The Prints of Tiny Hooves

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The Prints of Tiny Hooves

 
There’s a fog that slides through Brooklyn,

like a mollusk or a seal,

with a scent in it of ocean

and a cold and clammy feel.

It’s an issue, from the water,

that is needed by the land,

as the trees of spring and autumn,

as they greet it, understand.

It slithers up the alleys

and it slips along the streets,

and it leaves its trails that glisten

on the twigs of leafless trees.

There’s a mist that wafts through Brooklyn

as the tides and seasons turn,

and it floats along the treetops

and it glows as streetlights burn.

It’s a child of air and ocean

that is welcomed by the tree

as it twists and spreads its branches

for this blessing from the sea.

It sweeps across the city

and it brushes past the roofs,

and it leaves, on what it touches,

the prints of tiny hooves.

There’s a child of air and ocean

that is visiting the land,

as the humans who are watching,

in the quiet, understand.

It’s a reaching out and touching

that is silent, cooling, soft.

It glances skin and surface

and then it wafts aloft.

It strokes and it caresses,

as the city’s lanterns  glow,

and it leaves its trail of kisses,

as the shining dewdrops show. 

There’s a thought that’s sad and smiling

that is shifting through my mind.

There’s a feeling that was angry

that is turning now to kind.

It’s a being from the ocean

that’s the mother of us all—

the well from which we’ve risen—

the deep to which we fall.

It’s a whisper in the silence,

It’s a glow within the night.

It will arc, before departing

with its streak of fleeting light. 

There are movements that are measured,

there are movements that are fast.

There’s the mist that’s drifting slowly,

there’s the “star” that’s flashing past.

There are touches that are forceful,

there are touches that are soft.

When the land and sea are mating,

then their couplings can be rough.

But their meetings could be gentle—

and so it is with all—

like the wave that rears and crashes—

and the fogs of spring and fall. 

2018 March 30th. Sat.

Brooklyn, New York 

Love's Labor Lost

This is a very long sentence, wrapped down the page. It might take more than one reading to make sense.
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Love's Labor Lost

I've labored, striven, bungled, idled, hoped,
Despaired, persisted, scored and missed—and now,
Reflecting on my life, I see the trail
Of labors lost or fruitful, much like seeds
Or shoots or saplings planted once with hope
And tended, watered, fussed about and yet
Now sadly lying withered, ravaged, strewn
Or blown away completely—save for one
That still is bearing leaves and even fruits—
And on this one remaining rest my hopes,
As might a parent's on the child that's left
From all the storms that blew away the rest.

2018, around February 20th 
Brooklyn, New York

Morning in the Mountains

Morning in the Mountains

When the mists of night are rising
From the valleys to the hills
And the morning sun is shining
As the eagles take to wing,
Then the children wake from slumber
As the mother lights the fire—
And they rise from bed and shiver
As the birds of morning sing.

The peaks on high are glowing
And their colors change to white.
They shine as clouds surround them
And the shadows dance with light.
It is morning in the mountains
As the sun has chased the night.

2018 March 3rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York  

Peace, U.S.A., 2018

Peace 
U.S.A., 2018 
  

The village is abandoned; the city’s tumult grows.
And in the leafy suburb, the humans can’t be seen.
The tractor plows the farmland; the traffic clogs the town.
The stalk of grass is glowing; the sprinkler wets the lawn.
A migrant man is walking; a car goes speeding by.
The field of stubble shimmers; a billboard lofts its sign.
A woman dodges buses, her cell phone to her ear.
A dog barks in a backyard, but no one seems to hear.

2018  March 2nd, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York