I taste the orange juice
citrus sweet
and feel recharged and vitalized
except for a slight after-taste
that reminds me of the smell of oily pesticides
fogged on the trees one breeze-less morning
and the slight salt sweat taste
dripped from the brow of Guatemalan
illegals who bend and reach 10 hours a day
And there is a dank diesel stench
of freighters and trucks that haul
the fruit some thousand miles
and the carbide smell of war and revolution
of those who unwittingly protect this
precious fuel
and the slight hot paper waxy-sided
that keeps it fresh and clean
while water runs through those stamping machines
and gushes feted into the stream
so I may drink the product deep
and taste the juice
so bitter sweet.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Where the Psyche Meets Gaia
At the soft boundaries
Where my hard -self becomes connected with the cosmos,
Stand the guardians and the greeters
Bearing welcoming gifts:
A bird opens a door through song
A butterfly builds a bridge in color and form
A flower unfolds its petals
As it mirrors and mimes the universe.
These weavers beckon:
A transition, a resurrection
A reunion.
Where my hard -self becomes connected with the cosmos,
Stand the guardians and the greeters
Bearing welcoming gifts:
A bird opens a door through song
A butterfly builds a bridge in color and form
A flower unfolds its petals
As it mirrors and mimes the universe.
These weavers beckon:
A transition, a resurrection
A reunion.
It's OK
I don’t know why or how it works,
But I need you to tell me that it’s OK…
Somehow that small gift
Can sooth and smooth away
This burden that I bear
That rises in the night
And asks me if I dare
Search my past, my days,
and judge
Have I used my time, well?
Have I shared my gift,
Have I lived with virtue
Have I been alive?
I hope, then fear, that I have not
Neglected the rightful call
To live, meaningfully,
But I am unsure
And I am visited by dreams and wishes
That pluck at me
That worm so deep…
So I need you to know
That you can do for me
What I hope I have done for you:
Tell me that it’s OK.
But I need you to tell me that it’s OK…
Somehow that small gift
Can sooth and smooth away
This burden that I bear
That rises in the night
And asks me if I dare
Search my past, my days,
and judge
Have I used my time, well?
Have I shared my gift,
Have I lived with virtue
Have I been alive?
I hope, then fear, that I have not
Neglected the rightful call
To live, meaningfully,
But I am unsure
And I am visited by dreams and wishes
That pluck at me
That worm so deep…
So I need you to know
That you can do for me
What I hope I have done for you:
Tell me that it’s OK.
Everything Goes On
No whining now
Please don’t complain-
Everything goes on
Except you.
At least in your conventional form-
Elbows and eyebrows
Thighs and sighs
You will be dismissed
And on your way
Like the sun baked shadow
Of yesterday.
So why the tight grip?
And even now as we feel the slip
Can’t we just be content and smile
Accept this verdict without the trial?
Please don’t complain-
Everything goes on
Except you.
At least in your conventional form-
Elbows and eyebrows
Thighs and sighs
You will be dismissed
And on your way
Like the sun baked shadow
Of yesterday.
So why the tight grip?
And even now as we feel the slip
Can’t we just be content and smile
Accept this verdict without the trial?
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