Another Color, Another Hue

Another Color, Another Hue

It seems it is time to wander
through the afternoon, looking for love
or something to call mine.
I had settled in for the evening when
the phone buzzed like an area code for
somewhere I had forgotten. I could have taken
things slower if only there were more people
to gather around a central theme.
Morning turned a cold shoulder to me
so I am depending on the afternoon to light
me up like a few friends sipping beers.

The days pass too quietly for me,
the moments full of melancholy that
masquerades as perpetual motion.

It’s true the days get in the way of
lightly wondering where the next smile
will grow. I did not invite this pain;
it shows up voluntarily. Truth is,
I probably could not find an interesting
sentence even surrounded by a handful of
friends.
But I still must fill the afternoon with something.

I turn slowly back to myself when the
loneliness comes like fog hugging the coastal hills.
I could sing you a lifeboat full of courage if
only my voice would not crack like ice, like rain.
Today is dressed up with nowhere to go. It merely
twirls and winds its way until the sun begins to set.
It brings the meandering morning to a close. I will
look for something new, another color,
for coming from so far away.

Half the Supply

Half the Supply

(“Here’s what believers who are in low positions in life should be proud of. They should be proud that God has given them a high position in the kingdom.” James 1:9)

The days are dry without end, the summer light
grills the ground, the constant beige baked into every
rock and stone. And hours since the light is gone
the rugged desert floor radiates the same heat
toward the stars. Stingy with its release, the air only
becomes breathable
a pair of hours before dawn, before
the sharp light and arid sky provide
only half the supply life needs for thickets
and underbrush other ecozones display
with less effort than a butterfly gliding
bloom to bloom.

We walk soon after dawn, before noon and the
straight-line blaze from the sun and its rays overheat
every possible path. Flat as a billiard’s slate, no shade
breaks the invisible beams; no respite for earth and its
captive passenger to take a breath, wipe the sweat,
and hope new rain will fall swallowed by washes
and sent to start the seeds awaiting the second half
of verdant genesis.

And while the wait, and during the walk, some
30 feet distant on the dusty floor, a color far outside
the decorator’s wheel; a bright, a sheen, a damp magenta
and intense yellow;
the solo desert flower caught the eye. The parched earth
below a gasping sky had offered more than the forests
of coastal mountain ranges.

In its poverty the desert offered an isolated endowment;
the smallest of flowers from the poorest supply
greeted the eye with more reflection
than a thousand on a rainforest floor.

Vermillion Lizards

Vermilion Lizards

(“Now it is planted in the wilderness, in a dry and thirsty land.” Ezekiel 19:13)

The paper thin clouds were vermilion lizards crossing the sky,
every memory was gladiolas and hibiscus, yet the
present story was saguaro and milkweed.

Turning toward the only breeze we can find
and stepping across undefined stream beds full
of pebbles; the parched taste buds of drought

A dehumidified sigh is lost among the rusty squeaks
of hawks tracing, dot to dot, a rabbit’s trail as the
shadows grow longer and supper is served.

None of us want to sound ungrateful (some of us do,
I wrote too soon). Some of us remain so fateful
we cannot admit the cracked lines upon our tongues.

But, when the past seems emerald and greener,
when our wishes outnumber the days allotted,
when we long for rainy days and play-school friends,
even in the desert, when we empty our pockets
and place the dust upon the end-table of our existence,

God, let the desert please us, as it must please you;
as fully created, cared for and crammed with color
as the East Bay Hills or the Northwest Harbors.

Though the Days

Though the Days

(“Arise! Let your light shine for all to see. For the glory of the Lord rises to shine on you.” Isaiah 60:1)

Though the days may appear as night,
feeling as numb,
though no man’s voice rings true or
offers a haven in the storm; there
is still more illumination than will ever
be extinguished by foggy pronouncements of
concrete minds that have figured out, before its time,
The theory of Everything.

The sprout between the sidewalk cracks;
the rains upon the deserted land,
the eastern alarm, is it preset or hand wound?
The wildflowers on the hill that was brown and
broken days before the rain, are not inhibited
in their splendid apparel, matching color revealed
by midmorning rays. The outline of sun-shadow,
petals and soil are never seen by

The peddlers of darkness who stay inside simply
to cook up another scheme.