Sunday, April 18, 2021

Pieces of Poway

I.
Cupped cactus hand
Over the rolling gulley,
Flowers like lipstick disrobed,
Lizards all over, claiming it
Like jungle gym children
Or yards that own spring flowers
For some reckoning unseen.

II.
Lascivious roses, pendulous lemons,
Profusions of aster and wisteria,
But to the side, the bells are wild,
Indeterminate, tiny, of no fixed
Human address; it pulls one in
To the borderless, where the total heart
Can be felt.

III.
The rough-hewn grasshopper 
Pauses for the cool desert wind
Just long enough for the song
To be lifted, quite unfairly,
From the air, and blossom 
Like something never known before,
The stolen from shame, and pain
And created heartbreak, though one
Never knows the scents that are mingled
In the breeze.

IV.
The purple grass displays itself 
As if it's flying, though locked in
To the dune, as these houses are joined
In the ground, with canopies of view,
Rectangular pools, the curvatures
Of highways cross the roofs.
It goes wilder, higher, to orders
Beyond our calibrations, moving
In a music while the white walls
In stillness disappear. The rocks
Are rich in personalities, presiding
In their way, invisibly, while the tangled
Branches venture to the free space,
Adventure made a place for, always.

V.
It all goes back to the roots of mind, whose
Synapse leaps are a trillion galaxies away,
As the edge of my ink burns an indentation
In the total memory, sacred for being
Shared separately, and puncturing like a hive
That spins to orbits of honey bees -- it even 
Reaches down to the school below -- closed up 
Tight -- ready to fill up the moments with time.

VI.
Syncronicities of hawk fly like vapor 
With the wings, distilled memories of green 
Come off of the pines, rhe yellows of spring, 
So surprising, are a doorway to a past 
That never ended and never has begun. 
The hummingbird in shade waits for nothing 
And no one, yet the moment waits for me, 
Seemingly exclusively, the mind takes form as 
The form takes branch, and will vanish 
To the apex that I seek, that I can recognize 
But not predict, led on with coy refusals 
That say "yes" as if I'm not already in the slot, 
Holding like a lizard to a rock, as if I'm 
Thinking, which is what I tell myself, 
Until that latest form is gone
And there is nothing left 
To do but wait.