Coltrane and Rainy Days

Cursor blinking on the page

unfinished labor of money, not love

while lost in a moment of Coltrane

always back to those honeymoon days

where it was cool and rainy outside,

cool and warm inside, barefoot in blankets and books

philosophical political purposeful conversations,

nights filled with red wine, the soft twinkle of

patio lights surrounded by passionate minds and

laughter, the burning of more than just candles

between us.   Another time before children,

before the fast-forward of life and cymbals

banging, before beds were strictly for sleeping,

before bright lights.  Maybe it was only a moment

or something we saw in a movie once

where Uma Thurman played me, and Brian

Greenberg, the light skinned Jewish version

of the brown and beautiful you,

but without the conflict.

Lost in the lazy piano and hot-blooded

trumpet, I can see those artist hands

of yours against my white arm

resting on the slow breaths of your chest.

Music drawn to a sad close,

I hear it– flashing cursor, pinging email,

stacks of paper.

But this day; this life,

was meant for so much more.

Heirs to the Earth

I want to do the work of bees,
or grass growing in the field
even winter’s hungry wolverine

Labors of passion, because they are:
Bees
Grass
Wolverines

No choice but to be
givers, not takers
Heirs to the earth

When the sun crosses my face
each day, I shall not think
I don’t want to make honey, grow, be.

There is only this as far as I know.
It must be more than dreaming, and
soon, nature’s fuel will find me
right where it left off forty years ago.

Bus Stop Shadows

are aware
they are living in an unparallel universe.
They gather the boy in his school uniform,
the baby in her flimsy stroller, and they walk

The tiny hands clasped–so as not to slip too suddenly
into this world, making their way in the summer scorch rising
from the sidewalks and the cigarettes in the
open mouths behind them.

Men dressed
in their best blue collared shirts and heavy
work boots hanging on the edges of the curb
as though ready to jump face first into
disaster–no shadow to speak of in that moment

It is only us–
the ones driving comfortably and air-conditioned by
who are unaware of that world.
We honk and we stress, we yell and we press
the stop and start gas pedals of our days

unknowing.
The bus stop shadows are there;
waking early, waiting and riding in standing room only,
making, cleaning, doing, and fixing
this comfortable, cool, full-color, riding in style
life we know.

On the Road

Sooner or later

she’s got to realize,
1969 at two and a half,
blonde pig tails, and
embroidered bell bottoms
was a banner year.
The best of ’em.

When she said,
“I a hippie.”
She really had a good idea
of self–
back then.

These days, it’s just a run
for the money.
Watch your words, your back, and your
bank account. Forget those new
running shoes, I’ve decided. No shoes
will do just fine for this next part of the road.

What I want to be when I grow up
is everything I ever knew in the
sparkle of dandelions growing in
my backyard. I a hippie.
Not workin’ for the man or
the woman in his suit.

No, this jungle animal is breaking
free of this food chain. Dean and
Marylou would dig it. Time
for me to hit that high note too.