The stars are suns
and every one has planets
orbiting, unseen.
One is mine, or yours,
or maybe more --
pasts we can't remember,
futures we won't glean.
This year, like other seasons,
touches and leaves
for someplace grave,
lies in mneumonic history
as spirits sigh their
ghostly truth.



Graphic below: This Is A Drum, digital drawing by jH

Not so far


Blow up the pyramids.
Bring in MacDonald's.
It'll just take a few days,
not all those long years.
No time for tears!
We're busy here
ringin' up those burgers
and all them curly fries.
You'll want coke with it
all, of course, won't you?
You'll need it
for the season salt poured in,
and the ugly, gory wounds
we left open everywhere
for the sun and moon,
all the still-swirling stars
and elements
to wander by
and wonder.


Alaha Akasha

(dedicated to Dr. Oliver Zahn, astrophysicist, Berkeley Center for Cosmological Physics)


You can't have these joys and thrills
bought for a greenback, a dollar bill.
Accumulations of multiple blessings
not reflected in a bank account,
a drive-by window on the world.
Real, and really unseen,
held in a spirit hand
of care for wo/man, air and land.
The gleeful spree of being free
creatively,
expressively,
insightfully,
even blissfully.
Visual and aural memories
unconfined to place and time.
The accounting of a life,
an epoch,
falling into history
separate and entwined.
What's been yours.
What's been mine.
What we've shared and tossed aside,
visionary or blind,
kept and lost,
in the record of our journey
through the universe,
the cosmos of our minds.