Monday, March 20, 2017

Old Trader Vic Bergeron

Old Trader Vic Bergeron
         Limping through time
                  one leg dragging
                           pirate-like
Across almost a century
         of simple syrup and rums,
                  leaving a hint,
                           here and there
on passion fruit,
         dragon fruit,
                  fruit bats
                           and joy!
Oh! The Joy!!
         A gentleman
                  sitting at tables

                           of many islands.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Cortijo Fain

Rain of Andalucia falls in an olive grove
         tap tap tapping on old leaves,
remnants of seasons remembered.

A white farmhouse
          sits posing gracefully,
its skirt of trees spread over the hills.


Lightening cracks February’s sky.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Cannibal

Mother’s teeth and talons
RIP skin, pieces of flesh;
torn from my abdomen
bits of this and that
searching for an organ
I’ve hidden far from
her gleeful cannibalism.

Father’s civilized
knife and fork
puncture my surface,
where a lost river
of moments,
undistinguished events,
left above high tide line,
dry and blow away,
to float with clicking,
irrhythmic taps
on severed limbs
each braceleted with buoys
of broken light in odd colors
passing in an endless
holiday season.

this treasure can be found,
even shrouded under a blanket
of sleepless sleep,
its klaxon,
against impending drift,
ringing for eternal routine.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

A Toast To The Missing

Here’s to all your severed limbs
that lie drying in deserts
far from their owner’s sins,
and more of the same
that have long lay rotten,
far, far away in jungles
forgotten. Will all these bits
lacking prayer leaven,
after a time find their twin
in a somewhat mangled heaven?

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Vanishing

Mount Tamalpais vanishes
         behind clouds.
                  Rain is coming.
The Headlands stretch
         to disappear
                  in fog.


Monday, February 6, 2017

That Ship

That ship over there,
         leaves a golden state,
whatever its heading,
         wherever it makes landfall,
as steam rises,
         from that moving altar,
as its hull cuts a cemetery sea
         above each rank of corpses
under quiet fathoms,
         as its wake remembers
all the fallen,
         as my eye seeks horizon’s end,
I recall you are one of them
         and I will soon be.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Stone Circle

A lonely dusty path through olive trees
and cork oak leads to a stone circle

thousands of years pass

the path, different trees,
different people without ritual

stand once again among these stones.


The circle stands quiet.