son of the desert…

shoes off
he runs
through the sahara sands
a desert fox
free from the city’s cage
no longer dashing
between motor scooters
and cars
that wind their way through the medina
in this haven
he moves among the tall grass
ears tuned to the sounds of
wind
jackals
and calves
each one moving toward
a common goal
a desert pool
hidden within these dunes
the giver of life
this is his playground
where he belongs
gently caressed by the sand
like his mother’s touch
when he is ill
warm
as when she presses him to her breast
soothing away all fears
and when he returns to the city
the desert’s arms
with fingers of sand
reach for him
as if afraid
to let him go

spring ritual….

oh how spring
brings forth from poets
a multitude of verses
a never-ending array
of love lost
and then regained
friendship betrayed
and then forgiven
like an army of prodigal sons
birth and rebirth
more flowers than in a monet painting
colorful rituals of every sort
say but one
removal of the christmas training wheels
although not practiced everywhere
it is one which these poets have forgotten
and like all rituals it has its steps
first to ride upon the softest grass
assuring no injury to the child
leaving only injured ants in its wake
no unexploded ordinances here
unlike the fields in vietnam
next moving to the cruel street
father racing beside his child
legs pumping and out of breath
protecting his child from his past pain
like a parent in beirut, afghanistan, iran
or east la
where learning to ride is not an option
finally at the child’s insistence
the father is banned to the bay window
watching his child challenge the world alone
with coffee cup in hand
still running beside his child
and with his first fall
the first scars upon his heart
as the child continues to confront the world
the father cannot end his virtual race
and with each fall
another scar

Poem inspired by comments from Mirella McCraken http://mirellamccracken.wordpress.com/

simply say…

come
let us laugh together
and join our hearts
in song
let us not go
into the hills
and count
the endless hours
to which we shall succumb
let us embrace
wayward winds
and dance
upon a velvet mist
let us touch
each blade of grass
and answer
each cricket’s call
that we might
forget the day
to which our souls
are tied
that day of death
let minds not
become too heavy
with the thorns
and thistles of thought

 

let us say
joy is what i seek
i have gone
to crush the daisies
in the may