The trill of redbirds in the cool morning air
Against the backdrop of a silent neighborhood.
We are together up before the cacophony of day begins
At an hour when the world yet slumbers on.
The smell of dark coffee from the hearth,
Its warmth against my palms,
Teases my senses, not quite distracting me
From the dawn that breaks ever westward.
I curl my toes against the cold tile beneath my feet,
Shivering ever so slightly against the breeze that
Tickles the soft tendrils of gray at my neck,
And I bless the life that brought me to this moment.
All that I have known joins the universe
Of remembrance songs at this moment
When the lingering traces of night dissipate
Into the undisturbed euphony of morning’s dawn.
There’s nothing that I could ask for more than this,
At an hour when the soft glow of sunrise
Lays its blanket of dew upon the verdant green
Just where the supple willow branches kiss the earth.
Come on – admit it – you’ve Googled yourself, right?
I found myself in a textbook today, of all places. I suppose if my name were more common, I’d be less surprised, but it’s not like I’m Mary Smith or Jane Doe. I mean, how many people have you met named Lotus or Cirilo, much less Lotus Cirilo?
I only thought my name was unique. I rather liked it that way. My name is (or was) mine, and mine alone. Vanity searches rarely resulted in false positives. Yet, here I am in the 10th edition of Guffey’s Business English, page 112, question number 7, first line. Do you think once you’ve adopted a textbook for your classroom, your name is put in a hat for use in future editions? No permission needed, right?
Then there is the whole thing about pronunciation. My last name is regularly mispronounced by students, which leaves me wondering, “Why would Guffey do this to students, in an English text, no less?” Have you googled (or binged) yourself? What most surprised you about the results?
A thousand words
while the wind whistles chilly through the canyons.
Headlights flicker dimly on a distant highway
catching my eye and attention.
The mind slips sideways
refusing to hold onto even the memories.
I consider that it is time, past time –
I have been longing toward this day
even though I could not would not
Not then, not now.
A thousand words
On my lashes, my cheeks.
Our tent cants forlornly leeward
against the pall, dark vacancy.
Somewhere in the distance a door slams
for the last time
you brush the hair from my forehead
reminding me that I am and am not alone.
I do not think of how it once mattered
Instead I think of how the electricity barely registers,
When the sun splays its warmth across the morning sky
and the giant pines cast their shadows
across the damp, stone quay,
I will have gone.
I only rarely will look back
at the pieces of our hearts lying shattered on the canyon floor
where we flung them
on this bitter night
without so much as saying
a cacophony of voices
sketchy, dwindling, salting,
sterilized by the insane rage
of riotous profanity
thrown callously into the wind,
full of the season
of ebbed-tide mirth,
driven by the hail
of half-stripped lies,
the harsh, hard waters
of secrets kept,
hopelessness flung flayed–
refusing to go quietly,
scattering their gifts
like so much red clay
on the funeral bier
of sorrow’s sharp edge.
the eyes twitch
mute in utter repentance
footsteps so weary
diminished by mediocrity
both tune and dirge.
The seasons do their dance.
Sometimes the wind blows,
Smooth against my palm,
I heft the rock, and pitch it against the mountain
Remembering the way the sun inched across the sky
Remembering to be grateful that the seasons do their dance.
Sometimes the wind blows,
For these things, my heart sings in the night.
For these, and for those with whom I have toiled and tugged
For those with whom I have grappled and loved
Across the seasons when the wind carried our voices
And we remembered to be thankful.
Let us be thankful again
That the seasons dance
And the wind carries our voices across the canyon
Where our friends listen in the night
To chirrup and ribbit,
Where our friends remember to be grateful
That the seasons turn
And the wind blows,
Can you think of anything more sorrowful
Than to wake to a dream in which the seasons do not turn.
Let us be thankful that the wind blows
And the seasons do their dance
And friends listen to chirrup and ribbit in the night
While we skip rocks across the cool water of change,
While we pitch rocks against the mountain
And remember to sing songs,
That the seasons dance and the winds still blow.