yard sale…

found among
the archeological items
ceremonial clothing
as well as
personal adornments
adjacent to these artifacts
were
cooking utensils
and
an assortment
of
decorative statues
some
obviously used
in
religious rituals
below
a strata
of
old news papers
collections
of
leather bound
images
sorted by stages
of
life
other images
were
string tied bundles
that were
incongruent
with
the bound images
often
portraying events
which seemed
to predate
this particular tribal unit
perhaps
the forefathers
regardless
none were
remarkable
in determining
the tribe’s past life
or
culture
however
the assemblage
was
quite amazing
but
there was one
diagnostic artifact
that
captured my attention
leaving me
spellbound
and

speechless
a photograph
of
you

 

 

time lost…

unrecoverable hours
collections
of
minutes
suspended in memory
submerged like frogs
in formaldehyde jars
lifeless
lifelike forms
suitable
only
for
dissection
nothing more
no way
to
reanimate
those carefully preserved
moments
those specimens
of
life
that are void
of
what defines
life
but are
all
too often
examined
and
re-examined
as if
what was
can become
what
will be

 

sympathetic resonance…

words
and
wine
both flowing
ink
fills the pages
as
wine
fills the minds
two young poets
listening
to
miles
kind of blue
free form verses
swaying
on the page
to
changing tempos
rocking
back and forth
then
soaring
in
solos
incongruent
syllables
exposing
hidden emotions
from
deep within
their souls
pain
anger
and
moments
of
love
all revealed
in
a few stanzas
before
life interrupts

 

nyctophobia…

count
the heartbeats
passing
before you
as if
each
beat
is the sound
of
their footsteps
feel
their pulse
in
the blinks
of
their eyes
the
flow of their existence
in
their facial
postures
and
their demise
in
the silence
of
night
that darkness
where
you’re
unable
to
sleep
for
fear
of
your own death
now i lay me
down
to sleep

 

departure…

canopy
conceals
the stars and moon
darkness
shrouds the source
of
sounds
in
a veil
of
fear
sounds
come from
all
directions
none louder
than
the boy’s
pounding heart
as
shallow breaths
join
the chorus
of
fear
suddenly
strong scents
fill
his nostrils
it’s like
an approaching death
pulse
quickens
he
lowers his body
to
the ground
becoming one
with
the earth
then
a torch
is lite
he is encircled
by
his elders
bapa dola
speaks
saying
each hunter
must have empathy
for
their prey
the taking
of
life
for survival
means
the end
of
survival
for
another
so
should be done
with
respect
and
understanding
of
the prey’s fear
a fire
was lit
and
the elders
brought forth
nature’s offerings
for
a boy
was now
a man

 

singing a tired refrain again…

the city’s
opened up some
so
streets
have begun
to
be re-inhabited
by
dreamers
and
shadow people
when
i saw
the brown bag prophet
he seemed
none the worst
for
the wear
when
i asked
about
his being
he replied
nothing
has changed
myths of freedom
still
circulate
among
the masses
who’ve
ignored
the history
of
america
they continue
to
sing refrains
sung
since enslavement
one more river to cross
or
to let my people go
as if
one more compromise
or
prayer
will
make
a difference
son
the one thing
i’ve learned
in
this life
is
enslavement
never ended
nor
was
it intended
to
end
subjugation
of
people of color
has been
and
continues
to be
codified
in the actions
and
laws
of
the nation
but
we keep singing
freedom songs
as if
the words
are
some magical incantation
but
child
my father’s
father
sang
those songs
so
i know the words
well
as well as
what
will come
from
them

 

future paradise…

an unsigned contract
you’ve religiously followed
expecting rewards
but the life that you’ve wasted
may have been the true reward

 

you are dying…

just outside
the glow
of
life’s street lamp
death
lingers
like
a gaseous shadow
merging
with
night’s fog
floating
like
waves
into view
then
receding
into
the darkness
as if
reminding
us
of
its presence
for all too often
we deny
that
death
is near
and
that
we
are close
to
extinction