Spice Trail Harvest

batik butterflies

in white and grey

flit like waves

on bengal bay 

morning climbs

Sri Lankan hills

spice trail harvests

cinnamon quills

further east

from maluccan trees

voices carry on

clove-scented breeze

legend of woe

for the indonese

came a cropper

the dutch VOC

still people climb

to earn their keep

old gnurled hands

the spice trail reaps

and every year

the middleman buys

at ridiculous rates

and profits multiply

so next time you flavour

your drink or meal

with vanilla or pepper

you’ll know the deal

remember those hands

when you reach for spice

a lifetime of labour

at a discount price

~e

Blackguard Birds

i hate the mated house sparrows

inhabiting my roof

i hate their matching costumes

and their wheezy cries

rusty brown and grey they are

with faces painted black

jaunty masks to preserve

the element of surprise

sly and brash and mean are they

stealing nesting holes

evicting purple martins

gaining homes but making foes

taking nectar from the flowers

and breaking others’ eggs

blue jays and barn swallows

return to find the dregs

house sparrows flap about

bathing in the dust

blackguard birds without care

wee devils in the boughs

~e

Two Ways

core intact, sun-bleached

white and pearly

a circle grown on a shell

spinning life into beauty

shale from the river, pearl from the sea

I hold a broken arrow and a piece of shell–see?

carved by time and water’s rhythm’s flowing

two symbols of extremes their truth showing

lessons teaching design and destiny

ebbing out of history, floating up to me

the shell of opaque lustre glows in the light

the arrow’s jagged edges honed for piercing flight

one magnificent home-creation

one cutting tool of death

singing song of the oceans

stealing enemy’s last breath

a broken arrow falling

cut from stone for cutting well

hearts of those still ignorant

to fear’s narcoleptic spell

two sides of the same coin (my face)

showing my love and my fear

two means of living opposite

two ways to be: Cordelia or Lear

~e

Greens and Blues and Red Canoes

come with me up to a glen

where we may deeply breathe again

put aside your laden air

there is no time for toil up there

come sip some wine and spend an hour

sniffing every lily pad’s flower

and we will float in moonlit dreams

painting venetian lovers scenes

i know a scene for you to sketch

of lake and sky and wilderness

as you render greens and blues

i will capture your artist’s muse

come rest awhile beneath this willow

i will be your napping pillow

blackbird’s cry and seagull’s sigh

shall be for us a lullaby

wake up love the sky is blazing

this morn won’t be one of lazing

grab your book and bathing suit

i’ve packed bread and cheese and fruit

o’er the dams and up the stream

beaver’s foils can’t keep this team

from a picnic on a blanket of moss

by a swirling pool under waterfalls

swim once more out to the island

eye that graceful great blue heron

as he weaves his azure quilt

our souls alight on breezy lilt

clouds of whimsical shape and form

wisps of water and air transformed

when you reflect upon such gifts

do you not feel a part of it

greet our guests with hugs and jests

close the door and swat the pests

euchred again can’t you play faster

would you prefer a hand of canasta

put up your feet and tell some stories

make us laugh until we’re sorry

come see the sunset’s watery pun

rising mist hazing sinking sun

september’s song shall soon be played

i’ll miss bullfrog’s serenade

i’ll strum six strings for his delight

please my sweet sing starry night

another season of swims and walks

snoozes, canoes and midnight talks

i lament summer’s passing but

within our hearts love’s light glows, lasting

we grow drowsy by the fire

admiring ashes’ ascending gyre

goodnight my sweet the dew has fallen

can’t you hear the loons a-calling

close the curtains brush your hair

dim the candle say a prayer

yellow moon yellow moon keep this night

shimmering coal in harvest light

~e

Courseulles sur Mer

can you hear the waves rolling

and the boom of cannon fire

and the smell of sulfa spent

on wounds acquired crossing wire

can you feel sand in your boots

from the concussion of mortar shells

can you feel fear’s icy grip

their steely grit repelled

June 6, 2002 Courseulles sur Mer, Normandy, France

~e

Tungsten Tower

dodging the shadow of a black frisbee at night

lit by eiffel tower light

huddled groups in guarded gardens

smoking weed while one strums strings

in the shadow of the tungsten tower

I smell these and other things

June, 2002, Jardins des Tuileries, Paris

~e

White White Streaks

you hear the sound of waterfalling

high up in the Alps

and the brisk wind rattles bones

in its howling

rimmed by rock, brown and dark

white waterfalling

white waterfalling

white white streaks

May, 2002 Jungfraujoch, Switzerland

~e