Long Tributaries Poems
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It is a tree of five hundred one and twenty different fruits
with nine others totally disenfranchised
in a garden of more than a colour of grapes
a black bunch out of every five same
is its numerical contribution in such defined location
A flowing stream, originating from the Nok aboriginals
has created different hundreds of tributaries
in its inland is a town where fertility is ambidextrous
and the most diversified of the colourful flying beauties
is found within its territory
A family possessing envious wealth but seemingly a myth
b’cos of the Mephistophelian deeds of its guardians
its house, built on land where toothpick germinates to a monstrous tree
and man power capable of producing half a continent of sky scrapers
yet six out of every ten of its members
are less comfortable than a pet in the west
Two brothers salmon in the deep blue sea
Got the urge one day to seek some revelry.
So off they both went into the early dawn
With naught on their minds but to swim and spawn.
Up the big river with its mouth so wide,
It must be a mile from side to side.
For days and days those two fish swam
‘Til they ran smack-dab into a concrete dam!
Round and round that great grey wall
They swam, but found no help at all.
Relief came, not from heaven sent,
But sure enough from the government!
A big fish ladder with its lifts and falls
Helped those boys to skirt that wall
Into a lake with its shores so green
The two fish entered on another scene!
As if decreed by constabulary
The lake was fed by five tributaries!
“Which one to take?”, was their question then,
The answer came to the first brother Sven.
“I know where to go”, you could hear him say,
“I’ve been here before! I can find the way!”
So off Sven went, and his brother, Pete, too;
Guided by nothing but Deja Vu!
The stream they chose was swift and clean
But the rocks therein were hard and mean!
Bruised and battered Ol’ Pete said, “ENOUGH!”
“This swim-and-spawn life is just too rough!”
“Swimming all day against the stream?”
“This might be for you Sven, but it ain’t my dream!”
So he turned with the current and went with the flow,
Against his true nature, to the blue sea below.
He passed other salmon, in their eyes was a gleam,
All turning red as they struggled upstream.
Pete was red too from his tail to his face.
When he reached the blue sea, he seemed out of place.
The swimming was easy, with no current to fight,
But Pete couldn’t know of his fate nor his plight.
A flashy red Pete in the bright blue dawn
A sea lion spied him and SNAP! Pete was gone!
In the mean time, Sven kept on swimming for days;
His back out of water in the warm summer rays.
He made his way to a cool sandy brook
And spied a coy babe-fish with a cute little look.
And there on the edge of a loose gravel shoal,
They frolicked and played and fulfilled their role:
They had both done their best; standing out in a crowd.
Sven also died, but his maker is proud!
This tale has a moral, as all good tales do.
A metaphor of life, it is tried and true:
“Swimming through life is no simple feat,
Endure to the end, or end up like Pete!”
Recalled sounds take you back to an old land
to a home you no longer need.
Like the soft snuffle of hedgehogs on the lawn
on a summer evening.
Here there are larger less harmless spiny beasts,
here there are robins that are not robins.
Differences, semantics, and misidentification
small stuff, but with larger significance embedded.
Many places here derive from Native American names
or English cities and towns, a few Irish places,
French or German other European words.
It should feel like home to be in Boston
or as in Ohio,
to be just down the road from Dublin or London,
more often it seems to be even a greater distance
between the original
and those other named-for locations.
I guess the Dutch don’t want anything to do with New York now.
The geography of river-systems forgets the paddle
and the canoe
as modern party pontoons multiply.
It’s just natural for history to forget sources and tributaries.
The North Atlantic is relatively small compared to the Indian ocean
yet in our measuring minds, language, nuance, and common usage
create a much greater divide.
As for this deep rooted dandelion I have become,
I keep digging deeper into a foreign soil
finding where all these nomenclatural seeds arrived from,
and why they still keep a lighter than air memory
of faraway windblown lands.
You're a seed covered up in a soil,
Soon sprouts out, in no time,an iroko tree,
You are!
You're that iroko tree,a king amongst others,
Your leaves,broad and green,your stem, strong and firm,
You are!
