gleaners
in the wheat field
a flock of geese
The gleaners undirt
these profane candy morphs
as they sift through the fields
in springs and falls.
Apiaceous, mud beige
burrowed beasties, them
bow legged, cowboy pulps;
others with flipped birds
sprung up from their hairy
carrot fists, bronxing to the sun.
You would think they
would be tough, those
mutter udders, those gangsta roots,
but they slice nicely into sticks,
lunch box size, far sweeter
than the common orange of their ilk,
far sweeter than their own
shrubby beards would veil.
Perhaps it’s the extra time
under muck that honeys them up,
dirt balls matriculating,
steeped in their element.
On weekends at the soup kitchen,
late May through long past Labor Day,
we pack the sweet gleaned under-chips
into sack lunches with smoked ham hero’s
and Frito's downtown behind the Kroger
where a sunny civil riot takes
place on Saturdays, and everyone
shows up out of their bag
to pick up the sticks, hungry stomachs,
all blood color-red in the gut
all ready to sit their hells
down…and eat.
A birdhouse attracts the beautiful and divine.
Who offers the soul both a charm and a chime.
Blessing hearts with palette and song.
Along come the rippers and nibblers.
Gleaners of peace they're born to be.
Leaving the heart to a hobbled dream.
In skies of robin's-egg quiet.
Now blistering in twisting silence.
Battling the harshest of seasons.
Amidst winter acorns and peace thieves.
Birdhouses filled with dead and dying things.
Balance is the sixth sense.
Like a dreamer's dictionary,
The planter interprets the times and the seasons:
How to till the soil.
How to plant and how to reap.
How to repay the overdue debt
There are margins in the field
Which reapers leave for gleaners.
An everyday cup
Allows water to pass from hand to hand,
To quench the thirst.
Then the day breaks over the field.
The gong is struck.
Massing a little courage the waiting mate
Surges forth with vigor.
All passivity is erased.
Primordial fears are put to task.
Outrageous things are spoken;
Diplomacy is diluted.
Dreams are spun out of air.
Even the slothful are impatient.
Finally the bucket is full
With shards of excitement.
It is carried away
And stored in a cave.
Everyone waits for a turn.
Listen...
FEEL the echoes in the wind
as we traverse the great divide
on tops of hills truly alive
with the sounds of music.
Gleaners of pathways some
would call the stairway
to heaven...
Though others as of yet unsure,
for fear this earth has
collapsed at their feet.
Theirs...
A world of grainy vision,
a vast great beyond,
forsaken by all others.
Ours...
An infinate world that
gleams no limitations
in pixilations
Colors painted in beauty...
The gradual extrapolation
of our brief memory here
on this planet...
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