Now that I am grown, now
that my brother presides over Seder in his own home,
now that my seven-year-old nephew has outgrown the asking
and coaches his little sister in the
questions, word by word—
Why is tonight different from all other
—only now do I know
not simply answers, but the ways
that our questions are answered,
with still more questions:
How is tonight the same as all other nights
Dad explains to his grandson
how over and over we sit down to this meal,
how his own grandfather once asked the questions,
then heard them asked.
We begin with memory, tell stories, and sing
of our ancestors and of God who redeems us.
We are always enslaved,
and we are always being liberated.
While the sun burns its way from night to night,
the Red Sea touches shore, then recedes.
for Swift Rivers
Children of Pleiku
Suddenly I'm in a Hurry
Softly sitting in the sunshine,
a bit of straw in my fingers,
I'd wonder at the ants
measured, goal oriented,
carrying loads for the queen.
I'd play Nintendo games, do crossword puzzles
Throwing seconds, days, weeks into
small events and experiences.
Suddenly I'm in a hurry.
Images of Virginia: Her video dreams imposed on
wild thrashing gasps of anger against the night.
The path's length never bogged me down before.
Red dirt road climbed and fell with light breezes.
Sightseeing at will, old rock carving caves,
museums of glass and steel,
treasured books with musty smells, intuitive leaps.
that need to understand all in a gestalt
lets me down
I'm on my ass on the road.
Travelers pass crying "patience" and "one step at a time."
I sit in stubborn silence.
I'm in a hurry
I want all languages now
especially Spanish for my blood.
I want to roll the R's like a phallic kiss
I want to spray out my passion like raw whisky
in the rhymes and rhythms of the Spanish declination.
And Hebrew next,
Holy tongue that hides the mysteries of all
within small roots to a tree
I'm in a hurry to communicate,
while fires burn in cities
crying we're too late to understand.
We must awaken from our slumber.
I sit with beer can, passive:
the news images intermixed
with messages from our material god.
Sound bites of lullaby.
I want it all and now each grain of knowledge
drops like sand in an imagined hourglass.
Dorothy in a poppy field
sleeping through the quest
and no wise good witch to bring snow.
Only a cold lump of unrisen
bread sitting in my chest.
The Night Sky
Coin of the Realm
How valuable to tremble,
in your presence,
a shudder of vowels,
praising the white shoulders of sleep.
Light swallows sleep and roosters.
I listen for your mysterious breath,
tunneling lonely toward morning,
dreaming of columbines,
guitarrons, and citronella.
In night's tender moss,
the smell of roses is an arrow on fire.
We take aim and find first light like cool milk.
Drink to a day of stringed instruments.
We take the open road. Count off twenty centuries.
I am afraid of nothing, but with my body of skin and music
The Sorry of Flowers
A dark horse ambles slowly through my apology.
A field of alfalfa and wild columbine,
I'm that sorry.
I'm sorry in the way of going too soon to seed.
I'm sorry in the way of haste and meadows,
a season of sorry, a harvest
But there's that animal in me that is not sorry.
That has moved with mysterious resolve
towards insult and mayhem.
That is maybe a bit gleeful,
accelerating to a brisk trot,
Then full tilt gallop,
a whirr of black behavior.
TEA IN THE DESERT
After afternoon sleep,
the water has just started to
Flavors swirl on my tongue--
fruit tart, sugar white,
the wild familiar patina of sweetness,
shielding me from despair.
I drink to the smooth, green skins of the fruit
shining in the leaves, the dusty Sunday yards
where we have picked;
several notes in C-sharp major in the vibrato
of the flute: we were lonely,
picking plums in a boom town,
longing to escape the desert.
I drink so the jays will call to each other,
the junipers have new growth
after the June beetle is finished.
I drink to dreams, blue mussel shells,
the plums rolling toward each other while still clinging
to the tree, the wind shaking the tree; by next month,
the plums will ripen, darkening , darkening.
Here in the desert, we can do
what we want in spite of the dust.
Your hair has gotten thinner,
but it still flies, falls into your eyes;
I think of hugging you, the bones in your back,
begging to be counted; let's go upstairs, I say,
let me count them there. A tart song spins
from to you. I hear the
stillness inside the wind.
The jays call to each other,
the plums tremble and hold on.
I bring you desire:
a flute full of colors.
The girl that I was
still lives in my slender fingers.
price lists Take an orange, for instance. It doesn't snap or bite like a petulant lover denied audience once an affair is over. I mean, all the stink and mess of breaking apart, so unlike an orange. When you are done with it, the sweetness lingers. Up to 6 whole chicken breasts Orange Butter: 1 - tablespoons frozen orange juice
concentrate zest of 1 orange 1 stick of butter Grate orange rind. In a bowl mix softened butter, orange
and orange zest with a wire whisk. Brush chicken with mixture and
grill. Brush again after cooking. This sweet sauce can also be used on
Take an orange, for instance.
It doesn't snap or bite
like a petulant lover
once an affair is over.
I mean, all the stink
and mess of breaking apart,
so unlike an orange.
When you are done with it,
the sweetness lingers.
Up to 6 whole chicken breasts
1 - tablespoons frozen orange juice concentrate
zest of 1 orange
1 stick of butter
Grate orange rind.
In a bowl mix softened butter, orange juice concentrate and orange zest with a wire whisk.
Brush chicken with mixture and grill.
Brush again after cooking.
This sweet sauce can also be used on fish.