POEM - Fog

I think of fog as my soul
That hovers close to water,
The Source of all life –
Here, I think myself beautiful,
Suspended in the instant
Of a smile that is sunrise.

POEM - Buddha Moon

Pin Oak, Hemlock, Black Walnut:
When the great Chaos named these trees
The Wind that touches us all carried these names to us.

In utero, before I even knew what words were -
Before I learned how names could disjoint and categorize,
Before I knew Song, there was Wind
In the flirtations of mosquitoes,
In the graceful applause of flapping birds in flight.,
Before I knew the hammering of Clock
There were acorns dropping through Forest’s canopies
Tapping at the bed of raw umber pine needles
That is Forest's feathery floor below.
Tree Frog sings of Night to come
As Holy Dusk fills space made by vacant leaves

A Buddha Moon rises to rest its belly
Over the closing lids of Sunlight’s eyes
And skips Horizon’s rope to wake me wide.

POEM: The Graveyard Vandals

Tonight, the dead are mortified.
Tonight, the dead have never seen such disregard
For peace and sacred space.
Headstones lie flat, chunky as blocks of cheese,
Grass is carved up, uprooted yellow roots showing
As frayed as pulled hair,
While down below corpses wear pinched faces,
Mouths frozen into the shape of the letter “O” –
Yellow police ribbon marks the scene of the crime
While detectives who would rather be working
Some homicide case,
Wander while wondering
“Who would do such a thing?”

Yet below – far below – the peaceful dead
Feel violated, feel stiff bodies,
Feel stiff arms and stiff legs
Splayed like some rotted swastika,
Like an opened Swiss Army knife,
Imagining chalk outlines around their bodies –
Victims in the after here,
Victims in this “victimless crime”.

Tonight, the dead shiver in bony fear
That the graveyard vandals would strike again –
So that if given a choice when asked,
The dead would just as soon remain dead,
Where dignity at least lives.