The writing is on the wall...
With dirty, ochre fingers, black soot
Crocus yellows, and white wax,
I smear my woes, my dreams, my story,
Onto the granite canvas of time.

Bison, horses, buffalo run,
Run off my fingertips
Into a forever story of running.
Run solo, run with the herd,
Neither toward, nor from.
Run in dreams... finger dreams.
My own dreams of running free,
Free from hungry thought.

By firelight,
My oily fingers caress
Stone walls of home, so
That my grandchildren's
Grandchildren may learn
Of the herd and the hunt,
And my dreams.

I tell of my dreams
With soiled fingers -
That they may learn
To tell their stories
With their own oily hands.

-2009

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The Wrong Poem

I'm sorry.
In my haste to get here
Rushing around at the last minute
It seems I've brought
The wrong poem.
See I had this poem
That really would have worked
Right now.
Especially after that last reader...
You know the one I mean
It's that poem that I do
The very utterance of which
Changes the course of rivers,
Increases glacial density,
And heals the ozone layer
But I've brought the wrong poem
You know it well
The one about clowns, monkeys
And surly banana peels.
But now I don't want to read it.
I want to read that other poem
The words of which enlighten
Our otherwise dull and hollow politicians
Brings progress to congress
And balances the budget.
It's that poem where I reach out
And caress the oyster
Of your soul
And heal its pearls
It's that poem where I dig into
the silt of my own heart
and sift through the
roots and the mud
of me
until I reveal
my own lost diamonds
that sparkle brightly

it's that poem that cures cancer
frees all would-be slaves
and reconnects the telepathy
Yeah, if you had gotten to hear
That poem of mine
It would have
Paid off your credit cards
Cleared up your skin
And then brought you to climax
(the women and the men)
But, you see,
I brought the wrong poem,
If I'd brought that other poem
That makes men cry
And women forgive
Brings peace and harmony
To all the continents
And archipelagos
Creates nirvana in samsara...
We all could've broken bread
Together, without fighting
About how light or dark
It should be toasted.

But I didn't bring that poem,
I brought this poem,
The wrong poem.

Yet if this poem made you take a breath
And cry,
Or laugh,
Or smile,
Or just pause,
Then I can live with that.

Because, even though
It's the wrong poem,
There must be a little something
Right with it
After all.

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~