My Celestial Bearings

We are reaching towards the summer sun

Its magical radiant magnetism draws us up

Zinnias screw ‘round in their party hats

Sunflowers crane and track

Potatoes stand on tiptoes supping

Snakes stretch prostrate on heated rocks

While turtles haul out in their Coney Island way.

I turn my cheeks

Both fore and aft

And tropistically adjust my celestial bearings

As if those beams might just charge and spark

My drawn down batteries.

Ah to be green photosynthetically keen

A sip of water and breath of air

And bask and bask the sun so fair

The whole planet is cocked and tipped on end

We wobble round, a top off-centered

This day, this June, the light, I swoon

We lean and stretch

Lusting and lapping each photon down

And after, glow both green and brown,

A blissful prayer we make to Ra and Rey

  Sustain us

    Maintain us

      Through night ‘til day.

Out of the Blue

All the important events in life occur randomly.
Oh we attempt to schedule and plan
We wind clocks and “X” off days on kitten calendars
Hoping to put our stamp upon our course, and maybe that of others.
We carve our initials in tree trunks
And pile rocks on windswept ridges,
These things will stand for a time.
-But when sperm meets egg
When love meets love
And when we draw breath finally-
Such events are not driven by our choice, no
We are late comers to the long running game,
the fate less plan,
As if someone called out of the blue:
“I have tickets,
-The baby is sick-
Do you want them?”
There is an abandoned amusement to it, if you choose to
See it as such.
Moments memorable float in the sea of the mundane,
Chance is just so casual, of course, so
Smile, laugh and wait a second or two
The curtain is about to rise,
And look, this play stars
Me-and you.

Catchin Up, Answering Questions

It’s really not so bad
Being haunted by a ghost at
9:30 in the morning.
I am drinking coffee while
In the kitchen the ghost boils water
In the kettle.
She died in this house I believe and
Now she benignly haunts here.
Why just last night she stood guard
At the back door, where I had carelessly left
The keys
In the lock.
Perhaps it is the spirit of my long gone mother
Who I have conjured up by thinking of her, poorly
While rummaging about the bleary past for her memory
But only finding fault.
We have never had a chance to catch up in these 43 years,
To make things fair.
She would want to see how I have fared since she cast me
And set me adrift,
And I would likely ask her for the answers to the questions;
Those that come on curious dreams
And startle me from my reverie
As I hear the kettle rattle.

Echelons

I do not know if I will ever be a mature lover.
Perhaps it is because I do not see, I fail in understanding
Where the draw towards breast and buttock connects/separates? from
The selfless friend, the eternal soul mate.
How does this play?
I sense but do not see,
I understand but do not know.
I am immature born and raised
Directed and driven to the morality
Of care and kindness, love for sure.
But these seem of a lower echelon, the underclass of partner love.
Perhaps a breath and quiet mind will make it clear
And perhaps there is an answer found,
Not by looking up/out so much
As in the looking down/in.