in the journey to home, what do I carry
even the lightest of memories can burden
the wrinkled hands of my grandmother preparing jam
the salty bite from a wave stinging my eyes
the throaty calls of bullfrogs sending me to sleep
the orange moon filling the night beyond my childhood window
these have filled my coat pockets
their bittersweet weight heavy as stones
if I drop them, will I walk easier on the road
or float away from any ground, dispersing all self into the sky
will you mourn if you kill a river
the murder of water is no small thing
money and war do not sustain life
when you were a child thirsty from the noon day heat
did you drink down a glass of clanking coins
when you washed your hands dirty from grime
did you run them under a show of force
when you grew your fields green with food
did you irrigate them with destructive toys
perhaps you do fill your cup with dollar bills
pile your plates with war planes and bombs
making yourself gaunt withered unaware
when you are dying and long for one last cooling sip
you’ll moisten your parched throat
with the only thing left to flow
poison that will kill us all
a shadow passing over the moon
one cast by radiance from the sun
the shining joy of constant regard
and each orb’s glow is ever seen
as night follows day and back again
what we know is not obscured
sorrow not to be eschewed
treasure it as reminder
remember always remember love
shadows stretched so far by the light
become broken into pieces
dark fragments picked up by crows
tool makers, thieves of secrets, and other corvids
stolen wisdom hidden
in the shatters and tatters of shade
these slipped between bricks in the sidewalk
stones in the walls, cracks in the street
find one and take it home to the night
who knows what reward you will find in a dream
to be here, to walk the cold streets
to enter a busy shop, to sit at the windswept market
kindness a delicate net fashioned with intent
to hold the butterfly of a smile
there it is, just now, and as you walk away
you feel the brush of wings upon your heavy heart
and let it open like a child’s outstretched hand
ready with wonder for what alights
this happens at any age
some do not live to be older
you lift a cup to your mouth
but it is now filled with these
a jagged brown capybara tooth
your grandmother’s pocket knife
an arcade token for the pinball machine
a handkerchief that still smells of pomade
you pour them out onto the table
run the memories through your fingers
then realize you’ve been lost in time
your hands are wet with tea
your face wet with tears
the sound of the falling rain
washes through the night
when the ground shakes in these uncertain times
when the house no longer shelters from the moment’s storms
when the heart breaks from all it’s asked to carry
when tears fall faster than the flooding rain
I would hold you
enfolded in the expanse of silent regard
with spacious kindness for your grief
be a staff in the fog that surrounds the day
a gentle warmth in night’s unseasonable chill
I have mourned so many deaths and died so many times
that this is now familiar space
no presumption to guide, no offer but this
walk beside you at your own pace
when the simple acts of joy
the sharing of music
the announcement for a party
the laughter over a silly joke
these have become rebellious acts
transgressions
we ourselves have become the violation
breaking the acceptable boundaries
by doing nothing else than exist
and then to be seen finding any happiness
though it be taken from the slavering maw
of unreasoning hate
is met with rage at the sheer effrontery
this is our fierce defiance
that we go about our everyday lives
in one vibrating string hear every song you’ve ever heard
a first tune softly hummed before you were born
cryptic whimsy chanted when children play
a deepening dip and soar as love makes its trek through time
dolorous somber tones marking the shock of loss and death
a wavering catch and wail for any lonesome season
the unaccompanied steady beat beat beat
when your heart fills the silent hour
these all forever there-heard or not, it does not matter
in the movement of that singular string, you can sit within each moment
within that stillness that underlies
every shaping sound, each noting measure
and do nothing then but rest
a stone picked up on a walk
gravelled bit torn from pavement
common industrial dirt
if I throw it into the waterlogged ditch
what stories will leach into the weeds
traveled myths rumbled from trucks
tarsid dreams wiped by ants
childhood memories slicked from my hand
or will it sink to the bottom, at home in the tangled slime
not needing to do anything at all
let me be like that rock
