Offering

I fill for you a
morning cup, my only wish,
hold it with two hands.

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Peek-A-Boo

It matters what you say.
It matters what you do

and how you vote, and it
matters when you look

away.  Remember the game
we played as children?  We

covered our faces and closed
our eyes and knew

that we were hidden
from view.  Peek-a-boo.

But here’s the thing,
white men in the dark

suits, your marble hall,
your fleeting fame,

this is not a game,
we see you still, even

as you hide behind
your own hardened masks.

These Teachers

I meant to turn back
hours ago,
but the sage,
but the river,
but the evening sun
on my shoulders
and the path
that leads up
and up, the whoosh
of air as it parts
for the sparrow,
the scent
of juniper
arrives
and remains
in a constant
state of arrival,
the sole
of my shoe
leaves an imprint
in the dust, a heart
shaped rock,
and this quiet
prayer that one
does not lose
these earthly
teachers,
but rather,
becomes them.

So Glad You Came

All music and merry,
your hands on the strings,
trading places and voices
and other fine things,
the cocktails passed,
don’t care whose is whose
’cause you’re all full of whiskey
and no one’s got shoes,

two gypsies wear top hats,
black leather and white,
while another keeps leaving
to check on the night,
one is a songbird,
her voice travels high,
and the player, he plays
with a smile in his eyes,

and the first flash of lightning
cracks open the sky
as the poets all gather,
some dead, some alive,
and tonight, the rain answers,
coerced out by Dylan
and Cohen and Jerry
and Ella and Gillian,

they stay in your pocket,
nights such as these
when something new happens
despite all you’ve seen,
and that is the magic
of friends round a flame,
where the truth tellers linger
and you’re so glad you came.