A Wasted, Stubborn Gaze

Glance upon the shadows cast by ficus limbs
as their growing fingers span memories' bridge,
creeping across dandelionclock faces
that mark the consistent progress of seconds'
subconscious wile; while marijuana's wasted,
stubborn gaze persists in calculating odds:
seeping seeds spend evolution underground.

Childlike drifting fascination, feathers
leaf through the creole backstreets of Mardi Gras
revelry under ash blackened foreheads, dreams
squander faintly demented marching brigades'
bound captives; coffin gagged, violence resistent
bodhisattvas' sing supine supplication -
winding a forest carpet, silent, sublime.

A baby's fingers clutch for mother's wet breasts
sucking air from imaginary nipples,
insistent TV ads intercede, "Suckle
from culture's commercial, corporate illusion."
The contemporary model of nature:
mother's too busy to care for baby's needs;
dripping seeds melt, heat seared on the rocky dust.

Gazes turn to the wind, a blowing bellows,
a roaring, raging inferno of frothing,
rabid dogs carving out the latest fashion,
erecting statues of glorification,
their gleaming eyes slobber with gluttonous glee;
just out of sight, in the seedy underground,
a wasted, stubborn gaze breeds revolution.

In the Still, Night Sky

A glassy lake stretches as far as the eye can see:

calm, blue water, warmed by summer's breath.

High rise firs line the surrounding hills, dotting

right up to grassy beaches strewn with fallen

pine cones, and cuddling close to rocky points.

Wading barefoot into the temperate mountain

pool, the lapping waves' soothe my feet with

restorative caresses. The wind does not rush

since there is no hurry in the air. Small mouth

bass leap above the water line, attacking gnats

hovering and buzzing near the surface, and flip

backwards into the lake, disturbing the surface

with tiny, circular ripples which pass impressions

across the vast, liquid expanse. Black Saw-wings

swallow the sky as they jet near the surface,

cooperating with the back-flipping lake bass

to herd insects into one awaiting mouth or another.

The evening song of three, majestic, bald eagles -

soft, short, high pitched whistles - echoes across

the broadly expanding sunset which burns clouds

into molten, orange embers. They soar high above

my head, cutting a direct path to their nested fir tree

aerie not far from my silent beach shore. The long

finger shaped feathers at the ends of their wings

point a warning against even the most unobtrusive

intrusion. Slowly, stars emerge from the blackening

dusk. In the distance, a campfire warms a small

group by reflecting the last cloud embers in the still,

night sky. My palpitations cease as my lungs inhale

larger gulps of precious, fresh air; I'd forgotten

how delicious was their flavor. Children's

laughter drifts on the barely stirring breeze,

echoing into deserted, naked coves of serenity.

As a smile curves my lips and a full moon

lifts itself over its glimmering, watery reflection,

I am overcome by an ancient appreciation for awe

inspired accumulation of serene acceptance to Gaia,

knowing the moment serves greater sustenance

than humanity's amassed wealth and possessions.

From simplicity and attuned harmony grows

connection and passionate, purposeful redemption.