sierra

~

some poems, from [MOON tattoo]:

[level]

brother is digging barehanded in the backyard a hole for what he hopes is the alien of god’s choice. as for existence, my mother’s is low on mine. my father is keeping out of the same sentence any mention of ****** and totem pole. no one including you cares for my sister’s worry that this no this is the bottom of a rock. if asked, I will say I was visiting with my arms the museum of rowboats during the regional spike in baptisms we as a family failed to interrupt.

~

[meditation]

summer was for sexting and for watering the scarecrow’s spine. say it with me this was not that summer. as a ghost might surprise the mother and go to salt, a doll might remember its teeth.

brother is digging barehanded in the backyard a hole for what he hopes is the alien of god’s choice.  as for existence, my mother’s is low on mine.  my father is keeping out of the same sentence any mention of ****** and totem pole.  no one including you cares for my sister’s worry that this no this is the bottom of a rock.  if asked, I will say I was visiting with my arms the museum of rowboats during the regional spike in baptisms we as a family failed to interrupt.

The streets stands empty where the daffodils had danced their petals last night. And on the morn, the giants brawl by to blow away the remains of the withered petals.
Little do they know that it is their intended cruelty that keeps the seeds alive. Afloat through the air while the wind’s currents gust them on like rowboats on sunset rivers of orange and soil. The hasty earth whose taste livens their roots for the tomorrow that may never come.
For armageddon seems to be around the corner huffed by ridicule and tarantulas.  
- What goes on in the minds of one tracing random memories into the mysteries of the future?
Gullible leaves look by innocent rays that bring to dark the guillotine drones.
Flash.
The river banks burst water tumbling like buildings on the aftershave.
Silver.
Glints of scarring grazes bruised on hearts of steel that were never towed.