You are that plant by the tributaries of waters,
Never withers,never shrinks,your leaves,ever fresh,ever green,
You are!
You are that one star,with a peculiar shine,
Amongst countless heavenly bodies,you shine uniquely,
You are!
You are an eagle,soaring high in the sky,
Spreading out your wings in flight, king of birds,
You are!
You are a lion,your limbs and claws,so fierce,
Foes tremble and shaken at your roar,king of the fittest.
You are!
You are a rock,compactly packed,a Zuma rock,
Even the whirl wind have you not moved.
You are!
You are a mantle in the hand of the greatest one,God,
With you,this world is a better place,
You are!
In retrospect you can never
make sense as to why it happens.
A minute late sets a sequence loose
towards some catastrophic event,
or if you miss a step taken to complete
a simple task, you'll begin
to fall apart. So much
seems to pivot on the perfect
execution of such trite things.
Nothing is exempt.
And then there is the countless
tributaries drawn to represent
each critical point along
the course of a single life,
or worse, the universe with its
almost infinite intersects of chance
webbed across time and space
back to its beginning. All appear
to be intricately linked, wired
into the locked rulebook
of a sinister, cosmic game.
Such thoughts overwhelm
and paralyze the brain.
Each movement made,
each calibrated ritual
bring into question just what's
at stake, what harm will be
unleashed if you get it wrong.
This is replayed again
and again as if to multiply the sum.
In the prison
of your regimented days,
you keep counting minutiae
and the spinning chamber
of an imaginary gun.
You just want a reset to zero.
Dawn Forever Rising
It starts
Street lights fade
their tiny soft-winged tenants flee
checkerboard facades change
last night's illumined squares now dark
become but yesterday's portals
some polished
some weather streaked
all reaching to reflect first breath
Steam ascends from the city's vacuum
gratings rattle with subterranean yawning
people-movers wind their way
through mazes of starts
stops
Topside tracks
like fixed contrails
glisten with frost
not yet enjoined by speeding transit
their skeletal tributaries
readying the trickle of humanity
into a mass ocean of glass and steel survival
Uptown
Downtown
A street sweeper's tire rubber and swirling brushes
beneath the overalled believer in Lottos
holding firm the wheel and gears of faith
of trust
gathering gutter-lodged disposal
glass and plastic
paper and cardboard
spinning into the vortex
lifting yesterday's careless cast-offs
inviting today's Starbuck anew
reflections of another kind
Leashes strain from anxious sniffing
bladders hold
ready to burst
seeking just the right tree
the right hydrant
the "ah, yes" that only a canine can know
Rays of sun begin spilling down alleyways
the long-tail rodents scamper for cover
their bellies full
seeking safety after a long night of ancient ritual
food of anything
digestion of history
all in a night's work
Suddenly
Full light cascades down avenues and streets
itinerant pigeons and seagulls spread habitual wings
ready to adore the steadies
the loners
park walkers
window ledge dependables
homeless with dance cards of crumbs
envying the moneyed insomniacs throwing chunks
baguettes gone stale
fit for few
a feast for many
senses loving the coos and warbles
the bobbing thank you
the reciprocal bonding
few but the lonely can appreciate
Finally
The steel and glass imitation of nature
comes fully alive
a sun's illumination without reserve
energy's provision for another day
Rich mix with the poor
money exchanges hands
the hotdog vendor
the hedge fund taker
the cookie jar provider
Most become tomorrow's yesterday
knowing little of the other light
requiring no rising or setting
illumination that never grows dim
something as nothing
forever light
never of darkness
Such for some
awakens from a New York sunrise
this dichotomy like no other
forever reminding
our eyes of dawn
one's inner light
is forever rising
Clouds hover over fealty's
splendored domain
Grey patches our devolving
relationship stain
Dark shadows of doubt stride our
weather vane
Jading wind of indifference; eerie,
dolesome refrain
Thunderous echo of despair from
distant, careening train
Lightening's serrated edges strike
our exposed terrain
Duplicitous motives weathered bond
doth strain
Torrential outbursts cannot all the
opprobrium drain
Icy pellets laced with malice
bombard each, desolate plain
Soaked psyches now bleached with
residual disdain
From all rational discourse spent
minds abstain
Penitent tears cannot cleanse the
mildewed brain
Flooded tributaries flowing from
fidelity's bulging vein
Eroding the final links of fealty's,
tenuous chain
I lay down
the framework
of free verse
and a continuing
relationship
Rule one is set in granite:
dance like you are on fire
through the uncut lawn
of my forgotten backyard
and revel in your tripping
over the weeds and dandelions
Rule two is simpler:
laugh unfiltered;
no one special is listening,
after all
Rule three:
this isn't poetry,
this isn't a diary,
this isn't Druidism,
nor transcendentalism,
and my watercolor runs
its muddied rivers of mistakes
in truer tributaries
Be awake! Peter Pan
my flying dream,
my boy never stopped wishing
that the best is yet ahead!
