The rocks smothered in tangled vines,
the rocks so old, so sturdy,
hold the bridge crossing the span
of dark tunnel. You cross over
the bridge sadder than usual. Choke
back tears you’ve never out grown. You own
the bridge beneath your feet. As twilight
settles, you own your own sadness.
Voices push forward
but this time
you brush them away, unafraid.
You eye a vanishing point ahead.
Unafraid, your vision becomes drishti.
The breeze barely lifts your hair.
In the east-facing window
Slants the blue that colors my prayers
In this chapel, this box of silence.
Blue, blue, blue—
My prayers rise up to you in the blue
Which daily enchants me here.
Breath defines my space of silence,
Breath rescues mind from mazes,
Breath only opens…
Rustle of brown and grey:
The brothers come to raise more psalms
Than this which blossomed from blue—
We recite the ancient verses
Simply, side-by-side
Matching rhythms, caesuras as
The shadow-cross travels our wall
Where through the four-paned window
The unseen sun proclaims from blue.
My own blue silence rising up to you,
My own blue silence rising up to you.
This swimming hole I’ve known
so long. Even my first time
here, all those years ago,
I felt it as place
I had already known.
Rhododendron flanks
the banks, poplars tower
and lean, sycamores
spread wide white arms
into dense canopy.
A mudsand beach
is steep and slick,
water deep, some
say twelve feet,
and green.
To wile away youthful
summer without end
or purpose, always
did I surface those murky
anxious depths lighter of care,
whether trouble frothed
in town or twisted
like a moccasin inside my mind,
courage would solidify as cool
beads dripped from skin,
to evaporate for a spell,
my fears.
I brought lovers here
to loaf and tan, luxurious
weekday afternoons
with the crowds at work.
Also I have swam lonely
mornings as a man forsaken.
I’ve shared with families
their Sunday picnics,
cries and caws of
chlidren learning strokes,
mothers apprehensive,
fathers on their backs afloat.
I’ve lectured with stern face
unsuspecting litterbugs
on why this place is sacred.
Even as I’ve grown
into this loose fish I am
and still discover, nothing else
delivers me from evil
like the cathartic leap
from the massive boulder,
tumbled in some ancient time
from sandstone cliffs above,
to river bank by means
of cataclysm hard to fathom.
How then, the entire gorge
must have shook and rumbled.
To stand and witness
on that rock, the flow
some fifteen feet below,
though many times I’ve jumped,
always a lump wells in my throat.
An adrenal yalp I shout
when I have flung this earthly
corpse in flight over the edge.
For a moment I am hawk
in fast descent,
a second split,
as distinct
in memory
as any.
Splash.
I am submerged,
mud turtle sinking deep
into dark fissures,
soul alive and
without measure.
Never have I dared
to find the bottom floor.
The waters there are
void of light and cold, cold.
On my block are two families
with signs posted
One says Black Lives Matter
The other- We support and respect Lexington Police
Both are African Americans
Would love to have them at a block party
to tear down walls
and find the same brick
to come together.
Cholera I
Cholera is an intestinal bacterial disease spread through contaminated water. It originated in the Ganges Delta in 1817.
Cholera II
Treatment of cholera consists primarily of administrating an oral rehydration solution, while prevention consists of drinking boiled, bottled, or chemically treated water.
Cholera III
In 1866, a cholera epidemic occurred in East London because of the fecal waste of one toilet emptying into the River Lea.
Cholera IV
In 2010, cholera broke out in Haiti after a catastrophic earthquake.
Cholera V
In literature, cholera is depicted by Thomas Mann in Death in Venice and by Gabriel Garcia Márquez in Love in the Time of Cholera.
The new fighting exercises are
arriving soon. I was excited
but now I’m apprehensive.
The ring is elevated eight feet
so I can’t see who’s waiting there
for me.
I jump, grab the edge of the
canvas, but can’t pull off a pull-up.
Not too auspicious for a martial
artist, eh?
It’s rumored our foes will be
Amazons.
Already I want
to give them a kiss, though they are
trained to kill me.
Were I in charge, I’d organize
love differently.
Coyotes come at night,
seeking deer who drink at the pond
or seeking a cat or dachshund
or small game.
If the pack comes during the day,
they hunt turkeys,
hens,
rabbits
or trash can to overturn.
There’s a dead branch in the cherry tree
I can’t reach that high alone
and so I simply live with it
I hoped you’d understand
but you cut me off,
pruned me out
That branch. It’s too thick for the lopper.
It’s going to take a pruning saw
to sever
Yesterday you were in town
I thought about reaching out
for you
Unseen, a mourning dove cries
I reach out, again,
for you
Tender leaves hide dead wood
open-armed, green branches reach
for you
In the canopy, cicadas thrum and drum
92 decibels, almost as loud, today,
as your silence
There’s a dead branch in the cherry tree
I can’t reach that high alone
and so I simply live with it
the dust clinging to my socks
corks are popping i’m coughing
cherries grapes tangerines sugar slide down my tongue with my tears and the lyrics trapped in my throat
to a song blaring in my ear but sounds like it’s coming from another room
if i am alone in this room of people am i settling
