The Ģreen City


The day after the rain,

the multitude bursts forth,

a tangle of green uncoiling

from seeds awaiting,

hidden, unnoticed in the dust,

now black with moisture and fecundity.

The expanding universe spills forth,

an explosion of life and love,

a frenzy of creation,

multiplying, dividing,

fractal by fractal,

twisting and writhing,

pushing and shoving,

filling every available space,

until it becomes

a jungle, a maze of flora, a green city,

climbing in the rush hour traffic

of twining stem and leaf reaching

towards an unobtainable sun

as roots probe deeper and deeper into the earth

in an unrelenting struggle

for survival,

for moisture and food and light,

all flowing in the direction of

less into more,

simplicity into ever more complexity,

until it is no longer sustainable,

no longer supportable,

and the flower has bloomed

and then wilted

and the water is gone,

and it all ends

and everything has turned brown and shriveled

and all the seeds have fallen

into to the dry emptiness

of the dust of ancestors

to await the rain as one,

all because

love comes so much more easily

to the simple minded.




The oligarchy has fallen,

the last noisy potentate,

overdosed on the drug of unlimited power,

shudders alone in his monumental grave

atop the shards of previous civilizations,

the earth, long ago, inherited by the meek.

I take my place, tin cup in hand

amongst street corner philosophers,

those who have watched the collapse

from the periphery,

to which they had been banished,

shielded by their weakness and their unimportance,

while the strong and the ambitious

clamored for ascendency

and tumbled.

Those remainders and reminders,

decliners and defilers,

wandering jungle paths and crumbling highways,

picking fruit for pennies from the cultivated rows

of those who deem themselves superior,

or leaning on bus stop walls, drinking beer

pilfered from the excesses of the privileged,

going nowhere

at home within their own skin.

The unaspiring, the unrepentant, the untouched,

the unwanted, the adjudged, the invisible,

making their way,

in the shadows of skyscrapers

and along irrigation ditches,

without possession or want,

mere fragments, invalids, broken dishes,

discards from the rubble of time,

open to the wind and rain and stars,

tended by angels,

in the last resort,

the forgotten, the blessed,

degenerates and sadhus together,

breathing the breath of the divine.


Magical Planet


O sweet magical planet,

misfit child,

so different from all others we know of,

our temporary abode,

spinning singularly in the vastness

of this sea of burning galaxies.

Is any other

as dear or as rare as thee?

Who could imagine anything

more intricate, more miraculous, more wonderous

than the stream of life that flows continuously

from your sparkling jeweled womb?

Your love,

your gift to be cherished and adored,

and yet,

naught but a spell, a trick,

a flicker in the mirror of the night,

a web spun of light

for those who would be caught

with the temerity,

or foolishness

to believe they could own or rule such beauty,

or even destroy it for their own gain,

never realizing

that it is only an illusion,

a mask veiling that which is

far more precious,

more powerful, more impervious,

more dangerous, more lovely

than anything that can be grasped.

The soul of the magician,

the eternal soul of all.


Into The Hum


As I lay in my bed

listening to all the sounds about me,

filling the moment,

the thrum and buzz of billions of night creatures,

insects, frogs, lizards, birds,

the rustling of leaves in the breeze,

softly bringing the coolness of night air,

the occasional car or truck or motorcycle

passing by up on the road,

and the resonance of every other sound in the universe

from no matter how far away,

vibrating through space,

from perhaps light years away,

until reaching these insignificant ears,

soft and low,

nearly imperceptible,

like a barely whispered song

between lovers across town,

I hear the sound of my own breath,

in and out,

and my own heart beating,

along with every other heart,

along with your heart,

out into that heavenly choir

without any conscious effort of my own,

into that great hum……………….


into the distance

from which it has come.


The Guardians of the Garden


The guardians of nature

that slither and crawl and creep and buzz,

are none other

than our own irrational fears,

protecting the garden

from whence we came,

from none other

than ourselves.

Other than that,

they are just our

fellow creatures of the earth,

doing their own thing.


Russell Rosander

A Summer Fiesta


From a distance,

the amplified notes become garbled,

distorted by the intense heat and humidity

of the summer evening.

I can imagine frantic dancers

in colorful clothing

swirling happily like bees at a honey dance

as the banda music beats repetitively on and on,

tumbling and twirling on successive waves of sweat.

’till the tide rises an’ the tuba gurggles

an’ the drummer splashes helplessly,

laughing in some strange language unknown to me.

The festive colored lights flicker out one by one,

drowned in a wash of overheated dampness,

but the fiesta is not over,

the leader announces in excited staccato español.

The trumpeter calls for another round of tequila

before the next set begins,

while from afar, I sit and nod, alone in my chair,

bleary eyed, as the fan labors on,

awaiting the next dream.