A chilly, wet, spring day when the icy mud melts just enough to soak your socks before you've even gotten to the car,
And all you can think about is getting to the cafe.
There's coffee there.
Everyone goes to the cafe on slushy mornings,
When the sun shines but wind frosts the eyebrows.
Today, it's so bad I wait outside the coffee shop,
Imagining the various flavors of warmth
Rivers and tributaries of delicious comfort
That steam my nostrils as customers hustle back to their cars,
Roasted beans tempt even winter's grip, daring her not to thaw.
Ah, to gaze through that glass, where each order is taken,
Where a few modest coins give so much joy...
And then, I pass through the doors as the line lurches forward.
Chatter and laughter create summer inside
Like fireworks between flirts and a carnival of cacophony
Humanity's warmth, deeper than the coffee in which it takes root.
Soon, I too have my name in the queue,
And my dream of warmth unnumbs my icy toes.
As my name is called, I carefully caress my beloved drink betwixt my palms,
Ceremoniously seasoning it with cocoa comforts and frothy cream.
I guard this small joy,
Bravely setting foot forth,
My joy apt, and sublime.
All too briefly enjoyed.
How fleeting I remember
When struck by the tragedy of ice
That stole my coffee,
Frosted my feet,
And dunked me frigid into a muddy puddle just deep enough to breach my collar.
How I grieved as life-giving brown sparkled briefly against dawn's daylight
Freed of it's paper-cup prison
Splashing hot pain across my face even as winter soaked my back.
I remembered the cafe's smells, and laughter, and blissful exuberance
That too briefly I enjoyed
Too focused on temptation's fate, a burned tongue, and warmed belly,
And I grieved her loss as she sprinkled amongst the snow and earth,
No longer mine,
And gone forever, save for a few drops' aroma
That yet wafted my empty cup.
Face Maps
How often we ponder
The portrait of life,
Some without a face,
Some with but war as a canvas.
The experienced face
Reveals folds above eyes,
Disengaged as a draught-laden wilderness,
Yet reliable as an infrequent desert storm.
For amidst nature’s wisdom
Directional signs are forever available,
Even though some may be
Subtle and wanting to hide.
Still,
Few pay attention.
Perfection makes no judgment,
Even as history is difficult to cover up
When presented by a face
That has obviously seen
More than most of us
Can dream of.
Archiving such potential realities
Begs the opening of discovery,
Often challenging one’s patience,
While the forever-our-partner in waiting
Smiles back sagaciously,
Wanting only to be part of one’s smile.
The face
What was,
What is.
Such might attract
Veracious seekers of life,
Accepting their journey
As the worth of engaging years,
Infused with honesty,
Allowing chiseled erosion
To live forever in the eye’s mind
For those who might also
Wish to perceive relief’s valleys.
Mountains,
And tearless tributaries of the face.
Projecting the wonder,
Life,
Peace,
Waiting for the next iteration,
Remains a journal of the spirit .
Some will fortunately
Embrace with understanding,
Knowing weathered landscape
Is but captured wind and weather,
Mind and soul,
Body and suffering,
Wanting only to remain
Without airbrush deceit.
As is,
As was,
As always to be.
Yet…
Others
Will address
One’s life map of travels
With fearful retreat,
Hiding in the shadows of delusion