Tormenta Tropical

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Whip and slash.

Dribble and swoosh..

The storm washes.

cleanses, erases,

Purifies,

Opens the sky to new possibilities.

Each little death,

Carries us to the next moment.

Each moment could be the last.

A tree is down.

Power lines tense and sag.

Grass swirls. and matts.

Leaves glisten and shake and swirl away.

On the beach,

Each new wave defeats the last,

As always,

Doing.

To be is to do.

To do is to be.

Waving.

Sitting inside, waiting,

Breathing,

Heart beating

with each new gust.

I storm, motionlessly

From the center of all that is,

with each new birth………

as

Rivulets run down windows

Walls tremble in the wind,

In the consuming darkness,

the rain continues to fall………..

Soon,

It will be over.

9/5/16

Invisible Thread

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They are not wolves,

or coyotes or jackles

with their long histories in the natural world.

A terrier or a spaniel or a hound

really has no home in that much larger place,

at least not in their present, modified form.

A wolf belongs.

He has his purpose within an ecological system,

the wilderness from which he was born,

his connection is clearly written

in the spirals.

But for dogs,

like the humans that breed them,

that link has all but vanished

and the wild place from which we emerged

thousands of years ago

has become a foreign country.

Perhaps then,

that is why we both,

even though we are of different species,

seek one another out,

cling to one another,

care for one another,

and love one another.

Perhaps

that is also why,

some of us

seek God or solace

in the untamed, uncorrupted places of the world,

far from the complications of the crowd,

to heal, when we have been emotionally wounded,

or have been somehow cut off from others

whether as a result of our own foolishness and confusion,

the designs of others,

simple happenstance,

or the inevibility of death.

Perhaps,

it’s because when we are alone,

when we feel our smallness in the universe

and our separateness from nature so intensely,

or when we look within

in the solitude of meditation,

that we can also feel the unseen connection,

no matter how distant,

between one human and another,

you and I,

family, clan, friends

or with another animal,

or God, or nature,

or all that is more than ourselves.

Because our need for love,

is so great,

so strong,

that to live without that connection,

even with a small dog,

who shares that same need

for that same tender, invisible thread,

……is simply unbearable

Campfires

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I awaken this morning

in the cave of my being,

perhaps not quite ready for the light,

not quite prepared for the surface,

I lay on my back

tenderly testing this new reality

with shallow breath and coiled tongue,

as if it were a coal,

still too hot to touch,

not yet cooled

from last night’s fire.

Where have the wheels

hidden beneath night’s carriage

taken me as I slept?

What cold and distant constellations

have been traversed?

What country do I now inhabit?

Will I find the same familiar trees,

the same mountains and seas,

the same beloved faces?

Or some new other,

yet to be explored,

transformed from the ashes of yesterday,

when we burned down the house

in the radiance of your smile,

which now, once more,

I feel blazing on the lids of my eyes.

8/11/16

Into The Hum

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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……………….

receding

into the distance

from which it has come.

7/14/16

A Summer Fiesta

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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.

6/28/16

Open Door

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Standing on a street corner

waiting for a bus

in front of the Comex paint store.

Move out to the steet

to see,

to see,

but no, not yet,

not yet,

so back to the shade,

the shade,

on the sidewalk, on cement,

no place to sit,

taxis swirling around dolfins

that are dividing the street,

then cars, trucks, motorscooters,

exavation machinery,

secondary schoolers necking in the shadows,

women with small children, workers,

waiting for the same bus,

going home,

between organized areas,

with heavy bags,

and then,

I see it,

I see it,

coming down the frontage road,

gliding up to the curb,

it has arrived, it has arrived,

before us, right here,

before us,

right here.

with open door.

 

Russell Rosander

2/27/16 Melaque, Jal. Mx

A Vision Of You

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Was it yesterday or in some past life

that I sat in your kitchen,

or some lovely place deep within,

by a window with the curtains

rustling lightly

in a warm breeze?

You were a vision

just standing there,

in that imposibly clear crystaline air,

like a dream, but then,

that couldn’t have been,

because you were not yet born.

A vignette then,

a picture, an image perfect,

made by some sainted artist

in a world where perfection

does not exist,

except for the perfection of you.

But, of course,

it was just a moment

and then that moment became another.

and you just slipped away,

something never meant to be,

or a promise

of something yet to come.

Russell Rosander 2/11/16

Barra de Navidad