Fruit and challenge
captivated, spit on
cheeks washed in brine
a boat splashes away
yesterday a window
it passes as still life
for society, the dinner guest
a comment on how the waves rest
appearances and the texture
water falls as if combed
by it’s tempest mother, a homage to the iris
the sculpture of feeling
swollen and ripe before swift cuts
to the sun-kissed strawberry
the happy phantom
By Hijiinks
Damned Good
You’re blessed if you do
blessed if you don’t
foot after foot step as ancient wood
creaking boards talk and the water under
the river lapping water splashes a drop
in the wind to seal together
a wandering mind and the whispering present.
Sitting down level with a row of boats
bows like mouths smile and frown
looking into the soul of the ocean
way down river distance blurs behind
vessels returned in the morning fog.
They sit tied while we travel back
to sit over the water looking at the
floating characters: hand carved osprey faces,
Viking dragons, turtle claws and smooth
linseed eyeshadow protects the journeys to come.
They rise and fall
each with it’s own voice that flies and dives
in slow harbor waves. Dreaming innocence
soars as a bird and echoes sacred songs,
spying as they come and go leaving foodscraps.
When they’re all gone there is no place to go but outside
exiting time itself the voices turn to dancing colors
we are taken in the teeth of coyote, no regrets
for his lapping of our blood is a trick of the light,
the blood a waterfall. The smell of cedar and love in balance
with life’s community; where have the solid plastic edges gone?
No, They are gone. A hand extends to you from a smiling chief
humor and grace invite you to join this moment
to celebrate karmic flight on the wings of spotted tail
to stay where the thunderbird comes
and goes at the ends to time to return.
Whether from the Black Hills, deep in the Amazon
or at the edge to the northmost lake where the polar bear
and snowy lynx hunt. The meek mouse tells the great story
again. We return to the holy feathering of lifetimes
upon cultures upon separations, gathering round
to hear the quiet tale of how we return to fly as one.
by Hijinks
Questions Are Power 