She’s chasing after mustard seeds
from a household that’s known no Death.
With eyes that droop and feet that bleed,
she’s out of the village and into the weeds.
Finding a family that’s known only life
is like finding one that’s known but good deeds.
Not finding a one, she finally concedes
knowing her suffering is not unique,
and with that realization she is freed.
I
grass growing
through the concrete cracks;
roots spreading
and loosening the stones —
nature’s transplant rejection
II
mossy roof,
a cabin in the woods,
nature swallows
and digests all intruders
if given enough time
III
every living thing
becomes food in due time;
i’m fungi food;
should a wolf crack my corpse bones,
who am i to complain?
Something wicked resides below —
deep, but not underground.
You’ll not find it behind the drapes,
or in the Lost & Found.
Like a geologist, just Dig!
You’ll find it deep below.
But, still you’ll have to use great care —
no hurling, “Fire-n-the-Hole!”
You’ll have to tease out the answer,
chipping, and with a brush.
It’ll take a steady Hand & Mind;
some jobs are never RUSH.
We like to shout down the demons,
to call them by foul names,
but if you want to find the cure:
dig out the Fear & Pain.
Worn one more time than the number of funerals you attend,
that black suit hangs forgotten — yet dreaded.
It hangs dusty in a closet,
or musty in a bag;
and you’re most listless when it has
a crisp dry cleaning tag.
In good years, it never crosses your path — or your mind.
In bad years, it’s needed repeatedly.
There will be a year in which someone will pull it out for you —
carefully smoothing its lapels —
the year you move beyond bad years.
A crack so thin that it could not be seen —
cracked into the windshield of that machine
A flaw that sits awaiting fatal fail —
the crack that pops and groans, yet still unseen
It will happen quickly; with no warning
from that disastrous crack one could not glean
An unforeseen implosion sounds sharply —
the catastrophic snap of cracked windscreen
So much depends on catching that thin gap
cracks become chasms with nothing in-between
So check your scratches and scrub that glass clean
so cracks don’t masquerade as scrape or seam
A cloud is crawling overhead;
it drags a shadow overland,
but shadows never leave a stain
and, soon, the sun can make its stand.
There was an exporter from the Philippines
who got his start in karaoke machines,
then shoes and suits
and nurses and fruits
and, lastly, stretch-Jeepney limousines.
I
jagged ridges
fade to obscurity,
and so do I
II
one mountaintop
shines in the morning sun,
the rest in shade
III
sunrays slant
from clouds to mountains —
morning rips through
There was a lady from Lima, Peru
who had only seen llamas at the Zoo,
and though the trend was big,
she didn’t eat guinea pig.
Such is life on a Miraflores avenue.
One has to love the irrational exuberance of people who believe they’ve reached the finish line, the end of the worst possible 366-day period imaginable, as if the world will reset at midnight, as if waking up on January first will be waking up from a year long dream that was usually a nightmare, but was, at its best, a bizarre and incoherent (but emotionally-charged) dream.
I can’t help but wonder if 2021 will be the year in which…
–a ferry sinks in tropical waters, struck by an iceberg
–the virus will mutate on the eve of my vaccination day
–the drone of Brood X will get on last nerves, triggering a tsunami of riots
–a tsunami of water will wash away beachfront property
–there will be a plague of frogs [did we have one of those? I lost track.]
–aliens will land
–AI will make its move
–someone will misplace a thermonuclear warhead
It’s not that I’m a pessimist, I just don’t think Lady Fortuna will acknowledge Auld Lang Syne as stop sign, or as a bump in the road.
