Wheat Ears-Selected Poems

Dawn

Nauseated with the littleness

of city non-living

the savage humdrum

mind grasping splinters

on the surface of nowhere

never sated with

the neck-down delights

all carnal pleasures

I embark on a quest for that

special conifer, the sequoia,

that special flower in the midst

of the impassable thicket

the man who sees man as man.

Many a time with tenderness

I shared a soft pillow with

a hardened, suspicious Death.

Many a time I took Him

by the hand when He felt left

behind, when He felt abandoned.

In the noise of the marketplace

I glanced at Him.

He smiled at me.

Usually.

I dared Him to a jog once

perhaps twice and

with a sardonic laugh

He declined.

With His perennial laughter

He shares with me a non-fat latte

at the neighborhood Starbucks.

Usually.

Many a time I challenged Him

and always with a short giggle

He walked away gracefully saying

Not yet

Not yet . . . I

have things for you to do

My spirit I summon from the

realms of the void

to descend in the roots

and trace a course

I dive deep past all

sunlit gates of consciousness

looking for a sign

straight sign like a blue spruce

with duty marked on

its fresh bark.

I search for a beacon

as the lyre slices the air

in pieces of silver

I dive deep past all

golden gates of my roots

I summon the humble plow and

the path I carve

on the tired face of

mother Earth

a path I design

I plow a course towards

the light of a beacon

the man who sees

things like a man.

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