Not a cactus

It’s not a cactus thriving in the arid

It’s a peace lily needing water.

It will yawn open and stretch

to touch me with its moist baby love.

Am  watering and waiting for it

to soak up and bloom.

They just know how to

Where do these birds fly to

from these muted asphalt winters

bathed in the news of the numbing cold?

Not tiptoe on the frozen lakefloor anymore.

With an intuitive meta level weather channel

they plan their commute where the

warm water meets the sunny shores 

full of sunbathers soaking in solar serum

And  meet many of their own :

gypsies from another home

nesting on another tree until another clock

tells them it’s time to go back.

How do they know when we don’t 

what routes to take despite the odds to the unknown?

But they don’t have a mechanism for complaint; 

Wise beings full of acceptance of what’s out there.

Do the stars shiver in cold loneliness 

guiding us for millennia witness to 

all of our follies and achievements?

They were there for the three wise men

faithful joyful the magi walking towards the manger and

stand guard over us. Are they immune to their solitude?

But they don’t have a mechanism for ennui.

They’ve always waited and will  forever.

How do the clouds know which shape to take

And when is  the best time to change color

and wear a different face?

How do they know when to kiss the rain

and when to give in to a raging  storm

wanting to upset all routines?

But they have no mechanism for frustration.

They just know how to deal with all the realities.

How does the tree keep looking at the heavens

from the same spot not wanting to trade places

with another when the going gets rough?

How does it put up with all the battery of the storms

and the lashing of the blizzard winds

and yet flowers in full majesty?

But it has no mechanism for rancour.

It knows to think beyond itself and live for us.

Who Cares?!

The fiber glass blue whale overhead tells me a sad story.

I tear up hearing how his Cuvier’s beaked brother 

died just this spring choking on  the

plastic in his belly starving for days on end.

You did it to him, he seemed to say

and I couldn’t deny, could I?

But someone came out of his silo: 

He started cleaning the beaches

as if an atonement for our collective sin.

He cares.

He was full of dreams at 19 but

was dark like a starless night, the black asphalt underfeet

on  the other side of justice and mercy

at the receiving end. He got the prison 

and the  whiplash for being innocent of

the crime of someone else.

Did he die before his death within the walls?

He steps out shines his light on starless nights

for others like him.

He cares.

The hungry fire spread with no mercy: 

It had business to do. Was on a warpath, its anger visible

uncontained. It gobbled up what used to be

homes full of stories,  passions, promises.

Dashed to rubble the histories of those who’d taken

generations to make them. Deleted, sitting in the trash bin.

But comes a guardian angel and wipes her hot tears

He gives her a brief home but a home nonetheless.

She can look at her new key in the meantime.

He cares.

At Tiffany’s, Cartier’s or Zales the diamonds are rock solid

but not a girl’s best friend, hardly ever:

But another woman is. A hand stronger

than a square or pear shaped solitaire; offers

dignity & dispels  taboo & raises them up with

pride and conviction. A shoulder and heart so  bold 

children can  grieve and cope with loss

A mind opens a door to another on whom one’s own’s shut 

And a soul brings  food to the table of those poorer, needier.

She cares.

So when the scrawl on your tee screams: “ Who cares”

Is that a question? your doubt your fear your despair?

Or your apathy? Are you sniggering really?

Or are you self- defending? Or self-doubting? Or are you

a roadrunner, a synergist, or a pathfinder for those off-track?

Well, now you know who cares for real; 

Will your graffiti now voice their story?

And pen another idiom to navigate the rough terrain?

Chop and cut through the wildwaters around?

You might want to give it a thought, you know.

Sanitized

The starched white and the blue green scrubs

in the beehive of targeted outcomes 

the floors scrubbed shiny like mirrors 

you can see your laugh and frown lines

masks gloves gowns probes sanitized

 breathing hope with beeps of various frequencies.

The see-saw between fear and let go

is a matter of quiet wait and watch

knowing divine hands and eyes

at work changing destinies. Wheeling you

in and out as in a plan of a second chance.

Almost God like.

The difference between taking and missing 

a breath decides your place on earth

or beyond. Too simple (almost simplistic)--

Our presence on the planet

at best accidental and every breath’s

a benediction.

Within me

I’d like to say “I love you””

like everyone does all the time 

wearing the heart on the sleeve

ever ready to burst, without enough

passion for the thrust, 

but it sticks in my throat and won’t come out.

Otherwise things are normal and we

go about our daily business without

obsessing  about unsaid verbal routines

comfort in the fact every gesture 

comes from deep within me

surely colored and shaped by love.

Don’t know if it works for others; 

 works for me.

Driftwood

Like driftwood

I must've sailed the waters

of millions of ages.

Born in many places and times,

taking different shapes and forms,

touching many shores, landing on some 

and tarrying on some others longer,

arriving now with an old wise soul

full of stories and memories hard to remember.

Only a canvas full of

fleeting images and moments

fleeting faces and feelings,

morphing and re morphing into crystals 

one moment and shattering into shards the next.

The charade moves on.

There'll be other lives yet to be lived and ended

and begun again until beyond 

 misery and sorrow, the desire and ache ,

The self in the One.