Monday, November 2, 2009


Without filters -
Pour the amber of your soul
Inside the tones of
Vibrating colors.

On a stave of reason
Walk your bass scent through
The chamber of eyes -
No posturing for sound is necessary.

You suffer through chord progressions in
Half-truths of poetic imagination.
The color of jazz punctuates
The brass blues of a morning glow.

Fragile -
A piano bends notes along walls
Teasing the ivory tremors
From under a cape of green.
The opal bass throbs.
The pink vocals scream.
The yellow rhythm section explodes!

When the fumes of harmony settle
Color, rhythm and humanity
Converge at song’s end
Blessing the unity of many flavors
Resonating through the echoing symphony of crystal light.

Saturday, October 31, 2009


The rain has fallen, finally.
It’s midnight, and the promised downpour has arrived soaking my exposed
garden bringing manna from the bottomless skies.
I receive blessings from my imagination - I’m writing again!
I’m out in the conservatory listening to the rattle of raindrops falling
through the trees, onto the green-ribbed roof that floods my cloistered cabin.

I feel curiously alert, ready for action –
yet content to rest in the folds of reveries.
I dwell between a call to arms and the resignation of success.
I’m lost to the love-call of silent instruction.
I feel happy, sad & thankful as the woes of the world filter through
my heart with saturating completeness.

The discordant splatter of the drumming rain brings joys,
and sadness’ flooding through my body’s pulsating veins.
I look out across my yard to the bubbling puddles and dancing
pellets popping up off the concrete flagstones.
The newly turned sod sucks up the rays of droplets leaping
off and on the leaves that hold the kiss of wetness.

It’s a day to move proudly onto broad shoulders,
new-age deals, great expectations and chances
that fall like the pattern raindrops - bruised and
resplendent. Yes. It’s a day to contemplate the NOW.
To lick the wounds of the past and take a long draft of
life-giving wetness into the future – drenched with inspiration!

Thursday, October 29, 2009


Feel the limbs stretch out,
the tightness in the thighs loosen, the
arms moving smoothly to the
rhythm of the blood
engorged calves, shins, ankles and feet.
Feel the stomach hold itself
against the long back
elongated from the taunt buttocks.
Feel alive to evening breeze
singing in the ears
washing through the hair. Feel the feet sink
into spongy softness of
undulated grass.
Sit, rest, on surrounding stone apron
at children’s circus sands of
thrilled voices. Listen
to layers of traffic sounds, humming,
roaring, blaring, beeping. Stop.
Breath deeply the warm
waning sun’s heat, walk with an even
pace, feel how the feet roll in
the shoes, embracing
the ground, feel the shoulders fall in line
with the rhythm of the legs,
feel the weight of the
hands, smell the absence of aromas,
savor the moist heat building
within the forehead
legs and groin. Hear the sounds retreating
as the flat feet pull up the
buttocks, thighs, knees, calves,
stomach; sucking in the heavy breath,
on the final path that takes
me home this evening.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009


Martha takes charge of the bus - open, warm,
friendly. Shuffling in at six-fifteen;
we’re thankful for the humanity
on display. But first she exits to do
her set exercises – knee bends and arm
stretches that buoyant her mood and grace.

Previous drivers have need to show and
exert their pride - pilots on the Trans-Bay
airway, - cruising down into San Quentin
Village, where Miriam and The Reader
disembark, and we pick up the dude in
high school threads – sharp and coordinated.

Paul and I discuss the economy’s
deterioration. Ending daily
in pathos and impotent rage. He falls
asleep, I read, and the moon over Mount
Tamalpais looms through the rafters of
the serpentine Richmond Bridge. The Marin

lights sparkle as Reyna chats lovingly
into her cell phone telling her daughter –
to wake up and get out into this world,
and find her paradise! Sigmund meets me
at 19th street and we share stories of
travels in West Africa. Far from home.

Franz Fanon, bundled up in a headscarf
recedes into the back of the bus with
wary eyes. The subdued quietness echoes
thru the cavernous space as we rumble
into life, careening out of the El
Cerrito de Norte bus terminal.

Along the way we pick up two super-
fine black women. Mysterious ladies
whose charm and fragrance fire the passions of
intimacy. Such vibrant skin at dawn’s
awakening. But they too retreat to
the back of the bus and radiate their

companionship throughout our traveling host.
Martha’s long grey dreads reach down her long, long
back. Her stewardship secures us with name
recognition and respect for us all.
We workers, who chase the dawn into San
Rafael - the sunshine colony of hope.