travel notes



18-wheelers
comb the
Arizona sands
pale blue sky
steady
peaceful pace
in and out of
Kingman

the old story goes
that the father
of George -
who some day would be
our first president -
went into the orchard
to admire the young trees
and found that one
was chopped in half.
'Did you, George,
with your little axe
cut down
the cherry tree?'
'I cannot tell a lie,
Father. It was I.'
No coverup
from young George.
I wonder though
what has happened
to the tree
and why a child
might be given an axe
the quandary of america
oh say can you see

poem from whale's breath

as it all
fades away
at the end
of the day

as the past sinks
it starts to swim
the fragments bobbing
on the crest of a wave
tumbled to the tideline
along the beach

i really want to write about whales
their breath
the myths
the Biblical past
where Jonah journeyed
within an unnamed friend

whales speak
beneath the surface
but do we hear?

do we sleep better
as their lives decline?
our lives decline,
our existence
undetachable
from theirs

the air outside is stale
so far from the oceans.
the sea horses and clams
the marlins and barnacles beckon

A small act of sharing, or repair, like a single pebble tossed into the water, can ripple and bloom. Its good effects spread far and wide, past and future.


- i'm traveling this month, thus the recent lapses in posting.