9th Southern California Indian Storytelling Festival, May 3, 2009

Asleep on the A Train

The stench
hit hard
but it was too late,
the door
slammed
SHUT
and the A train

was quickly

on its way out
of Howard Beach station
bound for Manhattan.

Early morning
and the homeless
guys were
still
asleep
spread
across
the seats
in a dirty,
barely
human
sprawl
zipper down
pants
revealing
too much
dark skin.

I looked out
toward the
other end
of the car –
where everyone
else
was
already
filling
the seats—
and
sat myself
down,
bags close by,
reaching for
the blessing
of Altoids
and the beauty
of Pavorati’s voice
in Ipod relief
to make
the unbareable
not so
and
to
help me
see
the humanity
in my own
heart,
showing
all personal dignity,
as I sat
on the A train
with these three men
lost
and dirty,
smelling
of their
own
urine,
drawing
others away,
as we all turn away
refusing to see
ourselves
in them,
to feel them
beyond their ugliness,
as they lay
sprawled
across the seats
in the last car of the A Train
speeding obliviously on
to Manhattan,
to Penn station
to the place where
I
would
make
my own
escape.

You and Me

You and Me


What we are

grows a

profusion

of wildflowers

as well as gently

cultivated

roses,

dramatic

tiger lilies

and vegetables-

potatoes,

carrots,

zucchini,

shafted wheat

for couscous,

wild blueberries

and fresh

mint,

onions,

garlic,

pinto beans,

popcorn,

great

ancient

Redwood trees

and tender

shoots of bamboo –

the sky above is

clear blue

limitless horizon

clouds moving

upon whirl

winds

and the earth below

is dense with

detritus,

the stuff

where beetles,

cockroaches,

and termites

dwell

as milkweed

holds cocoons

of monarch butterflies,

some waiting to emerge,

others

emerging

flying high

dancing

flutter

stop

flutter-

great delicate wings

snapped! into

a song bird’s mouth

as eagle, hawk

and perigon falcon

soar together

while condor and

silent turkey vulture

circle the sky

looking

for

leftovers.

She Needs Someone

She, luckily,
has herself—
sometimes

faltering,

mostly
strident
and quietly
bold,
but she
is lonely
in the city
of millions.

She walks
her own path
in a motley
mash of
people
all vying for
the same
sweet moment
in the sun,
to cross the
street
before
the light
changes.

The relentless
bustle
excites
and depletes –
they are massive
and she is
one girl
strong,
but
sometimes
wavering
in the
stormy city.

Desert American Dream 3/18/07

Joshua Trees 
ancient spirits 
spikey leaves 
sharp enough 
tough enough 
to cut, 
stark beauty. 
Jack Rabbit scat 
nestled bed 
under the wild junipers, 
silver dry thorn bushes, 
the feel of sandy soil under my feet—
yet the blue, dry sky 
cool in spring.
Sweet breeze 
swirls upon 
my thank you 
for this gift-- 
the solemn quiet 
just is as it needs to be – 
the power to wash 
a static rippled spirit 
clear and calm again.

Photo by Kindel Media from Pexels

In the Lone World

We travel

a stranger

to

our self -

disguised

as someone

who knows,

we grasp

at a story,

find

solace

in that

weakness

as we

look

busy,

as we

look away.

Her Voice Broke

Tears over the phone

obscuring

the words,

but not the

emotion,

she read

her poem

about

her grandmother—

five years calling

Pain!

Falling

on the

floor

then two weeks

to the end

when morphine

dreams

and real pain

became inner love

and outer

reaching.

She cried,

“I didn’t cry

when I

wrote

this.

I don’t

Know

Why

I’m

crying

now…”

Except

it all

made

perfect

sense

and the living

we feel

finds its

expression

in

moments

surprising,

clear,

yet undefined

and

free,

however

harrowing

our hearts

expand

and

contract.

Winter Beginnings

The Clouds Break

In the gray
sunlight and blue
spills
out
shining
warmth
in
the
middle
of a winter
day.