ten billion years

The night
gathers our wishes
sent wistful
to shine as billions of hopes
in the black sky,
forming paths of light
from our longings.

What set stars ablaze
set us afire as well,
born, as we were,
in nebula nurseries.

Mother/father stars
draw upward our gaze,
we children
of planets grown full and massive,
dying yet deathless gaseous energy
we were released, transformed.
We have long forgotten
the super nova of numberless explosions,
how we floated on helium
to earth,
settling as electrified dust sparking, fiery
illuminating hope.

Bullied: A History

I held the dog in my lap
the golden pit bull-spaniel mix.
Of course, you know dogs,
so I was held also.

I had gentled the dog
the dog had gentled me.

He looked at us
“This dog has never known cruelty,”
he said, shocked
to see a myth come to life,
a dream become reality.

He and I,
strangers to safety,
were like Martians just arrived
to a new planet,
uncertain of its terrain,
familiar only with threat.

He returned to bully
and I returned as victim.

qarrtsiluni ~~Inuit for “sitting together in the dark”

While the blue northern ice
melts into the sea
We sit in the dark together alongside Polar bear.
on the tundra’s newly blackened soil.

The Inuit have seventy-four words for sea ice.
We name what we see
to navigate
and so
we are collecting new words
for tears
and ignorance.

Sitting still
we gather
in the dark
seeking new ways
to navigate these rising waters.
The old word we cannot lose
is most treasured,
we must keep saying to each other:

Chicago, for Fred Hampton and Larvell Henderson, my Irving School Classmates

Today my hometown music
sets the groove
for the dance
soul sway
joy drum
in this coffee shop.

I remember
Chicago rhythm
and blues
how the projects
loom over expressways
the “El” clatters
shakes the rattling windows 
of a tenement
screeching to a scheduled stop
from the eleventh floor, a five-year-old watches 
as below cars speed
the refrain “Stand by me…”  
fills the air from somewhere near
before the deafening roar of the train
passes the boy
I feel the
not mine but
his brother waiting
sitting on the stoop
at noon
      job denied
one more time.

In third grade Fred and Larvell were my friends.
When I was ten
Larvell's mother was shot.
When I was twenty,
Fred was shot in his bed.

In my car, Marvin Gaye sings
“Makes me Wanna Holler, Throw up Both My Hands…” 
on the radio.
I feel faith between the notes, love
not mine, but
from a distance, mine too  
as I drive to the South Side
singing, weeping
with Marvin
to my job at the welfare
warfare office.


“…love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust…. and don’t expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance…”

“Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet


Some say
and its quietude
is a nightmare of isolation,
the opposite of love,
that an empty room
is not filled by their own body
only by others.
Some hide under crowd-cover
or run from themselves to another.

Solitude might be cherished
even more than a lover.

What else but solitude
nourishes your poems like rain on wildflowers,
grows your songs, flows your art?

What else
opens to the vista beyond your confines,
returns you to yourself,
honors your silence,
makes space for your tears,
and a place to rest.

What else
leaves room for your questions
is the dawn for your answers
reminds you of the warp and weave
connecting the universe,
the unconditional oneness.

What invites you to meditation,
brings you to your spirit,
leads you to prayer?

Earth, Isn’t This What You Want: a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke

Earth, isn’t this what you want? To arise in us, invisible?

Is it not your dream, to enter us so wholly

there’s nothing left outside us to see?

What, if not transformation

is your deepest purpose? Earth, my love,

I want it too.. Believe me,

no more of your springtimes are needed

to win me over—even one flower

is more than enough. Before I was named

I belonged to you. I see no other law

but yours, and know I can trust

the death you will bring.

See, I live. On what?

Childhood and future are equally present.

Sheer abundance of being

floods my heart.

from the Ninth Duino Elegy

To Find the Answer

The mind runs
like a train to a small town
where the news is old.
It travels
to the same
endlessly certain
so you can live

from the intrusion of possibilities
by questions.

Bound tight

your muscles clenched


You are puzzled

by how hard it is to bend,

to reach out or up

of the bars in your jail cell
like a fish, unaware of water.

In your narrow, airless room
open the dusty curtain
lift the window
vistas to open
where solutions
like surprises
rise up as flowers ready to bloom
in the soil of spaciousness.
your hands
your own neck.
Unlock the prison cell.
Step outdoors
at last
fresh mountain air
at the start of a new day
in a new place.
Unfold yourself
like a blanket on the grass.



The Greeks have more than one word for love.

It begins with storge, family,

where we can find,

      if we are the fortunate few,

 philautra, self-acceptance.

So clear-eyed, well-fed

we make our way to philea or even, though rarely,agape.

The rest of us,who were planted in cold, rocky soil 

grow stunted, frozen

reach for fire, thinking it is the sun.

Romance is the name for our illusion of love

a fog that hides the shorelineas we navigate

by wishes and lies

instead of stars.

Tossed about, dizzied, bruisedby storms we name passion     

  whose dictionary synonyms are pain, obsession, mania. 

We think we will be saved 

by grasping,


tighter still

to the punctured hull.

The Aeon of myth and Tarot appears before us

the Star Goddess Nuith,

       her companion, Hadith, a winged ball of fire, 

       is omniscience

       their child Horus

       clear insight.

Aeon rises above the waves,

as an eagle now

wings spread 

calls out to us

philea, agape

philea, agape




Who Will Explain?

The brown-eyed children,
under silver blankets
that sparkle like Christmas tinsel
or gleaming party gowns
worn at country clubs,
sleep on the cold, cement floor
but do not understand
the wire cages,
their loneliness
the long, hot walk
through the desert.
Do they wonder,
as children will,
what they did wrong?

Who will explain
to them

this land that hates them,
these people who sleep
on silk sheets
walk on marble floors,

washed by brown-eyed women,
take cool rides
in shiny new trucks
through the desert

like cruel-eyed matadors

immune to the pain

of the bull,
drunk on their comforts.

Who can explain
why these people
never wonder
what they did wrong?