TERROR
Who are the victims of terrorism?
A man walking down the street,
a woman carrying a bag of food
a child on the way to school
they are the dead.
A man watching the whirlwind
A woman looking at television
A child viewing Facebook
they are the living.
The living
outnumber the dead
but pay the price.
The dead
unlike the living
no longer suffer.
All are maimed,
the living
more than the dead
In Colombia a general
parked his official car
outside a gay whorehouse.
and two transvestites stole it.
Naturally he said
terrorists did it.
They are everywhere.
Terrorists instill terror.
That is their name.
That is their purpose.
That is their meaning
for the living.
They frightened Bush so much
he remained airborne.
They frighten Trump so much
he declares in effect
“Make America Scared Again.”
When terrorists instill terror
they win.
They are winning.
SEEING
How are you gonna see
the bear that’s up a tree
if you always walk around
with your head hanging down?
How are you gonna see
the son who seeks
the daughter who dares
the wife who wants
yourself who yearns?
How are you gonna see
with your head hanging down?
Photo by Thelma Bowles
METAPHOR
In spring in the mountains,
squirrels are the fat cats
gobbling all the bird seed
meant for the 99 percent.
Western tanagers are
the cat’s pajamas,
red, orange, yellow, green and black,
flames among the junipers and pines
Sun shines bright and hard,
a two-edged sword—
too little cuts
as deeply as too much.
It may be more or less
but nothing
is only what it is
in the ecology of metaphor
A CONTINENT OF COUPLEDOM
Day begins as bright
as a new love,
bursting from night
and the sound of silence
with the music of songbirds
backlit in slanting rays.
Later when monsoon clouds
creep in from horizons,
day gradually grays, darkens, blackens.
Like lovers contemplating quarreling,
it holds itself in readiness
for worse to come.
Veils of rain
Spanish call velos
obscure the sky
as they moisten earth
there
and there
and there
but not here.
Now we are
in the eye of the storm.
Thunder roars somewhere,
lighting strikes
out of sight
behind cruising cumulus.
The world pinches
the clear space
reserved for us,
for love.
Lovers wait
coiled tensely
for storm to pour
on their heads
and flood their yard
and drown their home
and imperil their lives
and assassinate their love.
We wait
in thickening terseness,
in attenuating tenderness
of muscles and brains
for weather to worsen.
But as quickly
as roil and moil,
turmoil and tautness
stretch our love,
as thunderously
as sky
changes its tone
and tears into earth,
the day shines bright again.
The battle is over.
The continent of coupledom
is an island
inhabited by two,
shipwrecked,
a planet
where every time
we aren’t looking
glaciers melt,
rivers flood
and fires flare wild.
Marriage is memory,
memory is glue
and glue can soften
or set
under the blistering sun,
of connubiality.
This storm passes,
love endures.
HISTORY OF A BLIND DATE
He called me at noon.
“I’m Frank, Joe’s friend.”
“Joe said you’d call.”
“Meet me for coffee? Five-ish?”
“Good. See you then.”
“You’re 45 minutes late.”
“I’m not late.”
“You said five.”
“Ish. That’s why I said ish.”
“Good-by-ish.”
