The poppies are towers of hope that don’t fall, because they were symbols after those wars.
The Towers fell, but they weren’t as strong a symbol as the poppies.
They just started war. The poppies were what came afterwards.

The ghost of a friend who visited me after she died:

This ghost with a sort of physicality
Came to me, the night you died twice
You showed me your kids and smiled
You seemed to say take good care of them. I wasn’t sure, but I have, in this time. But not well I’m sure. But why did
You come? To show me how dear they each are; I already knew that. Or was it for you, fair ghost mother, that you return
For one last scent of this form of life.
Or for my comfort, so I know your wisdom
Is still here with me, with us, and that smile
Hides above us all the while
While here below.
Maybe you came as a kiss of God
Which lingers a lifetime.

Two ways of riding BI-cycles or reasons and ways for doing so….an argument for holding hands ((Bien tomados de la mano!): Se donner la main!

In Antwerp, Belgium
While riding bikes next to one another
We hold hands
To steady us
Through today’s
Rain. And
Not just lovers
Do so. But old and young
Friends, and even strangers
Hold hands while riding their bikes
Two by two
Into and through
We lose ourselves in
Today’s rains.

One would never see this
In America, where we ride alone
And pick the toughest terrain
To climb. We wind our way up-name
By name,
Getting there first, before the others-Per aspera ad astra
Up the sheer misted twisted silent Rocky Mountain.
And when we get to the top
It is raining, and we
Are all alone
Having won
Today.

Adam must’ve had a hard time
Naming Zebras on that day.
What a black and white task he was given, and yet zebras confounded him.
Giraffes, ok he got it—the tall neck of the sound Gu, the funny legs of the letter f
When coupled with itself;
Elephants also were easy for him—wise and mighty like El, but odd and funny like plants; but then
The monochrome striped horse walked in-
Like a circus act-
And he was silent for a second or two.
“Can I get back to You, God”
(Asking the most ancient of questions)
In fact, he thought all night about it
Til just at dawn it came to him
The zed ,the beit-the z the b-
then the open a of awe!
Zebra, he said to God, finally.
And God laughed
And said, ok man.
We’ll go with that.

Holding hands while riding bikes through rain:
(Bien tomados de la mano!)
Two raisons for riding bikes….

In Antwerp, Belgum
While riding bikes next to one another
We hold hands
To steady us
Through today’s
Rain. And
Not just lovers
Do so. But old and young
Friends, and even strangers
Hold hands while riding their bikes
Two by two
Into and through
We lose ourselves in
Today’s rains.

One would never see this
In America, where we ride alone
And pick the toughest terrain
To climb. We wind our way alone-
Getting their first, before the others-
Up the sheer misted twisted mountains
And when we get to the top
It is raining, and we
Are all alone
Having won.

Holding hands while riding bikes through rain:
(Bien tomados de la mano!)

In Antwerp
While riding bikes next to one another
We hold hands
To steady us
Through today’s
Rain. And
Not just lovers
Do so. But old and young
Friends, and even strangers
Hold hands while riding their bikes
Two by two
Into and through
Today’s rains.

Making art is like getting lost intentionally,
Then trying to find your way back home,
And you do eventually, but when you do
The house has changed. Sometimes,
Even locations.

The man at the bar who liked Baroque music

“I would come to your funeral.” He said to the old flute player sitting across from him at the bar. The man did not look up, lost, as he was, in his concise notations.

He had been listening to and notating baroque music across from him at that local pub all afternoon. And he had noticed his passion at transcribing each note so carefully. When he asked him about it, the older man with a wool newsboy style had pulled down nearly over his eyes, had looked up in what appeared to him to be glee.
“Oh, Bach understood the angels and people. He wasn’t just writing for kings, he was writing for God.”
Then he went back to transposing.
That was all he had really said. But he just liked him.
There is a whole life well lived, a true story, someone obsessed with what they love about life, and sharing that obsession in public-on stage.
He respected that sort of person. This man had clearly retired, and didn’t need the money from the music, just loved the music, and translating it for the next generation. He respected that.
So on his way out, he thought, if that man died at this bar right now, I would go to his funeral.
And decided to speak that out loud to the man.
When he did, it startled the man, and he knocked over his pint glass. It went everywhere. The notations were blurred. He looked up startled. He looked up at him as if looking at death itself.
“I’m not finished yet, so you’ll just have to wait son!” He said while desperately trying to retrieve his vanishing notes.

Blame it on Spring (seasonal confessions)

In Spring, life is so overt
I have trouble focusing on it all.
For in every direction
Something is busy blooming
Into itself ever more effulgently
Everything wears its name, so blatantly.
Winter is easy for me, as
The single blade of grass
Is all that’s left to say yes through!
Or a little girl’s left behind snow angel imprint. Or a stroke of fresh neon green graffiti
Some kid
Fonted at night in my alley.
It gives my real eyes
A point to gaze towards.

I was born in Spring
Which is why I can’t
Finish poems. Yes,
I’ll blame it on Spring!
Spring’s ADHD makes
Everything illuminated all at once,
So you need an automatic lens
To stay in focus.
I should buy one
While it’s still Winter.