My Children

some photographers guard their photographs
like they guard their hearts.
eyes looking forward,
click.
eyes looking over a shoulder,
click.
a clothesline and a horizon,
click.
a cowboy and a wind farm,
click.
click.
click.

my children.
my children.
stay here with me, my children.

because i am those eyes,
looking in both directions.

because i am that clothesline,
stretched between two poles.

because i am that cowboy.

Sky

sky and i became acquainted
in madrid last weekend
and he told me that anything important
should be said in exactly six words ...

... and now i find myself speechless.

Residual

i can still feel music,
moist on my hands, chest, and cheek
and our eyes
wrapping themselves around corners,
cars,
and street lamps,
only tiny points of light now
from where you are.

A Tribute to Lewis Carroll

no longer contented
with frivolous things,
like cracker-jack boxes
and mood-colored rings,
i sit and i listen
as a mockingbird sings
of a boy forming glory
from papers and strings.

the world with its wisdom,
and knowledge,
and hope
knows not of the bliss
with which children elope,
as they dance and they sing
on life's untethered rope
and remind us
of frivolous things
now remote.

Anything

i imagine i
could write about
anything
and you,
reading my anything,
turning it into
your something:

your something
(my anything)
and my something
(my anything)
would argue endlessly ...

one reason we never talk
about something,
anything having become
very comfortable
in its place.

Forgetting

last night, i dreamed of forgetting the world.

i forgot listening to the flute
from the ridge overlooking water canyon,
but notes still echo there.

i forgot dancing in the rain
at the base of the sandia mountains,
but rain and dancing continue.

i forgot watching the flames
as old man gloom burned to the ground,
but burning does not end.

last night, i dreamed of forgetting the world,
and in the process,
forgot myself.

Hate

it is not wrong to hate
and it is not a sign of weakness to be afraid.
there are things in life
that must be hated,
and things that should be feared.

if you hate intolerance,
and hate it with your breath,
your eyes,
your throat,
you will not be less than you were before.

if you fear silence,
and fear it with your skin,
your hair,
your stomach,
you will not be diminished.

hate is there for you to use
as you wish,
and fear may serve you well
in so much as your eyes remain open.