are three ships lost on the tumultuous seas of a declining democratic society. Those whose hearts are filled with more goodness than ghosts stand at the shoreline. Their dreams, bearing no grief or callousness, serve as a lighthouse navigating the three ships safely to shore. Threats of war and epidemics of deceit will not extinguish their lambency. Apathy and agony will not undo their ambitions. The three ships continue sailing forward, guided by the glow of all that is cherished and strong of heart.
This poem was a Van Gogh painting in a past life. It has rocked Budokan. It is a signatory for morning glories. This poem is bilingual & omnisexual. Longs to splash around in a swimming pool filled with the DNA of Whitman, Wanda Coleman & Bruce Lee. This poem refuses to serve as propaganda for politicians. Has a title only a mother can love. It can be sweet as honeysuckle or dangerous as an apocalyptic chainsaw. This poem has hung out with old San Francisco bohemians, dreaming until the acid light trails of dawn. It is sensitive to all matters concerning race, gender & class. But it has no stomach for hate. This poem loves to hate hate.
This one goes out to all the Mothers: Single moms and singing moms. Gay and straight moms. Moms that wear black and others that are pretty in pink. Pet moms, pampered moms, religious moms, and rock ‘n’ roll moms. Heady moms. Mani/pedi moms. Those that are extremely present, and those whose minds have wandered off into the sad and dense fog of forgetting. Om’ing moms, home-sweet -homing moms. Moms that can set a lovely dinner table, and moms that can drink you under the table. Teaching and acting moms. Bus driving and book-writing moms. Moms fighting addictions and moms always willing to listen. To all you moms, Happy Mother’s Day!
Ghosts string tombstones on the living’s last breath. Death carves an X into the last nail driven into still another coffin. Mothers and fathers cry out for their lost children. Children cry out for their lost parents. Blood money and dirty lies continue creating skull-and-crossbone thoughts, calling them law. And I am left wondering how many more innocent people must die before the bullet is dislodged from the heart of our American consciousness and we can begin to heal.
Do you remember those alchemical evenings when we graffitied dreaming stars on the honeysuckle-scented ceiling of night; when lucky pennies were a dime a dozen; when aw-shucks was our shock and awe; when our circuitry of solidarity lit up the sky like a second sun; when the moon mirror would sometimes shatter but always put itself back together before dawn; when our shadows were animated ink stains writing love letters on the streets of existence; when our collective breath was a message in the bottle of time, washing ashore upon some distant island, letting everyone know we were safe and sound?
Feedback of stormy night’s guitar wails one rock chord after another. Massive drum thump of thunder. Lightning like flashpot pyrotechnics as Andromeda and the Milky Way slam dance in the mosh pit of galactic incandescence. Heaven’s thunderous garage band cranks it to eleven. Angels shake halos like tambourines, rain pours down rhythms of hum and heart thump. Count each crystal drop falling freely on your tongue—one, two, three, four.
There is a drive-in movie theater behind my eyes. Pull your car in through my ear, park anywhere in the wide-open spaces of my brain. When my eyes go down and the film comes up behind my eyelids, there is a child speaking in a language stripped of fear and bullet logic. The child says everyone is an alphabet of their own making, so speak sunflowers instead of stones. The child is holding a clock. Time is a mystery, the child says. It is a songbird sounding like a collaboration between Beethoven and ghosts. It stays too long when you’re in pain and leaves too soon when you’re having fun. The child tosses the clock high into the air. It becomes a thank-you note of breath. A way of saying I love you when words fail us.
As we tune the well-worn strings of another sunrise, we create a new day’s music whose harmonies are inherited from the many octaves of our joys and sorrows. On lonely days, the wind blows right through us, creating ghost psalms and coyote moans. On brighter days, the sun’s guitar hums and thrums in perfect pitch with the more buoyant rhythms of our lives. When we read the palms of our songs, they assure us that no matter how many seasons of grief may pass better days always lie ahead. Do not doubt moments like these, when morning is not a seance, but a sweet song pollinated with golden possibilities.
Every morning, the sun finds our one good vein and delivers its healing dose of roaming gold. Radiant blood enriches the senses. Dharma oxygen feeds the foolish heart. From alleyways to high-rises, suburbs to bleached-bone nowheres, dream addicts long for this promise of another day, where a shot glass worth of clear calm is far better than a steady pour of days filled with prowling beasts of bad decisions. We lift ourselves into the light, our deeply-rooted carbon hopes shine. This life, this love. The more the two are one, the brighter our path. When we are ash, may we discover we’ve been glued into the book of good intentions.
Our eyes unite to form the eyes of one that sees a better world. Our ears create a religion of no denomination, simply the union of flesh and devoted listening. Our blood, a pulsing halo around the heart. Our hands, fluttering birds always flying back to us. These bodies of ours, made of so little, yet so much. No time to circle the drain of the last hurrah when there is still so much work left to do. In the absence of old joys and sorrows, in the presence of new elations and heartaches, our minds shed their jalopy neurons to rebuild themselves into durable wisdoms firing at the velocity of God.