Stamping Ground
Two gas stations
Right beside each other
One dollar store
And one school
A trailer park
And a hundred farms
A few churches
And lots of backroads
A water tower
Spray painted “will you marry me?”
A little small town
That’s my hometown
Two gas stations
Right beside each other
One dollar store
And one school
A trailer park
And a hundred farms
A few churches
And lots of backroads
A water tower
Spray painted “will you marry me?”
A little small town
That’s my hometown
Pale cirrus clouds shine in a gritty sky,
Where sand from the Sahara,
Six thousand miles away
But nearly the size of my country
Swirls above me unseen.
Each year, the transoceanic winds
Carry this desert bounty
To fertilize Amazon rain forests,
Build Caribbean beaches,
Sooth Atlantic hurricanes,
And turn our inland sunsets to flame.
The translucent clouds wheel overhead
In the shell-pink sunset sky,
Turning slowly, like the white woolen robes
Of whirling dervishes
I saw years ago in Cappadocia.
Not Sufis themselves, of course;
Those so avowed must not perform their sacred dance
For mere spectators. I saw trained actors,
Who must practice for years.
Even the semblance must be perfect.
I’m not sure it matters which rite you see,
Art or worship, if heaven knows everything,
And the true dance is in your heart.
Turning, turning, turning.
The hypnotic chanting voices,
The music of ney, rabab, and oud,
The flickering candles,
A gray moth circling overhead,
Above the ancient stone walls
Of the caravansery at Sarihan.
The cool dry breeze,
The doves taking flight off the roof,
The soft flap of those twirling robes,
Spreading around the dancers like creamy petals,
Unfolding, the solemn ritual rippling outward.
I carry it with me still, a world and an ocean away.
Tonight the dancers visit me again,
In these numinous clouds,
Spinning slowly under a crescent moon,
In a haze of sand from another desert,
Over my own green fields.
Ports of Call
Fresh as first light, that dawn unseen
before, it will never repeat —
that day I stood and listened for
the known among the alien
tongues, those merchant ships of language
fresh. At first, light — the dawn unseen —
then song itself unwound, graceful
like a lark tracing alphabets,
each arabesque and loop fading
as the muezzin called out his prayer
fresh as first light, the dawn. Unseen
behind shuttered wall, veiled windows
broke open, spilling gold, blossoms
of exotic names I stumbled
over, while far west, the moon rose
fresh, as first. Light, the dawn — unseen.
A star silenced before our eyes
Betelgeuse passed
and for a moment
one brief moment
damned voices asked
Are all our stars doomed?
Luminous eyes beyond the azure sea
disagreed wholeheartedly
this will be
no less
no wonder forgotten
every light has it’s hour
There was an explosion in the night
where a star once passed
in this moment,
you can finally see
existence
harken to the fire
let it become yours
forget nothing
of this
Almost feels like a forbidden guilty pleasure
to sit across from my dad at the table,
sipping coffee as he browses motorcycles
on his iPad and I sift through tiny homes
for future design inspiration. We chat,
intermittently, as the heat starts to roll
across five acres of yard, grass that,
according to my dad, “aches to be cut.”
How blessed am I that most mornings
are spent like this, drinking in the day?
I find myself gazing too long across
the table, stirring my coffee idly
as I send mental memos to myself:
This is how my dad adjusts his trifocals
to read the fine print. This is how he takes
his second cup of coffee, almost black
with a touch of half-and-half. This is how
I feel, waking up to a spot at this table—
and I allow myself to both remember
everything and revel in these moments,
somehow all at the very same time.
Not a rolltop but a fine piece with a finer role
oak, solid, heavy and heavily dependable and trustworthy
its wood grain uniquely marred by bleeding Sharpies,
hostile hot glue, glamorous glitter, and hot drinks that
missed a coaster and left a white ring on a tawny top
The loyal desk has seen its fair share of my craze
lists of tasks done and (whoops!) undone
sentiments received and sent out to global corners
art, creativity blunders (thank you, Pinterest,) crafts galore
self-teaching of many subject matters and self-loathing
hours of planning for events, vacations, tomorrow’s menu
a plethora of books, magazines, report cards, junk mail
She has hosted the signing of important documents and business deals
photos being handled, poured over, scanned, saved to the cloud
the discovery and claim of curious ancestors and weird relatives
observation of budgets managed, bills paid, my eyebrows raised
My darling timber companion without ado has
endured countless sitting butts and coasters with coffee and tea
supported the immeasurable highway of internet possibilities
and the magic of the WiFi router resulting in smiles all over the casa
She has held my weary sleeping-head and watched ankles swell
put up with food crumbs and my ridiculous number of pens and notebooks
witnessed infinite words penned on paper and typed on a keyboard
been covered by plentiful piles of clutter and holy hella messes
skived by lines of highlighter and escaped correcting tape along page’s edge
She has stood firm with me through scandalous crap and by me
as I yelled at kids from my workspace, during brainstorms
stood by and caught rains of grief, sadness, anxiety, and depression
My dear desk has been the one I turn to, my silent partner,
my personal assistant and perhaps my biggest secret keeper
the one who’s seen me through all my feels and skills
a sacrificial life to become my desk and constant friend
May I never take her for granted
