Home is a far-away place—
A distant time.
I still live there
Though my body is here,
I will not let go—
My heart, my mind
Have never left
Thus my body yearns to return—
Yet I do not want to lose this place,
But hold to one
While not letting go of the other.
That is as it should be
For home is a far-away place,
A distant time:
Neither here nor there,
But ever elsewhere:
Somewhere I am not
Nor ever have been.
Oh, that I had wings
That I might fly away
And soar among the statue-clouds
And lazily float upon the breeze
Like a purring prop plane.
Oh, that I had wings
To take off when I will
And go where I will
To “flee like a bird to her mountain”
And fly away home.
This enchanted land
I dreamed of as a child,
And tried to work the magic
To carry me there.
One day the magic worked:
I escaped dreary captivity
And dwelt in wonderland.
The mystic spell
Of this strange place
Held me bound,
Charmed me, but
Then I grew and
New dreams took sway.
These carried me to a new
Wonderland
Of Thoughts, of Sounds;
The new world awakened
The childhood dreams.
I then realized
This enchanted land
Was not the land of early dreams,
But an illusion
That kept me from
The Thoughts, the Sounds
Of my true home.
The spell was broken,
And I was free
To Dream.
The vacant lot was filled
Knee-deep with black-eyed susans
(I've never been too fond of these
One of the ugliest of flowers
But) collectively they formed
A yellow-brown-green sea
That filled the dreary vacant lot in the dreary city
With some little cheer and brightness.
I thought to myself as I drove past that
The City would soon see to it that the vacant lot
Was cleared of the weeds.
A few weeks later the flowers were gone
And in their place, a nice, neat, dreary vacant lot.
I miss the land
wide,
high,
broad,
flat,
plain,
Where you can see from horizon
to far horizon;
Where the sunsets are patchworks of color
(because the dry dust floats
forever suspended in the air,
as particles and time stand still together);
Where the parched ground demands of you
your sweat
for its meager moisture;
Where at night the stars shine
their light unpolluted;
Where the wind sings continuously
Unimpeded by anything more
than a mesquite bush;
Where the landscape seems alien,
Ancient,
Yet untouched,
untamed,
unremembered
(You could lose yourself in this land).
This land. . .
Where you feel as though you could step
into infinity;
Where your unhindered vision sees beyond
even that;
Where you feel alone in the universe,
Yet comforted by the embrace of the
ever-present,
ever-singing wind.
The mimosas are in bloom.
Has it really been so many years?
Years—
How much, how little
Has changed.
I remember walking under the mimosa tree,
Past the roses and crepe myrtle,
Longing for the future;
Feeling at home.
Now I drive past the mimosas
In an alien place,
Still longing for the future—
Never feeling at home.
Somewhere I still have
A fragile fragment
Plucked from that tree of years ago.
Now, that place seems as alien
As this one.
The mimosas are in bloom.
I still don't know why that matters
So much.
The trees are raining—
No shelter there!
The gray moss-clouds drip down
The drops they collected
From the recent shower.
But beneath the darkened sky
No drops,
All dry.
How strange:
The trees are raining.
The storm makes everything wild-tossed
Like an unmade bed—
Or the one who just rose from it.
The rain causes all the plants to grow
Outside their man-made boundaries—
Tall grass and brush poking out and up
Like unkempt hair.
Wind-blown branches,
Smudges of mud, leaves, water—
The streets with unwashed face
Despite the recent shower.
So the city awakens
Slowly, drowsily
After stormy slumber.
Who snuck into the woods outside
And threaded them with Christmas lights—
(The little ones
that blink on and off)?
Where is the outlet
That they must be plugged into?
What an odd display!
The fireflies light up the forest.
The delicate dance
Of circling stars:
They hover over the site
In some strange conjunction,
Some new constellation.
They slowly descend
As new stars quickly arise.
From this distance
It seems they will collide—
But my sense of depth is lost in the night.
As they approach they seem to stand still,
Only the beacons grow brighter,
Then flash, flicker,
As they turn on final approach.
The city lights obscure the real stars:
Shimmering ribbons follow the highways,
A glowing blanket illumines the runways.
So many travelers following these man-made stars!
It is a beautiful scene—
But we have lost sight of so much.
Our magi are too busy creating artificial ones
To follow the true Light.
Black ink smudges
The ledger lines of the highway.
Fog blots,
Absorbs the feeble light.
It is frightening to drive
On a rain-stained night
snow covered branches
upon a warm, bright spring day
dogwoods in blossom
Walk upon my grave
Plant trees and flowers and enjoy the park
Sit upon my tombstone and practice horn or pipe.
Do not hide the dead
Nor be too hushed about them
For they are no more or less sacred than you.
Take walks through the cemetery
Gaze upon the tombs
Never forget you came from the same dust as they
And to the same you shall return.
Sing and play and live among the dead
Never forget that in the midst of life
We all are dying
And life exists only in the midst of death.