The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
SKY SERPENT©
AN ANCIENT YOUNGSTER
Tabitha was a temple cat
she eats cookies
walls disappear
we are home again
right here in everyday Santa Clara is the universe
spreads into gardens, creek beds and the Arco station
no one seems to notice
it cannot be explained
no use pointing to weeds and pebbles
an effervescent smile
drift of clouds in their regions
fixing a toilet would serve as a lecture
if it could be put into words
there is so much static
simple repetition staggers through bloodied streets
the dogged code prevails
shedding flowers, exhausted patriarchs and matriarchs, cross walk guards where children skip and play
forgotten are the day's transgressions
illuminated is the evening sky
kids swirl by as I work
you're a gardener aren't you? he sparkles
yeah, and you're a kid, right?
yes!
so we're equal, I say
and laughter rolls down the street
there is no end to it
MIRACLES
OUR WORLD DOES A BRISK TRADE IN CIVILIZATIONS
we huddle for protection, comfort
and an explanation
why, if we're so smart
we are still at the mercy of such inconceivable power
no one thinks of taming it
or ourselves
is there a satellite named Icarus?
shouldn't we tremble
refraining from the obvious taunt
while sweeping pebbles off the bocce court
with less effectiveness than an ant
these puny words arose in a fury of creation
following laws of music and speech
however improbable
Scottish bagpipes wailing
wandering aurora borealis
drone of existence
and though the last solar mass ejection is not on anyone's mind
while drinking coffee
another one is probable
when it takes out satellites and power grids
yet another civilization
goes dark
in light of this
let's appreciate our status
as human beings
however puny the prospect
some do remember our original face
SURCEASE
THE BATTLE GROUND IS STREWN
with lawyers, programmers and politicians
street sweeps lower their eyes
birds are chirping
a police scanner cackles to life
crows follow the proceedings
which leaves no doubt
there have been sun rise cherry blossoms
escapees from dungeons
liberated in a rush of ordinary light
vestments and rituals abandoned
melting into an orchard where crickets chirp
catch them!
but they have no handles
and they are not running
leaving no sudden clues
a sculptor in Santa Cruz
creates a grinning aboriginal mask
painted with pale blue forget me not psychoactive dots
diabolical teeth
a red feather shako
holding a spear in a dark green forest
propped skywards
and no one got it
there were no hurdles
spiders load shipping containers onto giant squids
the very docks that welcomed hero sailors
before pollution choked such possibilities
rising moon on a misted yacht
catch them!
skittering vestiges of a story fading
all the plinth and pillar of storied thought
supports a golden mean
which vanishes in emptiness, mist, mountains
rituals that pretend
but in the end
civilization's best results are but sketches
leaving valleys in shadow
vast plains strewn with bones
and dust that will settle again
best be gone before then
come along
the way is not far
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_