Six Poems

The Cats

 

The cats don’t know there’s trouble

in the world. Their job is to look graceful

in disturbing times. The golden hour

is upon us, late light streaming

from the mountain ridge

and a chill in the air.

                                To lick their paws

in sympathy with those

who sleep on the streets, to stretch against

the window surrounded by an outdoor glow.

No borders for them, they open every cupboard

and occupy the highest places

they can reach.

                       Dreams flow

through their limbs while they sleep.

Nothing earthly matters

then, it’s a world of fish and backyard doves

in there. Elections never happened,

the pursuit of happiness translates

into Spanish, to carry concealed

means a mind full of ideas.

                                           Just look

at how the more mature one occupies

a chair with regal demeanor, how the younger

one has all his outlaw spirit

still intact. The desert winter

sharpens itself under moonlight. They curl

into the moment and obey nature’s order

to serve the gods of elegance and sleep without pity.

Day and Night

 

Woodpecker knocking on the doors of fate

 

or against the siding

to a house that floats on good luck

and bad

while a hummingbird drinks from the light.

Tap, tap, tap, who’s there? Tap, tap, tap,

 

will it rain? Tap, tap, tap, do the numbers

that count money

count the bees?

What

 

does a roadrunner cost? is an oriole worth more

than a thrasher? tap, tap, tap,

are starlings no more

than small change? Why are there people

 

asleep on the street? Is a shopping cart a home?

Grubs in the tree bark,

insects in the walls, honey in the desert,

 

stars in the world beyond traffic

and street lights, beyond language, beyond zip codes,

where no password exists

to grant entry to night.

The owl’s calls say

 

go to the outskirts of knowledge

when the song the world is singing

 

goes out, out, out of tune.

Radiation Dream

 

The sky is floating through a room equipped

with moving parts that glide

without a sound; screens

displaying numbers that relate

to the position a resting body takes while

beams are focused on places

eyes can’t reach. The world outside rolls over

in its sleep

                  until the power brings the sun

to life. An owl passes from the dark

to the bough on which she rests to address

the mysteries, calling for the agents

of destruction to turn to healing

and connect the sleeping

to the waking world.

                                       A hawk’s eye circles

over open space. A diagram appears

on screen. She fixes her attention

on the far below. The ring of parts moves gracefully

around and around. Wings angled,

she comes down from the sun to Earth, electricity

in flight.

              Blue heron, Laughing falcon, melanoma,

alligator, pocket mouse, fruit bat, Harpy eagle,

free-tailed bat, Scott’s oriole, lymphoma, Black-

tailed rattlesnake, jaguar, mountain

lion, and sometimes

                                      it seems that cancers

are the life force in the universe with

the unsuspecting simply

in their way. Lie still,

                                    the moon is on

its circle course. This room is where

a slender thread becomes slow lightning.

 

Owlcast

 

Here’s what we need to know today: the owls are well.

It’s mating season and they’re calling

close to home. Wings wide

beside the streetlamp, sudden glow

and plumage pale. There has to be

a house fire somewhere for the morning news,

has to be a presidential outburst

better suited

                        to a prime time sitcom

built around dysfunctionality.

New moon. Spirit voices. Midnight’s meditation.

Morning and a shower

of goldfinches out of the sun, first light

moving barefoot down the street and yesterday’s

headlines fading in the clouds.

                                                          There’s a war

and there’s a cease-fire, a scandal

breaking with high crimes

in low places. It’s rush hour, the traffic lights

are blinking: left-wing, right-wing, and the hawks

who roost beside the golf course

have a wing for each side

                                               but they’re gliding

above it all, gracefully intent

on catching prey while foreign policy

becomes more foreign and executive orders

blow coast to coast in a storm. It’s a Madison Avenue

country with a Wall Street appetite

and news blowing in from all directions.

Fire, flood, deportation,

                                            give me tariffs or give me

a voice from the spirit world, something soft

as feathers calling up the day.

Springtime on the Road to Sells

 

Marigolds, globe mallow, shadow

of a hawk, and there goes a runner racing back

in time to before

the border knew what it divided.

History’s in bloom:

                                  one country, two countries, no

country at all, just the land

speaking back to those

who live upon it. And saguaros

aren’t sure what

                              to believe in, earth or

holy orders or the rain. Border guards

on duty, watching for the wind

to make a run for freedom.

A few miles more

to where the journey ends

                                                   at a water tank

and a mockingbird so happy

the sky pours from its throat

as it sings until darkness

and then

                it ascends

to drink from the moon when it’s full.

 

Rear View

 

Here’s a handful of sunset to savor,

a taste of last light

that will last until dawn,

a few inches of lightning

and a rain scented leaf for a keepsake.

Here’s a minute preserved

                                                  from the past,

a raindrop that fell

in the last summer storm, and a glass

full of fog from midwinter. Here’s a bone

washed clean of moonlight

and repeating all night a few bars

from a mockingbird’s song.

There’s space enough

                                          between what’s true

and false for a comet

or a dream to pass, wind running behind,

its cheeks puffed full with stars.